After a restless week at the hospital attending back to back surgeries, I was finally at home in Houston, sinking into a long overdue nap on a Saturday morning. The phone rang. Half asleep, I reached out blindly and cut the call, convinced it was just my alarm. A moment later, it rang again. Annoyed, I silenced it once more and pulled the blanket over my head.
When I finally woke up from my long nap, I rubbed my eyes and checked my phone. To my surprise, it wasn’t an alarm at all, it was a call from my childhood friend, Vikky.
Vikky and Sihi were the only two friends who had shaped my childhood in India before life carried me to the US. I called him back, and he surprised me with the happiest news, his wedding invitation. A rush of joy filled me. Finally, my friend was getting married.
As we spoke, Sihi joined the call. The three of us had always stayed in touch, at least once every six months, sharing updates. Hearing Vikky’s wedding plans brought a wave of excitement, and Sihi and I couldn’t stop teasing him.
Sihi was the first among us to step into married life, at just 24, and now had a 6 year son, but her laughter still sounded exactly the same as it did in our childhood. That afternoon slipped away in conversation, stories, jokes, and memories of the Malleshwaram streets, all of it came alive, as though no years had passed between us.
Vikky had called me four months earlier to share the news, and without even telling me, he went ahead and booked my tickets. It had been fifteen years since I last set foot in Bangalore. After moving to the US, my family never returned to India, and the streets of Malleshwaram had only lived in my memories.
Sihi too moved to Mysuru about four years after I left India, Vikky was the last of us remaining in Malleshwaram.
As the date got nearer, I didn’t know how to feel. Part of me was happy, but part of me kept asking, should I really go? The truth is, leaving India had not been easy. My last days at Malleshwaram were full of pain.
My father was in debt, a debt that completely changed our lives and our path. It all happened because of loans taken by his business partners from a small side business he had invested in, and my father got caught in the middle of it. In the end, we had to sell our home.
During that period, my father worked for a US based IT firm, and they asked him to travel onsite just as our lives were falling apart.
I still remember those dark days, local bank people and finance owners were at our doorstep every morning, threatening my father. Vikky’s father and Sihi’s father helped my father in every way they could, but the debt just never seemed to end. Finally, we sold our house and moved to the US. I was sixteen when all this happened, and it changed me forever.
Finally, the day came. I packed for a two week trip to India and bought some chocolates and gifts for Sihi and Vikky. It was going to be a long journey after 15 years. I boarded the flight, found my seat, and sat down with so much excitement. After all these years, I was finally going to see my childhood buddies in person.
I, Josh (Joshua), was born into a Christian family and lived on Malleshwaram 8th Cross. I lost my mother when I was just seven, and being raised by a single father shaped much of who I am today. From an early age, I was deeply connected to my neighbors, Vikky (Vikram) and Sihi (Sahithya). Sihi was two years younger than us, and since there were hardly any other kids our age on the street, the three of us were inseparable. To both Vikram’s and Sihi’s parents, I was like a mane maga (a son of their house). Our bond grew stronger with every passing year, a friendship that has only deepened over time, standing the test of years and distance.
Vikky’s family came from an orthodox Brahmin household. His father worked at a Mysore Sandal Soap Factory. Vikky’s father was so strict that his scoldings would terrify Vikky so much that he sometimes wet his pants in fear. Sihi’s parents, on the other hand, were music teachers, and every evening our street would fill with the melodious echoes of her practice.
But my father was always kind to Vikky and Sihi. Once a month, he would bring a bunch of chocolates and cakes, not just for me, but for them as well. More than anything, though, I loved Vikky mom’s cooking. Her obbattu (Puran Poli), a soft, sweet, soaked in ghee and milk, felt like heaven. “I can almost taste it even as I think of it now.” During festivals, I would stick the whole day at Vikky and Sihi’s house, my stomach carrying the weight of all those delicious treats they prepared. I was such a foodie that Vikky would sometimes lie to me if I asked whether his mom had made anything special, just to keep me from rushing over too soon!
The summer holidays were unforgettable, I doubt the so called Gen Z could ever experience anything like them! Those two months felt like our own private Disneyland. Every morning we’d wake at eight and roam the neighborhood, playing badminton, buguri, and lagori under the bright sun. Looking back, that was the time we truly felt alive, living life to the fullest. The countless scratches on my hands and knees from falls and tumbles from cycling, the endless fight with Sihi and Vikky over who got to watch their favorite cartoon, all feel as fresh in my memory as if they happened yesterday.
I was mischievous when it came to snacks, always sneaking treats, especially from Vikky’s house and Sihi’s, far more often than from my own. But when it came to cycling, Vikky was in a league of his own, miles ahead of me. Every Sunday, his father would hand him five rupees, and we’d rush to the bicycle vendor who let us ride for an hour. Sihi and I never missed a chance to join him, and before long, we became known as “The Malleshwaram Trio,” familiar faces to every street vendor and corner shop in the neighborhood.
Sihi was well known in our neighborhood, everyone recognized her for her singing. Naturally, she was given extra care, but that advantage always extended to the three of us. Vikky and I would take her everywhere, especially to ice cream parlors for a rose milk. The shop owner, knowing we were regulars, would always give us a little extra, and those moments felt like small treasures we cherished together.
One summer afternoon, something unforgettable happened. Vikky’s father owned a small mango farm back in their native place, and that season he had sent home a huge sack of freshly picked mangoes. Vikky came running to me, eyes sparkling, and asked if I would help him sell them on the streets of Malleshwaram.
“Sell them? Why?” I asked, half shocked.
He grinned and whispered his plan, he wanted to buy his own bicycle, no more renting every Sunday. I tried to talk him out of it, telling him it was a bad idea. “What if someone sees us? We’ll be doomed if our parents find out!” I said.
But Vikky was determined. His dream of owning a cycle was bigger than his fear of getting caught. Eventually, I gave in.
Instead of selling them in our own neighborhood, we stuffed the mangoes into our school bags and walked all the way to Sampige Theatre Street, far enough that no one we knew would spot us. We sat down near a quiet corner and began selling them for ₹25 a kilo. Back then, 25 rupees felt like a fortune! With that money, we could rent cycles for five hours straight.
That day sparked a routine. Every few days we would sneak out, bags full of mangoes, giggling all the way as if we were running some secret business. Of course, when Vikky’s parents asked what happened to all the mangoes, he would lie through his teeth and tell them that Sihi and I had eaten them all with him.
One evening, we got caught! As we were returning from Sampige Theatre Street with empty bags and pockets jingling with coins, Sihi’s father spotted us. He was on his way back from the Malleshwaram market, carrying flowers.
The moment we saw him, we froze. He looked at us, then at our suspiciously empty bags, and we knew we were doomed. That night felt like facing judgment day.
At Sihi’s house, her father lined us up like culprits. He didn’t shout, which somehow made it even scarier. In a calm voice, he asked where all the mangoes had gone. Vikky tried his best to spin another story, but under that steady stare, he broke down and confessed.
To our surprise, Sihi’s father didn’t get angry. Instead, he burst out laughing and said, “At least you three didn’t waste them, you turned them into business!” We got a lecture about honesty and not lying to our parents, but at Vikky’s home, it wasn’t like that. He got a sound scolding from his father that night. His father was furious, we could hear his father’s voice all the way!
The three of us would meet on the terrace and laugh over that incident. Sihi would tease, ‘I wish I had joined you both that day.’ Vikky shook his head and said, ‘Ha! If my father had found out I took you along too, I would have got two extra scoldings on top of what I already got!’
Rewinding all those memories high above the clouds, my past unfolded like an old song, and a quiet smile touched my lips. I could almost breathe the jasmine drifting through Malleshwaram’s lanes, Sankey Lake glowing in the golden hour, taste the crisp CTR masale dose and the steaming morning idlis from Raghavendra Stores, and hear the chorus of voices rising from the fruit and flower market. These weren’t just memories. They were home, still breathing, still waiting, arms open to welcome me back.
As the plane descended toward “Namma Bengaluru”, my heart raced. Would Malleshwaram still feel like home, or would it be just a collection of old streets and faded smells?