My Garden Of Eden

My husband loves gardening, loves to potter around in his tiny patch of green, humming, weeding, trimming, digging, watering…. Everybody who visits our home is amazed at how he has transformed our tiny garden into a tropical forest. Tiny birds with long tails, colourful butterflies, buzzing bees, croaking frogs and a big fat chameleon have made our garden their home. All of us love to watch the birds in our garden. They come in a group – three or four of them – especially after Sunil has watered the garden. They rest lightly on the creepers, seeming to do a fine balancing act on the green twine. They hop onto the balcony, feeding sometimes on the rice grains that Anu leaves out for them. They converse with each other in dulcet notes…. Anu told us about how one tiny bird trying to drink from the large cement pot filled with water in which lotus and water lilies floated, lost her balance and fell into the water. She came up quickly, shook off the water disdainfully and flew away.

Looking at Sunil’s love for gardening, I know he would have been delighted with the gardens around Mubarak Munzil, when we were growing up. There were three of them. A small one near my sister’s room housed a few mogra and rose plants. The fenced-in garden in front of the portico again had many flowering plants and shrubs. This was where we played many fun-filled games. The garden in the west - now that was something magical! Besides the mogras, the roses and the raat ki rani plants, there were so many fruit-bearing trees here! Pomegranate, guava, mango, two large chickoo trees with sprawling branches perfect to lounge in, fig trees, lemon trees and small patches which my grandmother had converted into miniature vineyards. There were some borrom trees that needed a long thorny trek to be reached. Close to the compound wall, these attracted many urchins who’d jump the wall to pick the borroms that generously carpeted the ground. The stone bench under the grape vines was privy to many an innocent conversation, It was here that we sat with friends and shared terribly important secrets. We played ‘house house’ in the gardens with our little toys. We sang and danced. We hid here when we were angry or sulking. Our garden was also the venue for a picnic once. One of our junior classes was unable to go to their planned venue for some reason. The Principal and teachers called up my parents and asked them if our garden could become their picnic spot. My parents agreed. So there I was perched on the ledge of the bedroom window watching a bunch of little kids tucking into their lunch boxes, playing passing the parcel and enjoying their picnic!

One year, my grandmother used the space behind our house to plant some maize. The crows swooped down. A scarecrow was placed in the middle of the crop but proved ineffective. A maid – tall and lanky – almost like a scarecrow herself was given the responsibility to shoo the birds away. So every now and then, she’d race up the stairs to the terrace with a rag in her hand. She’d stand on the terrace wall, waving the rag like a flag of truce. My second sister Nasira, who inherited my grandmother’s green thumb, looked after our gardens till she married and moved away to Dubai. Slowly, the gardens – left under the care of servants – became a neglected lot. Plants dried up. Weeds overran the place. Trees shriveled up and quietly died. But in my memory, the gardens of Mubarak Munzil are still rich and green, still buzzing with life and activity. Birds still sing here. Laughter still rings out. And little children with dreams in their eyes run about joyously.

The dreams I dream…

Dregs of half-forgotten memories. Fears surfacing from the subconscious mind – unfounded, unvoiced, unarticulated. Snatches of conversations. The faces of people I’ve loved and lost. The visages of those who live in my every waking thought. Ghosts of the past lurking in some corner of my busy mind. Events as fresh as the morning’s newspaper… These wake up when I go to sleep.

I dream so many dreams every night: vivid, multiple dreams with the power to cheer or chill. Vestiges of the dreams linger through the day, colouring my mod – sometimes a bright, sunny yellow, sometimes a bleak grey.

When I was studying in Chennai and later working in Bangalore, I’d have nightmares about losing my mother. I’d rush to the Telecom Office near my Hostel at a decent hour and call home. I could relax only after I heard my mother’s voice and assured myself that she was fine.

After a friend, Sujatha, once paid a surprise visit all the way from the US, I dreamt my best friend and soul sister Ranjana had surprised me too. I shared the dream with her in an email and she went to a great deal of trouble to make my dream come true!

Sometimes my dreams are a harbinger of things to come. I had dreamt of my nephew’s arrival before my sister announced her pregnancy. I dreamt of the unraveling of a family when only the adults knew what was happening. Returning to Bangalore after my father’s funeral, I dreamt that my second sister had a boil on her left shoulder that refused to heal. I called her up the next morning and told her to get herself checked for diabetes. A couple of months down the line, she did develop diabetes.

One night my daughter and I shared the same dream - of Bellary being bombed. It was as if we had both embarked on the same nocturnal journey and alighted at the same station.

My father appears in my dreams often. As do my uncle and aunt. My cousin Azra is another person who frequents my dreams regularly. As do my friends. In fact, when I was planning our School Reunion, I would dream of it almost every other day.

Work spills over my dreams too. I wake up in a panic after dreaming about errors that I overlooked in a brochure or annual report artwork. The next day I go back to check it once more and sure enough would spot a typo I had earlier missed.

When I was in Bellary last week, I had a terrible nightmare of my pet Tubby being mauled by a huge dog and lying unmoving. I kept calling out to her, crying and sobbing… And woke up in a sweat, my heart beating erratically.

My dreams are fresh in my mind when I wake up. Then they slowly fade into the crowd of activities that fill my day. Many a time, I’ve told myself I should keep a notebook and pen near my pillow and record my dreams as soon as I rise, Maybe I’ll see a pattern there? Maybe I’ll be able to interpret my dreams? Till such time though, I share them with my husband and daughter, whose dreams are as vivid as mine. For now, they are the keepers of my dreams.

CAMEOS OF A GATED COMMUNITY - THE TEACHER

They finally gave me the old scooter. I have been asking for it for almost a year now. It was just lying there in the basement, collecting dust and cobwebs. Yet it took them 12 months to decide to part with it. I always tell my Begum that the ones who have the most are the ones who give the least. The poor - though they have so little - are always ready to share. Look at that cook who works in 675. The one who found me this job of teaching The Holy Qur'an to a bunch of westernized kids who would rather be watching TV or listening to their angrezi songs, or doing whatever they do on their computers. She, the cook I mean, is such a large-hearted woman. As if it were not enough looking after her wastrel son, her daughter-in-law and their four daughters, she has taken it upon herself to care for an old woman abandoned by her family. Looks after her really well too. "She is like my mother Hazrat", she said. She not only shelters her and feeds her, but also buys her new saris during Eid and other occasions. Who does that these days? One's own children have no time or concern for their parents. She was also the one who suggested I ask Sameer Saheb for the scooter. I thought for almost a month before I decided to ask him. You see, I hate asking anybody for any favours. But yes, the scooter would be a great help, especially now that my knees are giving me such trouble. So finally, putting my pride in my empty pocket, I asked Sameer Saheb. He looked a little surprised. "We'll see", he said curtly and that was the end of it.

Sameer Saheb works in some very big company. He travels to all parts of the world and comes backs laden with gifts for his kids. He is spoiling them - no doubt about that…. sometimes, I can hear Sameer Saheb's wife quarreling with her husband on this topic. "Don't give them such expensive gifts", she admonishes her husband. "They will never learn the value of money otherwise…" I tend to agree. Everything within limits, that has always been my policy. Not that I know too much about bringing up children. Begum and I were not blessed with children. My Begum, she loves children. She always wanted a house full of kids, she would laughingly say, in the first few years of our marriage, but after four miscarriages, she resigned herself to her fate. It is Allah's will, I tell her, who are we - mere mortals - to question His wisdom? She remains quiet but her eyes, they speak volumes. The pain and loneliness in her eyes shakes me to the very core of my being. At least I have my work - teaching Arabic in the local madrassa and The Holy Qur'an to children in their homes, but my Begum, she only has her household duties followed by long hours of solitude. I tell her to spend more time in prayers and in reading The Holy Qur'an. She nods her head but I fear, her faith is getting weaker, more tenuous. And that frightens me. That frightens me greatly. There should be no place for doubt in one's faith. "Your faith should be strong, stronger than the mountains…." That's what I tell my students in the madrassa. That's what I tell Sameer Saheb's children too, but I don't think they really care about anything I say. I know for a fact that they don't say their Namaaz, every day. They giggled when I asked them. As if it is some laughing matter. To be honest, I don't really like teaching them, but it is Allah's Word and it is my duty to make them understand it. The pay is good too. More than what I make in the madrassa. And with the way prices are these days, one has to look at ways and means of surviving. Though again, how much do we need? Just the two of us. Three meals a day. Some clothes to wear. The house rent. Some little treats when the heart yearns for them… Like the doll that Begum insisted on buying last month, when we had gone to buy our monthly provisions from Shivaji Nagar. I tried to dissuade her. Made silly jokes. Laughingly told her "This is not your age to play with dolls Begum". But I don't know what came over her. She refused to budge until I bought the doll. It began to get embarrassing. Everyone looking at us strangely. Some of the nudging each other and smiling slyly. Even the shopkeeper was getting impatient. So I paid for it and we came home.

Begum seemed at peace since we got the doll. I was beginning to think that two hundred rupees for peace of mind was a good bargain. But what I witnessed a few days later is making me lose my sleep. I came early from the madrassa one evening and what do I see? Begum bathing the doll and talking to it! I was horrified. I watched her quietly for a long time until I could not take it any more. I slipped out of the house and never mentioned the incident to her. Since then, I have watched her unobserved many times. I have seen her comb the doll's hair, change her clothes, even try to feed her. I have heard her talk to the doll too. Baby talk. Mostly when she thinks I am asleep or not around. I fear she is losing her mind. I should not have bought that doll. I really do not know what to do, where to go, who to speak to…. And as if my mind was not troubled enough, Sameer Saheb's children are troubling me so much! Especially that girl. Coming out in front of me wearing shorts - La haul wala quat! I cast my gaze down, as a good Muslim should. That's when Sameer Saheb's wife walked in. She understood immediately and dragged her daughter inside. There were raised voices then. I could hear snatches of the conversation. The girl refusing to study with me. The mother insisting she does. The boy supporting his sister. And Sameer Saheb trying to calm them all down. I don't know how long I'll have this job. Maybe I will have to give back the scooter too. Just as well. Can't afford the petrol anyway without this job. Begum will miss it though. She enjoyed going our on the scooter. And as if thinking of Begum had conjured her up here, my mobile began to ring. It was Begum sobbing desperately and begging me to come home.

"What's happened Begum?" I asked her, again and again. But got no answer. Only an anguished sobbing that frightened me so much that I did not even wait to tell Sameer Saheb or his wife. I rushed out of their house, and rode like a mad man to my humble abode. A small crowd had gathered in front of my home. Some of them I knew. Some I didn't. They were looking through our window. Peering through our door. Craning their necks to get a view of what was happening inside. I pushed myself through and entered the room. Begum was wailing inconsolably. When she saw me her wails grew louder. I looked around. Everything seemed in order. I looked at Begum more closely. She seemed unhurt too. Except for her distraught eyes, the surma running down her cheeks, her uncombed hair…

"What's happened Begum?" I repeated the question that I had asked her on the mobile.

"I killed her", she mumbled. My blood froze in my veins. What was she talking about? Who had she killed? "Our daughter. Our Munni. I killed her. My carelessness. I left her too close to the fire and I killed her. Oh Allah! What kind of mother am I!" She started wailing again. I looked towards the kitchen and saw the doll, its plastic face disfigured, part of its body charred, its once frilly frock now scorched.

I turned to look at the curious neighbours, all whispering amongst themselves. Suddenly a loud, familiar voice dispersed the crowd. It was the cook. The one who works in 675. She took control of the situation and sent all those people packing home. Then she tried to calm my wife. But to no avail. Finally, she took me aside and told me what I knew I had to do, as kindly as possible.

The van came the next day. And as the doors of the van clanged shut behind my Begum, I felt as if my world had come to an end. She may get better the doctors at the Mental Hospital assured me. But we can't make any promises, they added hurriedly. It is Allah's will, I think. Is my faith getting tenuous too? But if I lose my faith, what else will I have?

CAMEOS OF A GATED COMMUNITY - THE CHOWKIDAR

You pass me by every day, unseeing, unknowing, uncaring. You don't look at my ingratiating smile. You don't see my smart salute. You don't hear the "Good Morning Sir!" that I call out cheerfully, the way we have been trained to. I wonder if you are even aware of my existence? Or if I am just another piece of furniture to you, like the broken plastic chair standing desolately near the gate.

I am educated too, you know. Of course, not as much as you, but I did attend two years of college. My poor parents thought I'd study well and do something with my life. Maybe they dreamt that I would be like you, zooming past in that big, fancy car of yours, talking on the mobile, always, always on the mobile. Well it was not to be, and here I am, miles from my home town, trying to survive. Its a hard life, but I have no complaints. Things are no better where I come from. At least here, I am my own man. Till they get me married of course. My mother tells me they are looking for girls for me in the surrounding villages.

Last night when I went home after my long shift, Raja and Munna - the two who share my room with me - were watching their favourite programme on our small, second-hand TV. True crime stories. I wonder why they find it so fascinating. Me? I like some song and dance. But chalo, I let them watch what they want. Yesterday's episode was gruesome though. A murder re-enacted. For a change, the police had solved it quickly. Don't get me wrong. I have great respect for the police. To be truthful I am a little scared of them too. They can just pick you up and lock you in and who's to know what can happen to you once you are there? Anyway, coming back to yesterday's programme…it was about a rich industrialist murdered in his own house. The Police solved the case in less than a month. It was the chowkidar.

It got me thinking, this programme on TV. I wonder how you would react if I held a knife to your throat?

I wonder if you will finally know my name? Its right there, you know, in block letters, on the name badge that we have to wear every day. But funny how nobody ever bothers to read it. It's always "Hey you, security!". "Oye, Chowkidar!". Or sometimes a plain "Bhaiyya". The last mostly from the ladies.

I wonder if you will notice the wart on my chin that I worry continuously when I am nervous? Just one of those habits we develop and which refuse to leave us for life.

I wonder if the cold feel of the knife on your throat will make you sweat. I think I would like to see that. The high-and-mighty in his air-conditioned car sweating like an ordinary man. I would like to smell the fear on you - must surely be different from those foreign perfumes that you use every day. But most of all, I would like to see the terror in your eyes - your unseeing eyes.

Will your eyes focus on me then? Will you finally look at me? See me? Recognize me? Register my presence? Acknowledge my existence?

Coming back to yesterday's programme on TV - the Police were confused about the motive for the murder. Nothing was stolen from the house. I wonder if all that the murderer wanted was some recognition? Maybe he was trying to regain the identity and the sense of self-worth that had been robbed from him? Maybe…just maybe…

When teachers become hate mongers and disseminators of poisonous thought…

Yesterday, my daughter was deeply disturbed when she returned from college. Her Journalism Teacher – with strong right-wing leanings - was at it again: minority bashing, rumour-mongering, malice proliferating… The lady in question is doing her doctoral thesis on two prime ministerial candidates – Rahul Gandhi and Narendra Modi. She spares no occasion to vilify the former and exalt the latter. Fine. Each one is entitled to their personal opinions and beliefs. But if you are going to be using your opinions to brainwash a group of gullible future citizens who sadly don’t seem to be able to think for themselves, I do think it is a matter of serious concern. Especially when all the so-called research that the lady relies on seems to be internet forwards that claim that Indira Gandhi’s husband was actually a Muslim, that Sonia Gandhi is actually a Russian spy, that Sanjay Gandhi stole cars in the US…. Right, so she does not like the Gandhis. But should you allow your opinion to cloud their thinking? Should you – by feeding stereotypes in class after class, fan the flames of hatred and create more divisions in an already fragmented society? Should you poison minds and churn out citizens who base their opinions on malicious lies and half-truths?

I tried my best to console my daughter – who bases her opinions on extensive independent research and refuses to accept what anybody says as the whole truth – but it was hard to find the right words. Even for a mother who is a wordsmith. “The worst part is that all of them in class actually believe her!” she lamented. “I feel so disillusioned. What’s going to happen to our country?”

I pointed out that there are many sane voices out there. Journalists, activists and right-thinking individuals who walk the less-trod path. Who seek out the truth and then share it with others. Who refuse to be brow-beaten. Arundhati Roy, Mallika Sarabhai, Javed Anand, Teesta Setvald, Yogi Sikand, Jyoti Punwani, Harsh Mander and publications like Tehelka and my personal favourite The Hindu. “But there are such few voices”, she protested.

“Yes, there are. But their conviction, their courage and their moral uprightness makes their voice louder and more impactful than a bullet from a gun in the hand of a coward”.

I do not know if this has alleviated her anger or reduced her disillusionment. As an aspiring journalist and a child born to a Muslim mother and a Hindu father, my daughter, I know, must be ready to face many challenges in the future. I pray that she has the strength to do so, without losing her equanimity, her strength of character and her conviction.

10 Things I love about Bangalore.

There are dozens and dozens of reasons why I love Bangalore – the city where I got my first job, first fell in love, where I first set up my own home, the place where my daughter was born, where I first became an entrepreneur…. but let me share my top ten here.

I was not born in Bangalore, but am a Bangalorean at heart. This city, along with Chennai were our regular holiday destinations. We always drove down the 300-odd kms from Bellary in whichever car Abba then owned. I always remember how I felt when we entered the city. It seemed so different from our sleepy town. The roads were broad and clean. The trees looked lovely. The people looked so… well, so ‘hep’, as we said in those days.

I came to Bangalore in 1986 to join a small outfit as a Trainee Copywriter. And gradually fell in love with the city. Here are some of the things that I most love about Bangalore. As I mentioned before, this is not an exhaustive list and is not in any particular order.

1. Vidhana Soudha
I remember when I was staying in the hostel in Sampangirama Nagar and my room-mate and colleague Kamala and I would take the bus to our office - MC&A on Millers Road. The bus would wind its way across Vidhana Soudha and the lovely buiding would just take my breath away! It looked so magnificent in the mornings and my heart would swell with pride. While the Vikasa Soudha has been designed just like the Vidhana Soudha, it is no patch on the original. It probably has to do with the way the stones have aged over the years… Vidhana Soudha really has so much character. I don’t know if I can say the same about the people, inhabiting it, though!

2. Cubbon Park
I think few places in India can boast of such an expansive lung space right in the heart of the city. Driving through Cubbon Park is sheer joy! The majestic Attara Kacheri (as the High Court building is known), the Central Library, the Jawahar Bal Bhavan with its toy train, the Rose Garden, the fountains, the statues, the bandstand and of course the dozens and dozens of trees that dot this over 300-acre garden, make this place truly unique. You can actually feel the difference in temperature when you enter Cubbon Park. It is a couple of degrees cooler and the gentle wind sings a sweet lullaby for many a tired and distraught soul who finds refuge on the Cubbon Park benches. Cubbon Park was our favourite location for photography when Anu was small. We have pictures of her hugging a bamboo, sitting on the steps of the band stand and perched on one of the large boulders there.

3. Jacarandas
While they are not really “native” to Bangalore (like the large population in this city), Jacarandas have become as much Bangalorean as you and me! Come spring and the jacaranda trees cast their magic spell. The yellow and purple flowers form a splendid canopy and a carpet that would give any Persian rug the run for its money. Driving down the Windsor Manor Bridge the Jacarandas near the Cauvery Theatre make me feel good to be alive. I feast my eyes on the delightful blossoms and am grateful to be living in this beautiful city.

4. Good Food
Bangaloreans love to eat. Not surprising for a town named after food (Bangalore, many believe, is the anglicized version of Benda Kaal Ooru – the Town of Boiled Beans). Bangalore is dotted with eateries, restaurants and cafes. There are the Darshinis – where there is literally ‘standing room’ only, the Udupi & Andhra Eateries, the Pizza Burger joints, the Dhabas and the Chinese, the Thai, the Italian, the Lebanese, the Mexican and the Fusion Food Restaurants… of course who can forget the street food? The Bhelpuri Stands, the Pani Puri Wallahs with their mobile store that they can put up anywhere and my favourite: the steaming corn on the cobs, sold on hand-carts!

The best part of the food scene in Bangalore is not just the availability of any kind of food but what I’d like to call the good “in-between” kind of places. Restaurants that are comfortably ensconced between the Darshinis and the Five Star Restaurants. Where good food and great ambience don’t necessarily burn a hole in your pocket.

5. Weather
Bangalore weather is famous – and rightly so. Though summers are getting warmer with the increase in population, traffic, concrete structures, the cutting down of trees, et al, the city still remains pleasant almost all through the year. I have always maintained that Bangalore weather spoils you for any other city… despite being born and brought up in Bellary where summers can be scorching and despite doing my graduation and post graduation in Chennai, where it is summer all through the year… I just cannot take the heat now. Holidays to Nagpur (another hot city) are planned during winters. I avoid Bellary in the summers. And after a hot and sweaty break in Mumbai last summer, I have come to the conclusion that the best place to send my summers are in Bangalore, until I can take off to Switzerland, that is 

6. Overall Cleanliness
I hadn’t really paid any attention to how clean most of Bangalore is until I noticed the dirt in a couple of other cities, Mumbai and Chennai for instance. Early in the mornings if you drive down the city, you will see the BBMP sweepers at work, sweeping, clearing the garbage and generally keeping the neighbourhood clean.

7. People.
Before I actually started living in Bangalore, I was told that the people of Bangalore were terribly materialistic and cunning. That they would steal the shirt off your back. But that’s such a myopic view. Like every place in the world, Bangalore has its share of crooks and cheats, but then you have the good Samaritans too. On the whole, I believe that Bangaloreans are a real helpful lot. Ask somebody for directions and chances are they’ll actually take you there! It has happened to me a couple of times. I have found ready hands when my bike broken down on the road or when my car got into a ditch that I did not see. Bangaloreans are largely peace-loving, the “swalpa adjust maadi” types. Sometimes this “adjusting” nature means that we put up with a lot of stuff that we should not, but I guess there are pros and cons to everything.

8. The Volvo Buses from BIAL
I have been seeing the bright red Volvo buses since the new International Airport started. Living en route the Airport, I would see the smart and shiny buses zipping on the roads. In the beginning they were almost empty. But now, most of them are full. I first tried out the BIAL shuttle last year when Anu and I flew down from Mumbai and I was real impressed. The conductors/drivers spoke courteously and helped us with the luggage. The commute was comfortable. The fares were reasonable. And I enjoyed the ride. I think BMTC is doing a great job with this top-notch shuttle service.

9. The Bangalore One Centres
A truly superb E-Governance initiative, Bangalore One demonstrates how technology can be used to make life simpler and easier for the common man. My first experience with Bangalore One is when I went to their Malleswaram Centre to pay my Electricity and Telephone Bills. I was asked to sit while my number was called. The centre was spacious and well-ventilated. The chairs were comfortable. The people were professional and knew what they were doing. Compare this with having to stand in long lines in the electricity and telephone offices and you’ll know what a distance we have travelled. Today, there’s a Bangalore Centre in almost every nook and corner of Bangalore. They are open all days of the week from 8 am to 8 pm. And they have added on to their services – besides paying your utility bills, you can get your bus pass, renew your license, pay your property tax and do so much more. So very convenient!

10. MGs, Commercials, Brigades
Forget the malls, its Commercial Street for me! I am not a big shopper, but Commercials (as the locals call their main shopping street) is where I like to go simply because you get just about everything here! Clothes, accessories, footwear, knick-knacks, stuff for your home, lingerie, stationery, jewellery, electronics, music…. Everything! The narrow streets that lead off from Commercials have their own charm with their tiny stores where smart-alecky salesmen and their ready repartees are sure to make you smile.

MG Road and Brigade Road is where we used to ‘hang out’ when we were in hostel. This is also where I take visitors to Bangalore for either shopping or just a quick drive through. I love the way Brigades looks during Christmas and New Year. But with the Metro work and the demise of its once famed boulevard, MG Road has lost a lot of its magic.

The only negative about these places is the parking.

The Eloor Lending Library

In a world, where things seem to change in the blink of an eye, it’s good to come across a place that has remained just the same… and I mean that in a nice, complimentary way! I went to the Eloor Lending Library yesterday, after almost five years…. And felt I had come home!!! The Library was just the way I remembered it. Even a couple of guys at the counter were still there, looking just the same! The books greeted me like long-lost friends and begged to be taken home. And how could I refuse them? There was Dean Koontz, who I was introduced to, right here in this Library. I remember picking up my first Koontz from here: “From the Corner of His Eye” and I was blown away. I became a HUGE Koontz fan since then… today, I have a small Koontz Collection in my home. The Orson’s Farm Comics used to delight both Anu and me when we used to come here almost every other Sunday, before we moved to Jakkur. Anu went through the entire collection of Nancy Drew, Goose Bumps, The Baby Sitter’s Club. Princess Diaries and the Fearless series at Eloor. “They have changed their entire Children’s Section”, she said, “Anyway, I do not qualify now”. The books she picked up this time were more grown-up, including Arundathi Roy’s “The Shape of the Beast”. She too recalled fondly how we would stock up on our books before her holidays. What pleasure these books have given us! They have travelled with us on holidays, making the long train rides to Nagpur shorter. They have also provided me excellent reference material for assignments I would be working on or for Anu’s school project. I have been educated, entertained and inspired by the collection at Eloor – easily one of the finest any Library can boast of.

I have discovered many new writers here. I would read some great review in the paper and ask for that book at my next visit and there it would be! Some best-sellers would always be “out” and I would finally reserve them. Sometimes, the amount I have spent on Late Fees (entirely my fault) could have bought me the book itself…. But who could give me access to so many titles? Who could connect me to so many writers and introduce me to so many genres under one roof?

As I walked up to the counter hugging the books I had picked up, I wondered if the Membership Number was right and if my Membership was still valid. It was and I happily watched the new addition of a bar code scanner that made the book entries so much simpler. Since this was an unplanned visit, we did not have a carry bag for the books we had just picked up. But no worries! Eloor even had a carry bag that they generously offered. Now, if I could only find a way to fit Eloor back into my regular routine….


Eloor Lending Library is located at Blue Cross Chambers, Infantry Road Cross, Bangalore – 560 001.