Weird Tales of a Bangalorean by Jayaprakash Satyamurthy

Parts of Bangalore aren't in Bangalore at all.' He was breathing heavily and continuing to glance about him in a nervous manner. 'It isn't just seeing things, you know? Sometimes you can go somewhere else. Finally, he moved into the chair across my table and glanced about furtively. Sure enough, a while later he was inducing a deep sense of stultification in me with a long, rambling account of faceless ghosts some old school pal of his had seen near Naga Theatre back in his long-fled youth. I didn't mind making pub acquaintances, but I wasn't so sure about this fellow – he looked like he might be a bit of a bore, a bit of a crank. He had a salt and pepper beard, thinning hair, mostly still-black, slightly hawkish features – sharp nose, keen eyes – wore a denim shirt, white jeans, rubber slippers. 'Not trying the fries, are you?' He sniggered. Close on its heels, a middle-aged man came and sat down at the table next to mine. The second time I plonked down there, I sat upstairs in a small balcony area where they'd put out some chairs and tables. I tried to get a couple of my friends from the old place to join me there, but it was too far off for them, one reason why I never made it my regular. The draught beer was okay, the plate of fries was disappointing. For the most part it was an average Bangalore pub: nondescript furniture, a few plastic chairs replacing the wooden ones that the place had started out with as and when they wore out, some drab prints on the walls (flowers, landscapes, all murky and disheartened), waiters in black waistcoats, that sort of thing.

There was some wood paneling in the main room on the ground floor, and a few silhouettes of the sleuth framed behind the bar counter, but there the attempt at carrying the theme ceased. It was called the Sherlock, and it was built back when people who started pubs in Bangalore were still trying to emulate the traditional British pub. I'd never been there because I usually went drinking near my office. It was one of the older pubs in town and it was just around the corner from my flat. My regular drinking place had closed down and I was scouting for a replacement. It could start anywhere, but this is my story, and I'll start it in a bar.

Weird Tales of a Bangalorean by Jayaprakash Satyamurthy