When Ruhi stepped into the glass-walled apartment overlooking the restless skyline of Bengaluru, she felt the hum of a thousand lives colliding—but none touching hers. The city throbbed with ambition; people walked briskly, smiled mechanically, and closed doors softly but firmly. Coming from the serene lanes of Bareilly, where neighbours exchanged bowls of steaming halwa and gossip, she found this metallic silence deafening.
Rahul, her husband, an IT consultant, was absorbed in code and conferences. He loved her, perhaps, but loved efficiency more. “You’ll get used to it,” he often said, without looking up from his laptop. Ruhi nodded, hiding her ache beneath an apron’s edge.
The house-help, Meena, arrived punctually, head bent, earphones on, speaking only when necessary. The neighbour, Mrs D’Souza, offered a polite smile, but guarded her world behind closed blinds. Even the children in the corridor ran past Ruhi as though she were a shadow misplaced.
In the solitude of her polished kitchen, Ruhi missed the rhythm of her hometown mornings—the hiss of the tawa, the fragrance of roasted cumin, the laughter spilling over walls. One afternoon, as she kneaded rice batter for dosa, a thought stirred—what if her memory could feed not just her longing, but others too?
The next day, she set a small table by her balcony, and scribbled a cardboard note: “Fresh Idli-Dosa Batter–Homemade.” At first, none came. Then Meena’s curiosity led to her first order. The aroma travelled, whispering through balconies and corridors. Soon, messages began to ping—requests for “one pack more,” “a little extra for tomorrow.”
Bengaluru, once indifferent, began to notice her. A software engineer from the next block praised her for “authentic texture.” Mrs D’Souza dropped by with a smile and advice on packaging. Even Rahul’s tone softened, pride gleaming quietly behind his glasses.
Her kitchen, once a place of loneliness, now echoed with laughter and sizzling soundscapes. She learned Kannada phrases, added chutney pudi to her offerings, and renamed her venture “Ruhi’s Roots.” The city that once seemed alien now unfolded like an unfamiliar melody she had learned to hum along.
One evening, as twilight painted the city purple, Ruhi watched the skyline again. It no longer loomed—it breathed. Behind every high-rise window flickered a story, a solitude, a small dream trying to belong. She realized that cities don’t change people—they reveal the quiet strength within them.
Her phone buzzed—another order. She smiled, dusting her hands with rice flour. In the faint hum of traffic below, she heard not noise, but a rhythm—steady, inclusive, alive.
Ruhi was no longer a stranger in the metropolis; she was a note in its song.
Dr Ritu Kamra Kumar
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