Invisibles: Milkman from Yelahanka

 In 2011, when I shifted to Bengaluru (Bangalore back then) to join the college where I work, I was unsure about the place I was joining, so I did not bring my family with me. My parents were getting old, my sister, and my wife's brother live here, which were some of the reasons that led me to decide to shift to this place. In fact, I never thought I would ever be living in this city, as it brought back painful memories of my late younger brother. Secondly, all that I had associated with this city so far was the uninterrupted river of traffic - slow, tiresome, and making you feel sick if you ever got caught up in the traffic.

Over the years, living in different cities and traveling throughout the length and breadth of this country had taught me many things about Indian cities, or perhaps all cities. Like the architectural student's favorite book, Italo Calvino's 'Invisible Cities,' there are millions of cities inside every city - the one that is visible, one that is hidden, and the one that needs to be endlessly discovered. Although, thanks to the mindless traffic jams, I have never been at ease in this city. Yelahanka gave me a comfort zone in this young city and its hype. In whatever possible way available to me, I avoided going to the city side of Bengaluru. Also, by the time I reached Bengaluru, I was able to move on from the fad and the importance of the art world socializing. When I came to Yelahanka, a retired men's colony or a sleepy suburb, it was a wonderful place with very few activities. By seven in the evening, the place used to retreat into its cocoons. This old man in a cabin-sized room selling Nandini milk was one of the inhabitants here. His shop was a six-foot by three-foot room. At the entrance, one would always find the blue empty plastic boxes stacked one over the other, blocking the passage. Apart from that, a tall wooden shelf also had its way into that small room, separating the buyer from the seller. Usually, in the morning hours, his son managed the show, and around 9, his father and mother used to take over his place. They both were very soft-spoken. After spending three years at NID, Ahmedabad, I had one resolve in my life, which was to integrate myself among the locals rather than with my colleagues. I learned my first few Gujarati words only after I left NID. So, over a period, we started having small conversations. Actually, it all began with a very interesting incident. In our college, I was the first one to go to the college on a bicycle every day (Later on, although I stopped cycling after an accident, cycling has almost become a cult in our college for many reasons). Our friend was excited to see me on a cycle near his shop. He ended up telling me his story - the story of old-world Bengaluru, a nostalgia many Bengalurians would share. He was working in BEL and would travel around the city on his bicycle. Furthermore, he narrated to me how he used to carry his "tiffin" on his cycle to the factory, took his children to school, and even had family outings on his cycle on Sundays. Curiously, he could recall the license number of his cycle, something that used to exist in our country. He had many fond memories of small food joints that defined Bangalore but no longer exist. As he was narrating his story, which I understood partially thanks to my proficiency in Kannada, his wife would make many comments and jokes that would irritate him. Like all other young couples in their late 70s and 80s, their arguments were very interesting to watch. They would argue about the correctness of some facts, people, and incidents about Bangalore, which only they knew better and had been lost forever. As men always get carried away with their narratives, their women would jump into the conversation to correct them by teasing or accusing them of lying. Whenever I walked in, he would emerge from behind the tall wooden desk with a blue Nandini milk packet. He knew I bought four blue packets and one orange packet of milk. After moving my house to a little farther place, I started getting milk delivered to my door. The frequency of meeting them decreased to our occasional chats. Then came Covid. For months, I could not go there due to the lockdowns in place. These days, whenever I pass that place, I don't see him there anymore. Like all other young men in their late 70s and 80s, he is probably also hiding from the invisible enemy. Probably."