The incredulous Kannadiga

On Rajyotsava, we trace the rather unusual journey of the so-called 'Bengaluru Kannadiga'.

An old newspaper advertisement by Sundararaja Rao for his potions.

A biopic released this year tells the story of Shakuntala Devi, a Bengalurean who made a name across the world as a computing genius. The Bollywood film, with Vidya Balan in the lead, showed her father as a grubby man with little education or finesse. He is out to make money from her growing fame, not in the least concerned that he is depriving her of a regular childhood.

Turns out the portrayal was far from accurate. Her father, C V Sundararaja Rao, was an eccentric who knew a lot about numbers. He had created a calendar that could be used for 600 years, and had passed on his computing and astrological acumen to his children. He was an early entrepreneur, selling a powder to enhance memory and cure stomach ailments, in a city that was yet to catch the world’s attention as a start-up hub. Sundararaja Rao was rebellious. He had worked as a lion tamer, trapeze artist and circus magician, donning several hats in his lifetime. Yet, the film could only see him as a village idiot, and an avaricious one at that.

Bollywood may not be big on nuance, but if we could imagine a figure of the Bengaluru Kannadiga, he would likely be puzzled by the mismatch between how he sees himself and how he is construed by those outside his world.

Shaped by the princely Mysurean ethos, Kannadigas of the mid- and late-20th century considered themselves refined. They listened to Karnatik music, wore mallige in their hair, watched films in a variety of languages, and read books in at least two languages: English and Kannada. They wrapped themselves in sweaters. On rainy days, they fried chakli and kodubale, or ventured out under their umbrellas to bring home parcels of hot menasinakai bonda. They attended political rallies at National College grounds and regarded themselves politically enlightened.

They loved harate — good-natured and informed banter — and indulged in it while sipping coffee. Their by-two coffee culture, which involved sharing their cup with at least one other, celebrated this bonhomie. Kannadigas universally detested instant coffee. They never missed a social ceremony — maduve, munji, namkarana, Satyanarayana pooje, tithi — and were always prepared with steel items in colourful gift wrapping or cash in gifting envelopes.

A good number played rummy, followed cricket, and listened to All India Radio. Some went to the races. The more Anglicised ones tuned in to BBC on their shortwave radios. As a community, Bengaluru Kannadigas revered scientists and engineers, never uttering the names of M Visvesvaraya and C V Raman without prefixing them with a ‘Sir.’ They believed, as a community, they were pioneering in many ways.

Don’t miss the irony

They indeed were, or at least Mysore — the kingdom they were ruled by till Independence —was. The story is often told of how Bengaluru was the first city in Asia to get electricity. Mirza Ismail, the dewan of Mysore, had spelt out the region’s pride in a radio talk: ‘Mysoreans wash themselves with Mysore soap, dry themselves with Mysore towels, clothe themselves in Mysore silks, ride Mysore horses, eat the abundant Mysore food, drink Mysore coffee with Mysore sugar, equip their houses with Mysore furniture, light them with Mysore lamps and write their letters on Mysore paper.’

But many things changed, especially after the 1990s. The exit of Rajkumar marked the end of the middle-class appeal of Kannada cinema, although some directors like Yogaraj Bhat do revive it on and off. The decade brought to Bengaluru an all-consuming obsession with real estate. A community that once debated the finer points of G R Vishwanath’s square cut and K S Narasimhaswamy’s love poems was now jabbering excitedly about sq ft rates. S M Krishna, who donned an RSS topi last week, was then a suave Congress chief minister known for his Texas education and rockstar status among the IT sector. Without irony, he announced his dream of turning Bengaluru into Singapore. A city with a chequered history and a trademark syncretism was to be turned into a business district.

Little more than ritualism

In the years that followed, the Bengaluru of the tree-lined avenues vanished, light jackets replaced sweaters, and politicians, builders and contractors flourished like never before. It wasn’t just laissez faire, it was open season to usurp lakes and public spaces. Buildings became taller, land grabbers got bolder, and roads shrank. Praja emulated the raja, and began fencing footpaths for private gardens. Bangalore became Bengaluru but the change was little more than ritualism. The city’s many Udupi hotels pruned themselves to bonsai size and called themselves darshinis. They discouraged the harate and by-two culture. Hundreds of colleges sprang up, selling their seats merrily to anyone with the means.

One complaint against an earlier generation of Kannadigas was that they were unenterprising. That changed to an extent, with N R Narayanamurthy and Capt G R Gopinath establishing and running hugely successful, new-economy businesses. If Mumbai took pride in the clever heists of Harshad Mehta and Nirav Modi, here in Bengaluru, the flamboyant Vijay Mallya qualified for the Netflix series Bad Boy Billionaires.

Perhaps the Bengaluru Kannadiga feels as lost as Shakuntala Devi. Academic mathematicians called her shows a circus.

In a recent article, science writer Samir Shukla attributed her counting prowess to a neurodevelopmental condition called hypercalculia that dramatically expands the brain's ability to process humbers. He used an old medical term to describe her: 'Idiot Savant'. With no institutional support, Shakuntala Devi and her father got by making astrological predictions for private clients. The poetic contradiction was that neither could anticipate the giant waves that would disrupt their own lives.

The Kannadiga in Bengaluru who spoke a smattering of languages, and whose patriotism was ignited by the Kannada poetry of Kuvempu and Bendre, is now being told he’s not Indian if he doesn’t transact in Hindi. And if he is incredulous and sulking, it is because ‘Kannada gottilla’ is being replaced by a more aggressive ‘This is India.’

The author is city editor, DH, and a connoisseur of the classical and the kitschy.