In early June, Bengaluru braces for the monsoon, which, in our sorry city, means water-clogged roads and flooding to the point where posh cars in even posher communities float inside subterranean parking garages.
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I thought about this while researching a question: can Bangalore legitimately be called the horticultural capital of India? In my opinion, yes. Sure, other states have signature crops— Maharashtra has grapes and mangoes, Uttar Pradesh has potatoes, Kerala has coconuts, Andhra Pradesh has chillies, Gujarat has cotton, and so it goes. In Bengaluru, however, all these different streams converge. There is a reason why the Indian Institute of Horticultural Research and Indian Council of Agricultural Research are headquartered here.
The Bangalorean obsession with growing plants is not new. In 1760, Hyder Ali, the brilliant military chief who ruled the kingdom of Mysore and stood up to the British, set aside 240 acres that he envisioned as a royal garden along the lines of the Mughal and Persian gardens he admired. Legend has it that Hyder Ali took his young son Tippu to the area. When the child saw a profusion of red roses growing, he spontaneously cried, “Lal Bagh, Lal Bagh,” thus christening it.
Given Hyder Ali and Tipu Sultan’s penchant for plants and trees collected from across the world, Lalbagh soon became a thriving botanical laboratory. Mavalli, where it was located, went on to bear witness to the mushrooming of commercial plant nurseries. Multi-generational agrarian families, often belonging to the Tigalacaste – the Obalappas, the Ramaiahs, the Devappas— all set up seed and plant nurseries, some of which are running to this day.
When Tipu Sultan imported pomegranates from Persia, or when superintendents like John Cameron, and later Gustav Krumbeigel, HC Javaraya, and MH Mari Gowda, introduced exotic French flora and “New World” tubers such as potatoes, they didn’t act alone. Sure, they were visionaries, but the actual planting and grafting work was done by the Tigala nurserymen who worship water and continue their traditions to this day. And thus, as Suresh Jayaram says in his book on Lalbagh, Bangalore became a “global botanical hub.”
These families with an intrinsic knowledge of the earth, soil and plants, patiently coaxed the foreign plants to engage with Bangalore’s soil. They were the original seedbanks, acclimatising varied species into their new home and providing the ingredients now considered staples of South Indian cuisine. There is a conceit in every culture and cuisine that their food is ingredient-specific and built on the taste and terroir of the land. So it is with South Indian food. But what is not talked about is how the tomatoes in the Mysore rasam, the potatoes in our masala dose, and the carrots in our kosambaris were all painstakingly adapted and cultivated by the horticulturists of Bengaluru.
This horticultural magic happens because Mavalli and indeed Bangalore sits on an elevated plateau, roughly 900 meters above sea level, resting on a deep bedrock of nutrient-rich red laterite soil.
What is so special about this soil? Firstly, it drains really well. Second, it is set on a bedrock of granite that gives it a certain girth and character. For people in the wine business, soil drainage and the climate that creates a high brix level (the measure of dissolved solids in a liquid) are important. The higher the brix, the more flavourful a crop is. Bengaluru’s specific soil chemistry offers great natural drainage, and a temperate climate that creates an agricultural sweet spot. Plants don’t grow in a frantic hurry here. The mild nights and warm, filtered sunlight allow for a slow, concentrated ripening process. It produces a higher brix level which results in more flavourful crops: a denser sugar content in fruits and a sharper concentration of volatile oils in herbs and vegetables.
This is why people think of the city as a horticultural hotspot. Throw a coin here and it will sprout leaves, people say. This botanical abundance comes from its soil and its climate: a unique micro-terroir that has been created by geographical elements to be sure, but also cultivated by savvy gardeners over two centuries. Then what happened? If the soil is so well drained, how come our streets clog with the first rains?
The problem is that we have covered Bengaluru’s soil with hard concrete. It is like putting a plastic sheet over the earth. When the rain lashes on our ground, the water collects with no place to go. What is worse is that the rajakaluves, the traditional series of drainage pipes that connect the many lakes of Bangalore have now been silted over, built over, and thus messed with and messed up.
The result is a city that collects water with nowhere to go. And since Bengaluru’s location means that it attracts both the Southwest and the Northeast monsoon, our rainy season is longer than for most other places. It is only because of our poor civic infrastructure that this huge advantage has now become a severe disadvantage. Bangaloreans now find themselves quite literally drowning in rain water.
(Shoba Narayan is Bengaluru-based award-winning author. She is also a freelance contributor who writes about art, food, fashion and travel for a number of publications)
