I’d seen those Instagram reels whispering dramatically: “You’ll miss the UAE once you leave…” and honestly? I used to roll my eyes. Not me. I’m an India person. I thought I’d revel in Bangalore – the weather, the food, the nostalgic chaos. I was ready for filter coffee mornings, breezy evenings, and a wholesome “back to my roots” montage.
But boy… was I wrong.
Because Bangalore 2025 is not the Bangalore I remember. It feels like the city is held together by duct tape, potholes, and collective frustration. The traffic isn’t traffic anymore – it’s a personality trait. Google Maps said 20 minutes. Reality? One Netflix episode, two therapy sessions, and three new grey hairs.
And here’s the kicker: the chaos isn’t courtesy of some anpad jaahils. Nope. The people behind the madness are the educated lot. The engineers, IT professionals, MBA grads, the very people who should know better. But give them a car and suddenly all that education flies right out the window… usually alongside their spit. Because why bother with dustbins when your car window opens, right?
Lines? Nonexistent. If there’s a queue, someone will cut it. If there’s a rule, someone will break it. If there’s a red light, it’s a polite suggestion at best. Courtesy has packed up and moved out, leaving only impatience and rage behind.
Case in point: I took my toddler on the metro. From Tin Factory all the way to almost Banashankari, not one person in the ladies’ compartment thought of getting up to offer a seat. Not one. Everyone was too busy pretending to scroll, stare into space, or simply act like common decency was someone else’s job. That was the moment it hit me, frustration here has calcified into indifference.
And don’t even get me started on the airport. Flying out with Air Arabia was its own scam saga. Strollers are allowed free if they’re gate-checked –fact. I gate-checked mine. Yet the staff took it, weighed it, and added it to my luggage. My bags were 57 kilos, allowance 60, all fine. But suddenly, with the stroller, I was “overweight” by 2 kg. Their solution? After some arguing, “ok, pay for one kilo atleast.” One kilo. Out of 2. Just like that. Extracting money, plain and simple. Theatrics, arguments, then a sudden “compromise” ! Like they were doing me a favor. It was insulting, opportunistic, and exactly the kind of nonsense that makes you want to scream: is anyone here even accountable?
No wonder people don’t even want to step out. The default mode here is exhaustion. Everyone looks perpetually angry and about two honks away from losing it. And honestly, who can blame them? After paying ridiculous taxes, the “reward” is crater-sized potholes, erratic drivers, and infrastructure that feels like it’s giving up on life.
As a new driver, the experience was… horrendous. Every ride was like being thrown into a live-action video game where survival was optional. Between two-wheelers that appear out of nowhere, autos that cut across like it’s Fast & Furious: Indiranagar Drift, and SUVs that treat lanes like suggestions, my nerves were fried. Forget defensive driving, this was trauma driving.
And the irony? These same people, the spitters, the line-cutters, the honk-happy road warriors , the moment they move to the UAE, they transform into model citizens. Seatbelts on, lanes respected, no spitting, no cutting, no chaos. Because suddenly the rules do matter. When breaking them means fines that can burn bigger holes in your pocket than Bangalore potholes ever could. So it’s not that they can’t behave. They just… don’t want to here.
And that’s the real tragedy. People carry this entitled attitude: “It’s our country, we can do whatever we want.” And so they do. Cut lines, honk incessantly, ignore basic courtesy, because why not? It’s ours. And everyone else be damned.
Sure, the food is still great. Filter coffee still hits. Masala dosa is still gold. The weather is still kinder than the desert sun. But honestly? None of it could make up for the sheer exhaustion of just being outside.
So yes, Instagram was right. I did miss the UAE. I missed the order, the efficiency, the silence of roads that aren’t trying to swallow me whole.
Bangalore gave me drama, alright. Just not the kind I signed up for. And yet… despite swearing I’d never come back, despite every honk, pothole, and scam, there’s a tiny pang of nostalgia as I leave. You can’t help but hope that next time, maybe, just maybe, it’ll be better.
