Sadar Patrappa Road is commonly abbreviated to S.P. Road, nice and short for those wanting to save some time saying the extra syllables. This is Bangalore after all—the hub of India’s fast-paced IT industry, and S.P. is where its tech lovers congregate.
A colourful array of small-box computer and electronic shops sit side-by-side, stacked on top of another, stretching on and on for several city blocks. Signs reading Satyam Computer, Om Electronics and Digitech, compete with one another in a screaming match of salesmanship. Banners float overhead the width of the narrow road. “Raj Shree Computers – Brand new computer @6999.” One Dell banner points to the right. Behind it, another Dell banner points to the left in a confused tangle of conflicting messages.
Guys in their twenties and thirties scurry from shop to shop picking up their gadget of the moment. They wiggle through a maze of motorcycles parked two rows thick as they dart across the narrow street, called by one sign or another to their tech-gods. They wear either the colonial-influenced western attire of polyester slacks and short-sleeved shirt or the more recent westernization: blue jeans and t-shirt.
The local temple, a little streetsider for regular pujas, doesn’t get much traffic. Despite the frenetic buzz of activity in every direction, it sits lonely during the middle of this workday. Around it, a few street vendors sell some snacks—not a restaurant in sight. The watermelon woman sits behind a cart with neatly lined up bright slices of red fruit, no customers. The coconut man with his mobile shop, an Indian bike with coconuts hanging evenly on either side of the frame and machete sitting in the front basket, is doing steady business.
But only the truly food hungry slow down to stop for food. The S.P. crowd’s thirst is for technology, its hunger is to get wired. When not shopping inside the stores, they’re browsing keychain flashlights, motorized toy tanks and other electronic gadgetry sold on the streets.
Two-wheelers (motorcycles and mopeds), three-wheelers (tuk tuks) and the odd four-wheeler (cars) clash along the narrow street, bullying their way through human traffic. With all the competing sounds, their horns don’t generate much notice among pedestrians and even less care. It’s with mechanical might that these metal noisemaking wheel-boxes prevail.
“Heay. Heaaayy.” Amid the multi-wheeler zoo come three wheels and four hooves. A dignified looking chocolate-brown horse wearing a head strap with a tiny bell dangling in front of its forehead is commandeered by a barefoot middle-aged man in a wooden cart, legs folded underneath him as he leans to one side casually making his way through traffic. “Heay. Heaaayy. Heay. Heaaayy,” he rhythmically repeats his traffic-clearing mantra to some effect.
The horse and horseman command attention with dignity and grace. With slightly more than their usual road traffic indifference, the crowd seems to quieten just enough for the jingling of the bell to be heard. The pedestrians of S.P. pay attention, opening a path as he plows straight ahead, hauling his long load of aluminum pipes to the mechanical shops at the far end of S.P. Road.
Plowing straight ahead. That’s what Bangalore is doing. It’s hurtling at the speed of light through the 21st century, yet with one hoof stubbornly dragging “behind” the times. Amid the soundtrack of honking horns and beeping mobile phones, the tapping of horse hooves signal a reminder to past days and serve as a connection to nature. India’s strong traditional culture maintains a place for everyone, even barefoot horsemen among the highest of the nation’s high-techies.
