Another one bites the dust
Many buildings in Bangalore have made way for greed and development and another one bites the dust!
Dust and debris welcomed me this morning at the traffic light next to the erstwhile High Grounds Police Station. Come to think of it, just in January 2007, this office reopened with most of it rebuilt, courtesy, a sponsor or two. I believe we need a road to reach the new airport and this police station stood in its wake.
Whenever an old building is demolished the memories associated with it are rekindled. It could bring a smile or a frown. Tucked away in the recesses of my head is a small memory about this place.
It was one cold winter night in 2001. I was returning home at 0130 am. No parties - it was the peak season of tax filing. Destination was home while the chilly November wind was hitting my face. After the monotonous work I was involved in, it looked like my life needed some excitement. Guess life is what happens to you when you are making other plans.
My bike sputtered as soon as I crossed Raj Bhavan and came to a halt near Planetarium. Tried everything I knew to re-start the bike but in vain. No shops, no phones only the wind hitting me with the sound of rustling leaves. I pushed the bike to reach the only place open around, High Grounds Police Station. I disturbed the idyll of the Station by approaching it and explained the situation to the policemen on duty. All I wanted was to make a phone call and park my bike. Note that my first mobile phone was still a year away. I called up my better half, who was wondering whether I would ever turn up. Not many choices left to call at that time, as I would be trying hard to explain what was important to finish at that unearthly hour. Life is like that for accountants or tax professionals. I was told not to budge from that place, as she wanted to pick me up. Guess I had no choice but be part of the silent night. The policemen were wondering what kind of profession I was involved with. I tried to explain that there are deadlines for tax filing, et al. They looked like they were trying their best to believe me.
Considering the advanced hour, I reckoned it would take less than ten minutes to reach the junction from home. Not much of noise on the road other than the chatter with the men on duty. I parked my bike in the Police Station and I was assured that nothing would happen to my bike. The other side of the police station looked green (obviously as it was the Golf Course!). Conversation had died down and I was getting restless. The constant ring of an old fashioned telephone saved me the blushes.
It was my wife. She was calling from another police station down the road in Vyalikaval. Her vehicle had broken down and she managed to reach the police station. So the staff in other police station called up their colleagues in High Grounds Police Station to pass on the message. Now the on-duty policemen swung into action. Of the two bikes they had, one had gone on rounds, and the other was starting to leave in the opposite direction. They couldn’t leave the station unguarded, so one of the two cops suggested that he would stop a vehicle to hitch hike my way back. Unfortunately there were not too many call centre vehicles around back then so one just had to wait and pray!
After five minutes, which felt like eternity, the policeman waved down a reluctant motorcyclist (who would want to slow down in the middle of the night to hitchhikers!). This rider stopped some ten feet away and gauged both of us. As luck would have it I happened to know that rider and he obliged. I reached my destination in no time and I almost ran inside to meet my wife (if it was in the movies, there would been a background score). Then at 2 am we were walking into the moonlight towards home.
Next morning I went to the police station to pick my bike for repair. I thanked the policemen and went on my way.
Circa 2008: I drive by the police station everyday and get a feeling that someone is there to help you.
Dust and debris welcomed me this morning at the traffic light next to the erstwhile High Grounds Police Station. Come to think of it, just in January 2007, this office reopened with most of it rebuilt, courtesy, a sponsor or two. I believe we need a road to reach the new airport and this police station stood in its wake.
Whenever an old building is demolished the memories associated with it are rekindled. It could bring a smile or a frown. Tucked away in the recesses of my head is a small memory about this place.
It was one cold winter night in 2001. I was returning home at 0130 am. No parties - it was the peak season of tax filing. Destination was home while the chilly November wind was hitting my face. After the monotonous work I was involved in, it looked like my life needed some excitement. Guess life is what happens to you when you are making other plans.
My bike sputtered as soon as I crossed Raj Bhavan and came to a halt near Planetarium. Tried everything I knew to re-start the bike but in vain. No shops, no phones only the wind hitting me with the sound of rustling leaves. I pushed the bike to reach the only place open around, High Grounds Police Station. I disturbed the idyll of the Station by approaching it and explained the situation to the policemen on duty. All I wanted was to make a phone call and park my bike. Note that my first mobile phone was still a year away. I called up my better half, who was wondering whether I would ever turn up. Not many choices left to call at that time, as I would be trying hard to explain what was important to finish at that unearthly hour. Life is like that for accountants or tax professionals. I was told not to budge from that place, as she wanted to pick me up. Guess I had no choice but be part of the silent night. The policemen were wondering what kind of profession I was involved with. I tried to explain that there are deadlines for tax filing, et al. They looked like they were trying their best to believe me.
Considering the advanced hour, I reckoned it would take less than ten minutes to reach the junction from home. Not much of noise on the road other than the chatter with the men on duty. I parked my bike in the Police Station and I was assured that nothing would happen to my bike. The other side of the police station looked green (obviously as it was the Golf Course!). Conversation had died down and I was getting restless. The constant ring of an old fashioned telephone saved me the blushes.
It was my wife. She was calling from another police station down the road in Vyalikaval. Her vehicle had broken down and she managed to reach the police station. So the staff in other police station called up their colleagues in High Grounds Police Station to pass on the message. Now the on-duty policemen swung into action. Of the two bikes they had, one had gone on rounds, and the other was starting to leave in the opposite direction. They couldn’t leave the station unguarded, so one of the two cops suggested that he would stop a vehicle to hitch hike my way back. Unfortunately there were not too many call centre vehicles around back then so one just had to wait and pray!
After five minutes, which felt like eternity, the policeman waved down a reluctant motorcyclist (who would want to slow down in the middle of the night to hitchhikers!). This rider stopped some ten feet away and gauged both of us. As luck would have it I happened to know that rider and he obliged. I reached my destination in no time and I almost ran inside to meet my wife (if it was in the movies, there would been a background score). Then at 2 am we were walking into the moonlight towards home.
Next morning I went to the police station to pick my bike for repair. I thanked the policemen and went on my way.
Circa 2008: I drive by the police station everyday and get a feeling that someone is there to help you.
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