A village built around a boiled-bean legend, turned garrison town, turned Garden City, turned the place the world calls when its software breaks. Bengaluru has reinvented itself more often than most cities have existed — Kempe Gowda's mud fort, Tipu Sultan's summer palace, the British cantonment's wide avenues, and then the IT parks that paved over the orchards and drained the lakes.
The city is two cities stitched together and still arguing about the seam. Pete — the old city — is six hundred years of temple bells, silk merchants, and lanes too narrow for a car. The cantonment is the British grid: clubs, churches, parade grounds. Everything built since independence has been trying to connect the two, and the traffic is the proof it hasn't worked.
This is not a tour. It's a listening — to a city that keeps outgrowing itself and forgetting what it lost in the process.