A love letter to my neighbourhood | Bengaluru News
By Dhwani DesaiA letter of deep gratitudeDear Jayanagar,I came to you in 1976, as a newly married woman. Back then, you were so open that one could see Vidhana Soudha from your streets. You gave me space, calm and a sense of belonging. In those days, shopping meant trips to Brigade Road. And yet, I only felt samadhana — true peace — when I returned to you. Today, I don’t need to leave you at all. Everything I need is close by. Yes, independent houses have made way for apartments and malls. Yes, we’ve lost green cover. But you are still greener than most parts of the city. You don’t flood; you don’t run out of water — you are proof of what thoughtful planning can do. Bengaluru may no longer be the garden city it once was, but with you, I still catch glimpses of that past. To me, you remain the best place to live.Bharati Vishnuvardhan, actorA letter to a place I argue with, but can’t leaveDear Indiranagar,I’ve lived with you for 38 years. Once, we shared a wall with a farm. I watched vegetables being harvested from my window, and sometimes they found their way into my hands. That was the Indiranagar of my childhood. Half your plots were empty. Streets were lined with trees. Buildings were no taller than two storeys. We played cricket, cycled and roller-skated on the roads — even on 100 Feet Road. It feels impossible to imagine that now. You changed quickly in the early 2000s. Empty plots became houses, and houses became restaurants, pubs and cafés. The noise grew louder. Parking became a daily battle. And yet, I stay. I complain, but I also benefit. I travel often, but when I’m in Bengaluru, I rarely leave you. I enjoy the food, the convenience, the energy — even as I miss the quiet. You and I live in a constant contradiction. But somehow, we’ve learnt to coexist.Ricky Kej, Grammy Award winning musicianA letter to the place that raised meDear Malleswaram,I was born to you — to your wide roads on Mahakavi Kuvempu Road, shaded by gulmohars that softened the sun and painted the streets with light and shadow. You smelled of crisp mornings and carried a quiet calm, even with the market buzzing nearby. You taught me community before the world called it networking. Neighbours knew each other by name. During festivals, we walked from house to house with arishina-kumkuma. That was our social media. Saturdays meant temple visits, Sundays meant grocery runs with my father, stopping by relatives on the way back. Shopkeepers called me over, pressed candies into my hands, and made me feel safe. I learnt how to live by watching my parents live — how to care, how to connect, how to respect people, animals and nature. I had to leave you a year ago. You grew busier, more commercial, less forgiving. Cars blocked our gate, and the charm slowly slipped away. I wish I could rewind time. But no matter where I go, you remain my first home — and always will.Sudha Rani, ActorA letter to a place that grew faster than one could imagineDear Whitefield,When we returned from the UK in 1973, you were all farms and open skies. We grew vegetables, coconut and avocado trees, and even raised poultry. You were quiet, spacious, and held a close-knit community — many of them Anglo-Indian families who looked out for one another.Recreation meant the Whitefield Club. Shopping meant planning a trip into town. I could leave my children with neighbours on nearby farms without a second thought — that’s how deeply we trusted each other. Beyond the Marathahalli bridge, there were only green fields. Then came the tech parks, and everything changed. That was the beginning of a new version of you. You were considered far then, and you’re considered far now — some things never change. I miss the community we once had, but I also know progress doesn’t come without loss. Not all change is bad. The local government school, now offering free education in Kannada and English, is proof of that. Despite everything, I can’t imagine living anywhere else. You are home — and always have been.Arundhati Raja, actor-director, founder of JagritiA letter to an unchanging foundationDear Basavanagudi,I know you like the back of my hand. There was a time when thinking of Bengaluru meant thinking of you — a place where people lived together in harmony, beyond caste or creed. You were truly sarvajanangada shanthiya thota. You had everything we needed. Schools that shaped minds. Parks that healed bodies and spirits. Doctors we trusted. And Gandhi Bazar — not just for shopping, but for conversations over plates of dosey at Vidyarthi Bhavan and Geetha Restaurant. You still stand tall with your trees, holding on to your green cover despite the city pressing in. People say you’ve changed. I don’t agree. Your foundation remains strong. It is the houses that have changed, the people who have changed — and perhaps their feelings too. I cannot forget the lanes where we played, laughed and celebrated festivals together. I only hope the next generation learns to love you gently, the way we once did.Srinath, actor
