Love Letter to Bangalore: From Charm to Chaos

Dearest Ooru,

Consider this a love letter to Bangalore—the one I wrote decades ago in wide-eyed awe, chasing your elusive charm. That charm that made me forgive potholes, traffic jams, and the occasional monsoon tantrum with a shrug and a smile? Gone. Poof. Replaced by acid rain, smog, and the unmistakable scent of collective exhaustion. Bravo.

Give me back mornings that smelled like dew, evenings that kissed my cheeks instead of horns assaulting my ears, and strangers who minded their own business—remember them? Delightful little relics of your former self. Now, every street corner is a contest of honks, exhaust fumes, and impatience. Every chai stall seems to whisper, “Survive if you can.”

Clean your streets. Scrub your soul. Fix your roads. Teach traffic that tantrums aren’t a valid form of communication. Offload your ore, recycle the muck, and—please, for the love of all that was once sacred—return our mannu. Make the rains smell like nostalgia again, not chemicals. Remind us what it feels like to walk without fear of getting soaked by mud puddles or run over by an impatient two-wheeler.

This love letter to Bangalore isn’t just nostalgia—it’s a plea. You were once the ex I bragged about, the city I flaunted with pride. Now, you’re the cautionary tale I whisper about: a place that traded charm for chaos, romance for honking, dew for diesel. Still, a part of me hopes you remember who you were—the one I loved, the one I queued decades for.

Yours, in tragically comic disbelief,
M