The Bengaluru Roadies #56
“You haven’t really seen old Bengaluru,” I am told, “until you have walked through Gandhi Bazaar on a busy morning.” This is usually followed by detailed instructions involving flowers, filter coffee, and a dosa queue. Naturally, when my learned friends
#HarishBhat and
#VeenaBhat invited me for a Sunday morning Benne Dosa, I promptly went.
Unlike Bengaluru’s more mysterious locality names, Gandhi Bazaar leaves little room for etymological detective work. It is named after Mahatma Gandhi. A road running through its heart is DVG Road, named after the Kannada writer and philosopher D. V. Gundappa. This intersection of Gandhi and DVG is appropriate: one represents the nation’s conscience, the other Karnataka’s literary soul.
Gandhi Bazaar grew as the commercial heart of Basavanagudi, one of Bengaluru’s oldest planned neighbourhoods. Long before malls and ten-minute grocery deliveries, this was where south Bengaluru came to buy its vegetables, flowers, spices, puja articles, clothes and, more importantly, exchange several pieces of neighbourhood intelligence.
Today, the street remains a gloriously stubborn piece of old Bangalore. The air smells of jasmine, marigolds, incense, ripe fruit and hot ghee. Flower sellers sit behind enormous bursts of colour, vegetables are arranged with geometric precision, and shoppers negotiate prices in Kannada with the seriousness of international diplomacy.
The market spills naturally into the neighbourhood around it: the Bull Temple, Dodda Ganapathi Temple, Bugle Rock, the Indian Institute of World Culture, the Grand Lodge of Theosophists and the old houses of Basavanagudi. Writers including Masti Venkatesha Iyengar lived in the area, and DVG’s presence still seems to hover over the road bearing his name. Gandhi Bazaar is not merely a marketplace; it is part bazaar, part temple corridor and part open-air literary salon.
If you are there, begin with the flower market before the day gets too warm. Wander along DVG Road, browse the old shops and then join the queue at Vidyarthi Bhavan or the even older Udipi Sri Krishna Bhavan (where we went), which has been serving its famous crisp, butter-laden dose since 1943 and 1926 (its 100th anniversary this year!) respectively. The wait is long, the tables are shared, the service moves at its own confident rhythm—and nobody seems to mind.
Much of Bengaluru now seems determined to become Singapore. Gandhi Bazaar remains equally determined to remain Bangalore.
(I have recently relocated to the city of gardens and traffic, and what intrigues me most are the road names, each of which has a fascinating history. This series of posts will unravel the historical origins of the roads and localities of BLR.)