Bengaluru, oh Bengaluru — if cities had souls, yours would be that of an old friend who once laughed easily... but today barely musters a smile.
I remember you in your prime, when Basavanagudi smelled like freshly brewed filter coffee and RR Nagar still had skies where the stars weren’t shy.
But blink, and suddenly, I find myself standing in a city that feels like a stranger, wrapped in dust, honking into the void, and somehow gasping for breath — both literally and metaphorically.
Oh, life here used to be a melody, a perfect blend of old-world charm and modern dreams. One moment, you’re cruising through shaded avenues, the wind ruffling your hair. Next, you're trapped in an unending traffic jam, your car coated in a fine layer of neglect — a silent testament to the trees we sacrificed for "development."
The air is no longer the soft embrace it used to be; it stings, it chokes, and it reminds you that our homes now have an instruction manual—
Step 1: Buy an air purifier
Step 2: Pretend this is normal
Step 3: Pray that you wake up the next day!
Ah, Bengaluru’s lakes — the jewels of a city that once understood the poetry of water. There was a time when they mirrored the sky, cradled migratory birds, and carried the whispers of early morning walkers.
But blink, and now they tell a different story.
One of frothing toxicity, encroachment, and neglect. Bellandur Lake foams like a science experiment gone horribly wrong, Ulsoor Lake gasps under the weight of pollution, and the once-pristine Sankey Tank now watches helplessly as concrete jungles claw at its edges.
We were a city of interconnected water bodies, an ecosystem that knew how to breathe. But now? We drown in our own making, watching helplessly as lakes turn into real estate, rivers into gutters, and rain into an annual disaster event rather than a blessing.
And speaking of vanishing acts — remember when we had something called civic sense?
Back when a stranger’s smile wasn’t suspicious and footpaths weren’t battlegrounds of garbage, gutkha stains, and abandoned dreams?
There was a time when you could trust a bus stop to be just that — a stop for buses, not a warzone of spit bombs and apathy.
But here we are, dodging bad habits like they’re raindrops in a monsoon that never ends.
Somewhere along the way, the spirit of Bengaluru — the kindness, the camaraderie, the small courtesies that once defined us — got lost in the noise. The Swalpa Adjust Maadkoli mindset is just gone, and with good reason! Everyone's frustrated with one thing or another.
Then, the economy — the double-edged sword.
Yes, Bengaluru is still the Silicon Valley of India, the land of opportunities, but it now feels like a city that thrives on ambition but forgets to nurture its people.
Salaries grow, but so does rent, and while the skyline reaches higher, the quality of life seems to sink lower.
For many, the dream of making it big here now comes with a bitter aftertaste of burnout, congestion, and the quiet ache of missing the Bengaluru that once was.
So, when did we let it all slip?
When did development become a euphemism for erasure?
The skyscrapers may rise, the flyovers may stretch, and land prices may shoot through the roof, but what good is a city without its soul?
We’ve paved over nostalgia, uprooted warmth, and replaced it with steel, glass, and a lingering sense of loss.
A city, like a person, isn’t just defined by its achievements but by the quiet moments it offers — the ones we no longer seem to have time for.
But, maybe a second chance?
And maybe, just maybe, if we open our eyes a little wider, care a little deeper, and fight a little harder, we might just catch a glimpse of the Bengaluru we refuse to let slip away...
If we are careful, we can just blink our eyes and not see it fade away.
With regards,
Adarsh Benakappa Basavaraj,
Your Bengaluru nostalgist and reluctant traffic warrior
