The other day, I met a friend’s daughter, who had just moved out of her parents’ home. She is 30 – smart, ambitious and fun. We were chatting about her Bangalore and my Bangalore. With Valentine’s Day coming up, I made bold and asked the question: where did the city’s singles go to have fun and meet dates? She laughed but proceeded to list a number of places – restaurants, clubs, bars, speakeasies, but the one that stuck, perhaps because I live close to it, was Watson’s. “It’s where we go to dance and have fun,” she said. “Plus it’s a great place to have a drink because it overlooks the trees and greenery of the cantonment.”
I don’t live near the old Watson’s which is near the Kodava Samaja in Vasanth Nagar. I live near the one beside Ulsoor Lake, down the road from the Madras Sappers. It is apt to begin this story here, because if anyone can take credit (or be blamed) for this sleepy “pensioner’s paradise” to also become a “pub city,” it is the army.
During the World Wars, Bengaluru became home to a large number of British and American soldiers as well as European Prisoners of War (POWs). Happily for them, the city was also home to the toddy-tapping Idiga community who had a long tradition of brewing and distilling alcohol. Supply had met demand and the city’s watering holes took root.
Unlike other Southern cities, you could get rum, whiskey and India Pale Ale (IPA) freely in Bangalore. Breweries thrived, usually small and idiosyncratic ones, till a Scotsman named Thomas Leishman clubbed them all together in 1915 to form United Breweries.
“In the days of Prohibition in Bombay and Madras, Bengaluru was a haven for the outstation traveller with a thirst. South Parade and Brigade Road had cosy bars and billiard parlours,” writes Peter Colaco in his fun and funny book, Bangalore: A Century of Tales From City & Cantonment.
This was in the 1940s through the late 1960s, when MG Road was called South Parade. These two roads anchored the Cantonment Wander outside this area, but, Colaco acknowledges, then drinking in public in Bangalore would become a “bifurcated” affair. You had the Colonial clubs where you could have a chota or Patiala peg. Or you could slink into smoke-filled dens in the Pete to furtively ask for a “small” or something with soda.
1986 was a turning point. That year, Hari Khoday whose family made whiskey established the Ramada pub right next to Premiere book store on Church Street.
Spurred by its success, Ashok Sadhwani, whose family dealt in textiles approached the young Vijay Mallya whose father, Vittal, helmed United Breweries and said that they would together form a classy pub. In 1986, it opened its doors, named aptly as The Pub.
How was it different? Well, women came in, for one thing. They drank, socialised and felt safe enough to let down their braided hair, quite literally. During the 1980s and 1990s, pubs mushroomed to over 150 in number. Bangaloreans of this era recall many of their old watering holes, now shuttered, that set the tone. Their names had undertones of mystery and drama: Downtown, Underground, Pecos, Knock Out, Oaken Cask, Take Five, Windsor, Tavern at the Inn, Time & Again, UFO, Black Cadillac, 1910, Night Watchman, Pub World, Styx, Cyber Pub, Spinn, Zero-G, Purple Haze, Fuga, I bar, Urban Edge and more.
Drinking in these places didn’t have the seedy connotation that it did in other Indian cities. The food was good, the music cheerful, and everyone was welcome. Each pub had its regulars, who came in after work to chitchat, have food, and connect with the community.
Soon, running these pubs became big businesses so politicians stepped in, with successive chief ministers putting their stamp on excise duties and permits. Managing the politicians required deep pockets and connections.
The two families who dominated the liquor business were quixotic. The Khodays, devout disciples of Jiddu Krishnamurti donated 150 acres to what would become the Valley School. The Mallyas too, had a connection to a Bangalore school where my children studied: Mallya Aditi International School.
Slowly, the city’s pubs earned their reputation as what sociologist Ray Oldenburg called the “third place,” to describe social environments that went beyond home and workplace. This transition was not always smooth. Old-timers feared the westernisation of the city’s youth. Periodically, including as late as 2021, night curfews were enforced where pubs and liquor establishments were forced to shut shop by 11.30.
Still Bengaluru became the place where you could get hot fudge sundaes at Corner House, milkshakes at Macs, and potato fries along with a chilled beer at any of the pubs.
Today pubs have given way to bars, speakeasies, and microbreweries. And yet, if you know where to look, you can still find neighbourhood pubs with charming names like Iravatha, New Mohan and Abhiman. As for me, much like my young friend, I go to Watson’s when I want to let my hair down.
(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.)
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