Bangalore Diaries: Three Friends in the Garden City (Early 2000s)
There's something about the early 2000s in Bangalore that feels like a lifetime ago, yet remains vivid in memory like yesterday's dream. Those were the days when the city still felt like a garden, before the tech boom transformed it completely, before it became Bengaluru officially, before every conversation started with traffic complaints. For three friends—Arun, Vikram, and me—those years were our coming-of-age chapter, written in the language of cinema halls, bookshops, and endless cups of coffee.
The Theatre Circuit: Our Weekend Religion
Our weekends had a sacred routine, and it always began with the question: "Rex or Symphony?" These weren't just cinema halls; they were our temples of celluloid dreams. Rex, with its old-world charm on Brigade Road, had that musty smell of decades-old carpets mixed with fresh popcorn. The seats creaked, the AC was temperamental at best, but there was something magical about watching a film there. Symphony, newer and shinier, was where we went when we wanted to feel sophisticated, when we had saved up enough to afford the balcony tickets.
But nothing—absolutely nothing—compared to the day we watched Dil Chahta Hai at Kaveri Theatre in 2001.
I remember we had to book tickets two days in advance. The three of us took an auto from our PG accommodation in Koramangala, each of us secretly wondering if this Aamir Khan film would live up to the hype. Kaveri, tucked away with its distinctive architecture, was packed that August evening. The moment those opening credits rolled, with that guitar riff, we knew we were watching something different. Here were three friends on screen, living their lives, making mistakes, growing up—and there we were, three friends in the audience, doing exactly the same.
When Akshaye Khanna said, "Tum nahin samjhoge," we exchanged knowing glances. When they sang their hearts out in Goa, we wished we were there instead of Bangalore's traffic. That film became our reference point for everything. For months afterward, we'd quote dialogues, argue about which character each of us was most like (nobody wanted to be Sid, everyone claimed to be Akash), and plan a Goa trip we'd never take.
Galaxy Theatre on Residency Road was our backup option, our reliable friend. Less glamorous than Rex, less pretentious than Symphony, Galaxy was where we watched everything else—the Karan Johar melodramas, the action potboilers, the comedies that made us laugh until our stomachs hurt. The popcorn was cheaper there, and the crowd was more forgiving when we cheered and whistled during action sequences.
When the City Stood Still
But all our movie plans came to a grinding halt in July 2000. Dr. Rajkumar had been kidnapped by Veerappan, and Bangalore transformed overnight into a city we barely recognized.
The day the news broke, we were planning to catch an evening show. Instead, we found ourselves huddled in our PG, watching the drama unfold on our landlord's television. The city imposed a curfew. Buses stopped running. Shops pulled down their shutters. Brigade Road, usually buzzing with life, became a ghost town. For 108 days, Bangalore held its breath.
Those days taught us something about the city we were living in—its heart, its pulse, its fierce love for its matinee idol. We couldn't understand it at first, we north Indian migrants in this southern metropolis. But watching our Kannadiga friends, seeing their genuine anguish, listening to old film songs playing on loop from nearby houses, we began to grasp what Dr. Rajkumar meant to them. He wasn't just an actor; he was Karnataka's beloved son.
When he was finally released in November, the city erupted in celebration. We joined the crowds on MG Road, not quite understanding the depth of emotion but caught up in the collective relief nonetheless. Cinema halls reopened, life resumed, but something had changed. We felt more connected to Bangalore somehow, having witnessed its vulnerability and resilience.
The Book Lovers' Paradise
When we weren't watching movies, we were hunting for books. And Bangalore, bless its literary soul, was a book lover's paradise.
Gangaram's on Mahatma Gandhi Road was our first stop, always. Walking into that store was like entering a treasure cave. The smell of new books, the perfectly arranged shelves, the quiet rustle of pages being turned—it was intoxicating. We couldn't afford to buy many books on our meager stipends, but we'd spend hours browsing. Arun was into philosophy and would gravitate toward the Penguin Classics section. Vikram loved science fiction—Asimov, Clarke, Herbert—and I was forever stuck in the contemporary fiction aisle, juggling between buying the new Murakami or settling for a second-hand Rushdie.
The staff at Gangaram's knew us by sight, these three young men who touched every book but bought one every month. They were patient with us, sometimes even recommending titles they thought we'd like. I bought my first Arundhati Roy there, Vikram found his beloved Foundation trilogy, and Arun discovered Khalil Gibran's The Prophet—a book he'd quote from annoyingly often for the next several months.
Sapna Book House was where we went when we wanted variety and chaos. Unlike Gangaram's refined elegance, Sapna was sprawling, crowded, with books stacked everywhere. It was easier to get lost in Sapna, easier to stumble upon unexpected finds. Their magazine section was extensive, and we'd flip through international film magazines, tech journals, and music periodicals we couldn't afford to subscribe to.
But Higginbothams on MG Road held a special place in our hearts. It was the oldest bookshop, established in the 19th century, and it wore its history proudly. The wooden shelves, the creaking floors, the portrait of some British gentleman hanging on the wall—it all felt deliciously colonial and outdated. Higginbothams was where we bought gifts for each other's birthdays, where we'd meet after work on Friday evenings, where we'd argue passionately about whether Amitav Ghosh was better than Vikram Seth.
The In-Between Moments
Life wasn't just about movies and books, of course. It was also about the small moments in between. The filter coffee at Indian Coffee House that cost seven rupees and tasted like heaven. The masala dosas at Vidyarthi Bhavan that we'd trek to Basavanagudi for, convinced they were the best in the world. The long walks down MG Road on Sunday mornings when the streets were empty and the weather was perfect.
It was about splitting an auto fare three ways and still haggling over fifty paise. About calling home on STD booths and feeding coins into the machine while trying to convince our parents that we were eating well. About the excitement of email becoming common, and the three of us getting Rediffmail accounts and sending each other silly forwards.
We were young, broke, and far from home, but we had each other. We had a city that was still gentle enough to embrace us, still small enough to navigate without GPS, still affordable enough for our modest dreams.
The Transformation
Looking back now, from this vantage point of the late 2020s, that Bangalore seems like a sepia-toned photograph. The city has changed beyond recognition—bigger, faster, wealthier, more chaotic. Rex and Galaxy are long gone. Symphony has been renovated beyond recognition. Kaveri gone too for a new mall coming in its place, but the charm has faded. Higginbothams closed its MG Road store. Even Gangaram's has competition from giant chains and online retailers.
We've changed too. Arun moved to Mumbai, Vikram to Dubai, and I stayed back in what's now officially Bengaluru. We're married, have kids, have careers that keep us busy. We don't quote Dil Chahta Hai anymore, though we still remember every dialogue.
But sometimes, when I'm stuck in Bangalore's notorious traffic, when the city feels too big and impersonal, I close my eyes and I'm back there. Three friends, mid-twenties, walking down Brigade Road on a Saturday evening, arguing about which movie to watch, which book to buy, which restaurant to blow our money on. The air smells of rain and possibility. The future is unwritten. The city is ours.
Those early 2000s gave us our youth, our friendship, and our stories. Bangalore was our backdrop, our witness, our home. And somewhere in my heart, in the space between memory and nostalgia, it still is.
For Arun and Vikram—wherever you are, whatever you're doing, remember: our hearts still want it all. Dil chahta hai.
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