When Bengaluru Was Still Bangalore: A Tale of Local Roots and Lost Harvests

Ah, Bengaluru. Or, as it was known in a simpler, greener time, Bangalore. Today, we know it as India's Silicon Valley, a sprawling metropolis buzzing with innovation, traffic, and—let's be honest—a seemingly endless demand for everything imported. But cast your mind back, just a little, to an era when this vibrant city, in its nascent stages, didn't just grow but actually foraged for its very own pulse.

It’s a peculiar thought, isn't it? This city, now a global tech hub, once cultivated its own basic sustenance. Imagine a Bangalore that wasn’t merely a ‘Garden City’ in name, but one where the soil beneath its burgeoning urban footprint still yielded the very dal that simmered in its kitchens. Truth be told, there was a time, not so long ago, when Bangalore was remarkably self-sufficient, especially when it came to its daily bread, or rather, its daily toor dal.

You see, the story of Bangalore’s early food landscape is a testament to the vision of its founder, Kempegowda I. His plans for the city weren't just about fortifications and markets; they were about sustainability, about a community thriving on its own produce. Back then, the fields around what would become bustling localities were rich with crops – pulses like toor dal and urad dal weren't exotic imports, but humble, homegrown staples. In fact, people spoke of 'Bangalore toor dal,' a local variety prized for its quality. It really makes you wonder, doesn't it, about the sheer scale of change?

The shift has been gradual, almost imperceptible until suddenly, it wasn't. As Bangalore swelled, transforming from a quaint cantonment town to a cosmopolitan powerhouse, its agricultural heart began to shrink. The lakes, once vital for irrigation and drinking water, gave way to concrete. The verdant fields, once alive with the promise of harvest, were swallowed by apartment complexes and office parks. And with that, a fundamental connection to the land, to the very source of its nourishment, began to fray.

Today, the notion of 'Bangalore toor dal' feels almost mythological. The city's food supply, like its tech talent, is largely outsourced. From grains to vegetables, pulses to spices, the majority of what lands on our plates travels vast distances, often from other states, sometimes even from other countries. And, honestly, we've come to accept this as the norm. But there’s a quiet melancholy in realizing that a city once so rooted in its immediate surroundings now finds itself adrift in a global supply chain, a place that once fed itself, now feeds on the world.

So, the next time you spoon a serving of dal onto your plate, maybe spare a thought for that bygone Bangalore. The one that was still learning to walk, still finding its voice, but, crucially, still knew how to grow its own pulse. It’s a subtle reminder, isn't it, of the profound, often overlooked, cost of progress.