The Woman Who Called Herself Vrishabhavathi

A Metro journey, a disregarded river, and a conversation Bengaluru desperately needed.

There are journeys that end when you reach your destination.

And then there are journeys that continue long after you have stepped off the train.

This is one of them.

Vrishabhavathi 

A Morning Like Any Other

Metro ride

The other day, I was travelling to my office.

Whenever work takes me to the other end of Bengaluru, towards Global Village, there is one companion I never complain about—the Bengaluru Metro.

On most days, it saves me from spending hours in traffic that never seems to end.

That morning was no different.

I boarded the train and found myself standing near the door, holding that familiar steel handle that thousands of commuters hold every single day.

After Majestic, the crowd gradually became thinner.

On the other side, the trains heading towards Whitefield are usually packed like festivals.

The Kengeri side somehow breathes a little easier than Whitefield or the Electronic City side during the morning, but the opposite by evening.

For the first time that morning, I could actually look outside.

I have always enjoyed watching Bengaluru through the Metro windows.

It tells stories that roads never do.

Buildings.

Flyovers.

Apartment towers.

Concrete after concrete.

Every few seconds, a lonely water tank would rise above the rooftops.

It stood there almost like a watchman reminding everyone that water once mattered here.

A few old trees somehow survived between endless blocks of cement.

They looked tired.

Yet they were still standing.

The Stream That Refused to Disappear

Stram that RefusStreamed to disappear

As the train crossed Deepanjali Nagar and headed towards Pattangere, just before the RV College station, my eyes caught sight of something below.

A narrow water channel.

At first glance, it looked exactly like another sewage drain.

Dark water flows through the channel.

Here and there, concrete walls that say, 'This is modern human-built architecture .'

The kind of sight every Bengalurean has sadly become used to.

But as the train moved a little further, I noticed something unusual.

Hidden beneath the filth were natural rocks.

The curves did not look man-made.

The land looked ancient.

Almost as though a real stream was struggling to breathe beneath everything we had built over it.

I found myself wondering...

"How did a natural stream become this?"

Before my thoughts could go any further, I noticed someone standing beside me.

The Woman With Tears in Her Eyes

Tears in her eyes

She was quietly crying.

Not loudly.

Not asking for help.

Just tears flowed as she stared out the window.

There was something about her that felt different.

She carried no laptop bag, which is common in Bangalore metro.

No phone, a must-have for daily life.

No earphones, without which people look like they don't have a job to do.

No hurry.

Her face carried an age that could not be measured in years.

For a few moments, I hesitated.

Then I asked softly,

"Ma'am... are you alright?"

She slowly turned towards me.

Her eyes carried the pain of centuries.

She smiled faintly.

"You noticed."

I looked confused.

"Most people don't."

"Why are you crying?"

She looked outside once again.

Then she said something that completely changed my journey.

"My name is Vrishabhavathi."

I smiled politely.

"That's a beautiful name."

She smiled.

"It wasn't just a name."

"I was once Bengaluru's river."

When a River Began to Speak

When a river began to speak

For a second, I thought I had misunderstood.

She looked at me as though she already knew.

"No... You are not dreaming."

"I have simply come because someone finally looked down from the Metro instead of into a mobile phone."

Silence filled the space between us.

Then she began telling her story.

When Bengaluru Knew How Water Flowed

When Bengaluru knew how water flowed

"I was born near the feet of Basava."

"People now remember the giant Nandi statues."

"Very few remember that I began there as clear flowing water."

She spoke of children playing on her banks.

Women collecting water.

Farmers are waiting for the monsoon.

Birds are nesting beside her.

Fish swimming beneath the surface.

"I was never as mighty as the Ganga or the Cauvery."

"But I gave life to everyone who lived beside me."

She smiled.

"I knew a young city called Bengaluru."

"It was not built with glass."

"It was built with wisdom."

Kempegowda Understood What We Forgot

What we forgot 

Her eyes brightened.

"When Kempegowda dreamed of this city, he understood something today's planners often forget."

"He never fought nature."

"He worked with it."

She spoke about valleys.

Natural streams.

Rainwater.

Hundreds of interconnected lakes.

Overflow channels.

What we now call Raja Kaluves.

"We simply called them home."

She spoke of forests.

Peacocks.

Otters.

Turtles.

Jackals.

Fish.

Countless birds.

"The monsoon had somewhere to rest."

"Groundwater had somewhere to sleep."

"The lakes spoke to each other."

"The rivers breathed."

When Growth Forgot Gratitude

Growth forgot gratitude

Then her smile disappeared.

"People discovered another kind of gold."

Factories.

Industries.

Layouts.

Technology parks.

Flyovers.

"The Silicon City was born."

"I was happy."

"Cities must grow."

"People deserve opportunities."

"I never hated development."

Then she looked directly into my eyes.

"But development forgot gratitude."

"It forgot limits."

"My floodplains became layouts."

"My streams became drains."

"My lakes became real estate."

"Storm-water channels carried sewage."

"Factories emptied poison into my body."

"Every day I carried what nobody else wanted."

She paused.

"Slowly..."

"People stopped calling me a river."

"They called me..."

"Kengeri Mori."

Those two words felt heavier than everything else she had said.

Imagine giving water for centuries...

Only to be remembered as a drain.

The Forgotten Sisters

Forgotten Sisters

She spoke of her sisters, too.

Arkavathi.

Kumudvathi.

The eastern valleys feed Bellandur and Varthur.

"When rivers lose their paths..."

"Lakes lose their purpose."

"Then people wonder why lakes catch fire."

She wasn't blaming anyone.

She was simply remembering.

"The saddest part isn't pollution."

"It is forgetfulness."

"You forgot we were alive."

She Saw Memories. We Saw Buildings.

Memories vs Buildings

Outside the Metro, another apartment tower rushed past.

She pointed.

"A wetland."

Another place.

"A grove."

Another.

"A stream."

Another.

"A nesting ground."

Then she turned towards me.

"You see buildings."

"I still see memories."

The Last Question

Last Question

The announcement interrupted us.

"Next station... Kengeri."

I realised I had crossed the station where I was supposed to get down.

But somehow I didn't care.

I wanted her to continue.

She stood up.

I quickly asked,

"Can we still save you?"

She smiled.

"That is the wrong question."

The doors opened.

Without turning back, she said,

"Ask instead whether you can save yourselves."

"Rivers always find a way."

"It is civilisations that disappear."

The doors closed.

The train moved.

Only then did I realise...

She had never walked out.

She had simply vanished.

The Journey That Never Ended

Journey that never ended

A few minutes later, I finally got down at Kengeri Satellite Town.

I boarded another Metro back towards the office.

The journey lasted only a few minutes.

But my mind was still travelling with her.

Even after reaching work...

Opening my laptop...

Joining meetings...

Her words refused to leave me.

Urbanisation is not the enemy.

Progress is not the enemy.

The enemy is the belief that nature exists only until we need the land beneath it.

Every civilisation believes it has endless time.

Every city believes growth has no limits.

But everything has an expiry.

Even uncontrolled urbanisation.

When rivers die...

Groundwater follows.

When wetlands disappear...

Floods arrive.

When biodiversity vanishes...

The silence that replaces it cannot be engineered back.

By the time we realise what has been lost...

Nature may no longer be waiting for our apology.

Every Time I Cross That Bridge

Every time I cross that bridge

Sometimes I still travel on that Metro route.

Every time the train crosses that narrow channel near Pattangere, I look outside.

Most passengers continue scrolling through their phones.

Some are sleeping.

Some are talking.

I simply look down.

Searching.

Hoping.

Wondering...

Who was that woman?

Was she only my imagination?

Or did Bengaluru's forgotten river finally find someone willing to listen?

Now let me bring a few details on the river ( Infographics)

Rivers of Bengaluru

My  Note

This is a work of magical realism inspired by the history of Bengaluru's rivers, lakes and vanishing wetlands. While the conversation is fictional, the ecological decline of the Vrishabhavathi River and Bengaluru's interconnected water systems is very real. Sometimes, stories can help us hear what facts alone cannot.