When I was growing up, Bangalore (or Bengaluru, as it is properly called) was known as the Garden City—a city of lush greenery, marked by canopies over any stretches of asphalt. But as Bengaluru transformed from a small, sleepy city to a booming IT hub in under two decades, this epithet became fairly hollow. Bit by bit, the trees fell, as other barren expanses of land towards the outskirts were swallowed by the growing metropolis. Lost foliage, however, is only half of the story. If the city’s land could cry out a history of all it has lost, it would probably begin with the tale of its lakes. After all, Bengaluru was also known as the City of Lakes.
The story of Bengaluru’s lakes begins before human settlement. Long before the city’s founder, Kempegowda, laid the roads of what would become a city home to millions, Bengaluru’s natural history was shaped by its topography. The region’s terrain can roughly be divided into three valleys—Vrishabhavati, Hebbal, and Koramangala-Challaghatta. Each valley in turn contains more undulating land, forming natural networks of water bodies. And so although it may no longer seem like it, Bengaluru is, in the absence of human habitation, a land of lakes and canals.
But topography didn’t stand a chance against urbanisation. In 1897, the district of Bangalore (as it was named at the time) housed over 2300 water bodies; this number has now dwindled to a meagre 205 (1). And it isn’t as if the water bodies that survived have it easy. 90% of Bengaluru’s lakes today are sewage-fed, while a staggering 98% are encroached upon (2). There’s also the fates of lakes like Varthur and Bellandur. Both have rich histories, believed to have been constructed by rulers of the Western Ganga dynasty over a thousand years ago. These lakes, each a part of the greater system of water bodies in the Koramangala-Challaghatta valley, once supported the several village communities that lived around them.
In recent years, however, Varthur and Bellandur have gained fame for a far more tragic reason. Both lakes have had a habit of catching on fire. As odd as this might sound, the levels of pollution the lakes are subject to—one study found that methane levels in Bellandur Lake were over 1000 times those of less polluted lakes (3)—mean that every now and then, when given the right spark, the lakes burn. And when not burning, they’ve spewed toxic foam—white, snow-like foam born from the churning of that same polluted water. So it was that one day in 2017, the toxic foam of Varthur Lake rose until it was carried by the wind, and local residents were treated to a bit of ‘snowfall’ in the early days of monsoon (4).
In asking how things got here, it’s easy to blame the city’s rapid growth over the past two decades. After all, Varthur and Bellandur weren’t always like this; both lakes used to be relatively untouched, far from the city’s urban centre and subject only to the needs of local fishermen and farmers. But as the city grew—spreading its arms further and further away from its once-quaint centre—the concrete masses of urban settlement crept ever closer to those waters. Apartments came up on what were once wetlands and natural canals; untreated sewage flowed unchecked into the lakes. And as time went on, the lakes were incrementally pushed towards the slow death march they now find themselves in.
At least, that’s one part of the story. While this account is adequate vis-à-vis Varthur and Bellandur, it is deeply incomplete as a more general history of Bengaluru’s lakes. Because out of the water bodies the city lost between 1897 and 2020 (upwards of two thousand), only a handful saw their demise after the turn of the century. In fact, most of Bengaluru’s water bodies died far before the city even began turning into the crowded metropolis it is today.
The ugly truth about Bengaluru and its lakes is that many of its pre-metropolitan landmarks are built where lakes once stood. So while the long-time resident of the city will lament the deaths of lakes like Varthur and Bellandur, they will often do so without realising just how much of the city they love rests on dry lakebed. Majestic Bus Station, the living, breathing heart of the city’s vast public bus system, was once Dharmambudhi Lake, a large water body built by the Hoysala dynasty and renovated by the city’s founder Kempegowda. (Incidentally, Majestic Bus Station has now been renamed Kempegowda Bus Station.) Karnataka Golf Association, one of the city’s two old golf clubs, is built on the dry bed of Challaghatta Lake. Kanteerava Stadium, right at the heart of the city, was Sampangi Lake—once a major source of Bengaluru’s water, and the source of livelihood for an entire community of horticulturists.
If I’m honest, a lot of my own experiences growing up in the city reflect the same pattern. I live right at the edge of a locality named S.T. Bed. It’s a lazy, tree-covered area of moderate affluence that is quite popular with many young professionals. But S.T. Bed is—you guessed it—a lake bed. (The ‘S.T.’ stands for ‘Srinivagilu Tank’, the name of the now-deceased water body; one wonders whether the acronym is used to cushion the truth.) So every now and again, when monsoons hit hard, the entire area floods, with sewage water added to the mix on a couple of occasions. But oddly, each time I rolled up my pants to wade through the silty water that had made its way up to my house, it never struck me that a lakebed will, like a lake, fill up when it rains.
Flooding is one of the surest signs of Bengaluru’s environmental heritage. After all, we can build all the apartments we want, but no one can overcome the combination of gravity, topography, and rain. It’s no surprise that many of the places I’ve mentioned so far are prone to flooding: Majestic Bus Station, Kanteerava Stadium, Karnataka Golf Association, large parts of the Bellandur area—the list goes on. Yet construction on dry lake beds in the city never abates. As I write this, a towering luxury apartment rises half a kilometre away from me, in the last undeveloped vestiges of Srinivagilu Tank’s dry bed. In a few years, the apartment will be fully occupied. And when the monsoon hits, and its basement fills with rainwater, another set of urban professionals will be sure to wonder why their area floods so often.
The irony is that at the same time, the city is on its way towards running out of water. Groundwater levels continue to plummet, as bore-wells suck the land dry. The state of the ever-shrinking wetlands of the area, combined with the steady march of concrete over natural terrain, means that those groundwater levels struggle to replenish. Water tankers are a constant sight, ferrying water—often illegally—to parched areas. And one by one, reports emerge predicting that Bengaluru will completely run out of water in the coming decade or two (5).
That a city is running out of water after killing its lakes is no coincidence. Lakes and the wetlands surrounding them are vital to the maintenance of their regions’ water levels; they play a crucial role in aiding water purification and recharging groundwater. This is especially important for a city like Bengaluru, which does not sit on the banks of any freshwater source. On losing its lakes, Bengaluru was bound to start struggling for water.
Previous rulers certainly recognised how important the lakes were to the land. Many lakes in the city are at least partially man-made, and date back several hundred years; these include Bellandur and Agara lake (built by the Ganga dynasty), Pattandur (built by the Cholas), and Vibhutipura and Dharmambudhi (originally built by the Hoysalas). Records from around 870 CE describe the upkeep of Agara lake, and the accordance of agricultural grants to those who maintained it. The Hoysalas even had a classification system for water bodies based on their size, from ‘katte’ (for small pools) to ‘samudre’ (for large lakes). And after Kempegowda founded the city proper (in 1537 CE), he and the rulers that followed him continued to build lakes, tanks and wells throughout the city—presumably out of a recognition of their ecological importance. These attitudes towards urban water bodies passed on from ruler to ruler over the centuries, even when the British gained control of the city in 1799.
But in 1895, the colonial government introduced piped water from Hesaraghatta, a recently constructed lake north of the city. This was not without cause; Bengaluru had seen water shortages in previous years, on account of failed monsoons and growing demands. Establishing a new, dedicated source of water for the city would, in theory, prevent such shortages from reoccurring. In reality, however, the introduction of piped water to the city would leave it thirsty for the decades to come. Because once the city’s growing demands were met by Hesaraghatta’s water, it never returned to complete self-sufficiency. The availability of Hesaraghatta water meant that lakes within the city became expendable—so lakes like Sampangi and Dharmambudhi were either drained or neglected, until they became playgrounds or empty fields. And when Bengaluru grew still further, and the Hesaraghatta water was no longer enough, the process was repeated: a reservoir was built to the city’s west, to supply the future metropolis even more water.
India gained independence from the British 14 years later, but nothing changed for Bengaluru’s lakes. The independent local government continued the ways of its colonial predecessor, draining and neglecting the city’s water bodies. Finally, in 1974, when the city’s growth meant that another increase in water supply was required, the government again turned its sights away from Bengaluru. It looked towards the Cauvery, a large river roughly 100 kilometres away. Today, Bengaluru gets almost all of its water from the Cauvery—around 1.45 billion litres per day. And so having constantly outsourced its water needs, the city has managed to treat its water bodies and wetlands with little regard, killing them with scant regret. In doing so, Bengaluru only further undermines its own ecological foundations, pushing it closer and closer to the brink of drought.
Which brings us to where Bengaluru stands today, its groundwater depleting and population growing. The likelihood of the metropolis grinding to a halt overnight on account of water troubles is rather low. After all, the city will keep finding more sources to pull water in from; it has enough money to do so. But fighting the basic effects of ecology can be expensive—tankers don’t deliver water for free, pipelines don’t just build themselves—meaning that it is foolish to think Bengaluru will never pay the price for its ecological missteps. It may be a slow, gruelling process, but the city decaying on account of its water and water body problems is far from the realm of impossibility. And until something is done about Bengaluru’s lakes, we are likely inching towards that future.
None of this is to say that there have been no attempts to save what’s left of Bengaluru’s lakes. Some of the larger water bodies in the city—such as Agara lake and Ulsoor lake, to name just two—have been subject to large-scale restoration attempts by the government. There are also plenty of stories of successful lake revival initiatives led by civil society, often in partnership with the municipal corporation. So in a sense, not all hope is lost—Bengaluru may yet preserve some of its water bodies. But at the same time, the fact remains that a city which has completely outsourced its water supply is unlikely to treasure its lakes and wetlands as more than just aesthetic embellishments.
So at least for now, it appears that the curtains have been drawn on the life of Bengaluru as the City of Lakes. Here’s hoping I’m wrong.
Most historical information in this piece is taken from Harini Nagendra’s Nature in the City, a seminal book on Bengaluru’s environmental history. For more on Bengaluru’s lakes, be sure to check out Nature in the City, as well as the work of researchers such as Dr. Nagendra (of Azim Premji University) and Dr. T.V. Ramachandra (of the Indian Institute of Science), to name just a couple.
- The current figure comes from a recent order by the BBMP (Bengaluru’s municipal corporation).
- Cited from this study conducted by researchers at the Indian Institute of Science.
- See this article for more on the study.
- See this article for more on when Varthur’s foam took to the streets.
- Reports include those by the NITI Aayog and the BBC.
This article provides a great overview of such efforts.
Gaurav Kamath is a staff writer at ALMA MAG. He hopes his degree in philosophy will get him more than a job at McDonald’s, but that is still a working hypothesis.
