Bengaluru's long relationship with its 280 lakes

Hindustan Times

17 hours ago

Recently, I saw the premiere of 'My Otter Diary' by acclaimed wildlife filmmaker and National Geographic Fellow, Sugandhi Gadadhar and her producer-husband Rana (Raghunath) Belur. Filmed over five years, the film explores the symbiotic relationship between otters and the river Kaveri. Otters, says Sugandhi, are to the river what tigers are to a jungle: they are apex predators who preserve and enhance the ecosystem that they belong to. The worst time for our lakes was in February 2017 when Bellandur Lake caught on fire, thanks to the large amount of toxic waste released into it (File photo)
The screening was held at Shankar Nag theatre in MG Road and the entire wildlife community was in attendance. Through the film, I got to know the river Kaveri in all her glory. Kaveri looms large in the minds of this city and state. For Kodavas in particular, Kaveri is their home and reigning patron goddess. Which made me wonder, is it because of the river Kaveri that Bangaloreans love their lakes so much? Lots of things fail in civic activism in our city, but stray dogs and lake restoration command passion, witness the rejuvenation of Puttanahalli lake and others. Why do Bangaloreans love their lakes so much?
Architect Naresh Narasimhan has a nifty narrative to explain this. He says, Bengaluru is perhaps the only large city in the world that has developed on a plateau with nary a natural object nearby. Most civilisations were established beside rivers. Ditto for large cities of the world: the river Seine flows through Paris, the Hudson through New York and the Nile through many great African cities. Bengaluru, on the other hand, became a city because it was at the crossroads of trade routes. This is why, says Naresh, the old city area or Pete (pronounced pay-tay) is full of trading communities including Marwaris, Settys and Mudaliars. To protect the Pete, Bengaluru's erstwhile rulers built a kote (ko-tay) or fort. Once Bangalore thrived, the rulers began building thottas or gardens including Lal Bagh and Cubbon Park. In order to water the gardens, they established lakes or keres. This nifty pete-kotte-thotta-kere model of Bangalore's development is something Naresh speaks about often. Bangaloreans love lakes because we built them. They are all man-made with bunds holding the water in, and sluices to connect one to the other.
Civic evangelist V Ravichander quotes the legend of Kempe Gowda as an additional reason. The story goes that when Kempe Gowda decided to establish his dream city on the plateau with hillocks where Bangalore exists today, his mother is supposed to have told him: 'Keregalum kattu, maragalum nadu' or 'Build lakes, plant trees.' Kempe Gowda did just that, building hundreds of lakes and gardens.
By some accounts, Bengaluru used to be a city of a thousand lakes – one crowdsourced initiative put it at 1521 lakes. What is more reasonable is that we used to have some 280 lakes of which only 80 currently remain under the ambit of the Bangalore Bruhat Mahanagara Palike (BBMP). Even calling them lakes is a misnomer. In an evocative 2014 paper by Professor Meera Baindur, titled 'Bangalore Lake story: reflections on the spirit of a place,' she talks about a holy man who used to come and sit under a tree beside a kere to conduct rites and rituals. This tight and daily connection that Bangalore's early people had with the kere in their neighbourhood does not exist anymore. In public presentations and in paper, researcher Rohan D'Souza has stated that a kere refers to an ecosystem rather than a mere water body. It is literally larger than life in the Kannada imagination.
The good news is that Bengaluru's keres are slowly making a comeback, thanks mostly to Resident Welfare Associations (RWAs) that have taken it upon themselves to improve the ecosystem. The worst time for our lakes was in February 2017 when Bellandur Lake caught on fire, thanks to the large amount of toxic waste released into it. Cut to 2022 when the 'Lakeman of India,' a Bangalore resident, Anand Malligavad, helped to restore Kyalasanahalli Kere. As an aside, let me ask if part of the problem is the fact that most of these lakes have long, barely pronounceable names?
Malligavad, even today, continues to be at the forefront of lake restoration. D'Souza documents how government bodies treat water bodies such as Rachenahalli Kere, thus making them accountable. Civic activism has also kept real estate developers away from lakes, not always and not always successfully, but not for nothing either.
What next? As an immigrant to Bangalore, although one who has lived here now for nearly 20 years, I remain fascinated by the hold that these lakes have on the city's collective imagination. But in order for lakes to revive or even survive, people need to have a connection with it that goes beyond just morning walks. Unless people are able to relate to each kere as a living ecosystem that gives them something, why would you want to save it?
(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)