Ode to the Woodlands

The tiled roof through which the sunlight streamed on a sultry june afternoon, the overgrowth, that had us as children convinced, ghosts surely abided in, the long gravel-ly driveway laden with the promise of crispy dosa, delicious bisi bela baath, and show-stopping coffee in those familiar chipped, white ceramic cups.

It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say I grew up there. Mid-week treats were always 'idly-vada-pongal-dosa' at Woodlands. The children's playpen had this magical allure where rusted slides and creaky swings presented themselves only as the promise of endless hours in merriment. The memory of the ice cream man in his van - yes there used to be a mock van (or something) and the hideous outhouses for toilets are memories so opposite and yet somehow welded inextricably together, both equally doused in a fondness that can only mean real love.

Ever since I can remember, we went to Woodlands. It was our sunday evening ritual too, right up there with going to mass. When we got our first car, me and my brother would beg to be allowed to sit in the car and ask the food to be brought to us on those stainless steel trays that rested on the window, even if it meant being half eaten alive by those infernal mosquitoes that thrived in all the wooded overgrowth.

We always got special treatment there (which only meant the food came really quickly) because my dad, who would speak in kannada or tulu to the waiters had been coming there with my mother since they were dating -26 years. He knew most of the 'old-timers' as he called them, their stories - they would talk about family for a while , about home - udipi or mysore it was usually. And they would inquire about me and my brother like we weren't present.. And only acknowledge us with a soft-spoken parting in kannada , so invariable that I could mimic it's every cadence- study well, be good children. And it would always make us grin - it seemed like something absurd to us.

As I grew older, it started to become much less of a family event, shaken off with all the rest, in a desire to be more independent. But it was still where I let my dad take me for breakfast every tuesday and friday morning, after the crazy 5:30 AM IIT coaching class and before dropping me off at Stella. Lovely conversations about everything and nothing over hot puris and brilliant pongal. We had our little ritual - Chat until we finished our food and over coffee we'd read the newspaper - just the two of us and it was always so quiet and tranquil at that time of the morning. The joggers having consumed their coffees and yacked, usually had dispersed and we mostly had the place to ourselves. It didn't seem particularly remarkable then. It was all just so matter of fact. But now when I think about Woodlands, that is one of the most vivid images that I can recall - so it certainly meant a lot, even if we were unconscious of it then.

Being in Stella for three years naturally meant that we considered it an extension of our campus (minus the nuns) - along with gangotree, sathyam, shirdi and spencer's ofcourse. Friendships cemented over six rupee coffees. My best friend and I would spend hours talking about everything - books, politics, cosmology and calculus, at those rickety tables, earnest , bright-eyed and broke, often sharing just one coffee between us - or in the summer a 'cool drink' before we teared ourselves away to that reluctant half an hour of a walk home.

I shared a special association of the place with nearly every body I cared about - My family, my dad in particular, my best friends and later - a boy I fell in love with. I remember the exact table we were sitting in when he first held my hand, the people around us that I imagined must surely be staring at us, I remember the damn cat which rubbed up against my leg making me jump in fear and his consequent amusement. I remember looking around nervously to see if anybody I knew was around.. We went there all the time - early enough for breakfast, most often for lunch, saturday afternoon tiffin ... even though it was often in mortal dread that the waiters would recognize me and let something slip to my folks... It became 'our place'.

And now to think that it is to be no more.. More's the pity! Well I just hope it's open long enough so when I come back, I can have atleast one last tete-a-tete, a cup of coffee or two and say my goodbyes to one of my favourite little corners of the city.