Reflections
Cities like Bengaluru, now power centers and mega-consumers of nature’s bounty, have grown increasingly estranged from the forests, mountains, and rivers that sustain life. Modernity, economic productivity, and technology have gripped urban lives, making people purely materialistic. This materialism manifests as an endless pursuit of wealth and possessions, accompanied by a diminished sense of connection to forests, mountains, and rivers.
Consequently, citizens have been reduced to mere consumers, trapped in servitude to materialism rather than being rooted in the land and rivers that nourish them. As consumers, they are now busily engaged in the destruction of the proverbial golden goose—the very land and rivers that sustains them.
The collapse of the Vrishabhavathi and Arkavathi rivers stands as a stark example of this alienation from nature and the destruction of the golden goose. These rivers, once meandering freely through valleys and mountains, flowed undammed, their waters clear and life-giving. As they flowed, they nurtured both humans and wildlife, sustaining entire ecosystems.
In this materialistic world, where man sees himself as separate from—and superior to—nature, rivers like the Vrishabhavathi, Kaveri, and Ganga are no longer seen as sacred lifelines with intrinsic value but as mere resources—to be exploited, polluted, and controlled. As long as this mindset prevails, the Vrishabhavathi will continue to flow with poison. The Cauvery will follow. The Ganga will follow. One by one, every river we once revered will be lost.
Yet, the question is not whether a lost river can be revived or a polluted river rejuvenated. It is, rather, about healing. Can the river heal? I believe she can. The river can heal if we simply leave her alone. She can heal if we recognize her intrinsic right to exist and flow freely, as is her nature.
- Nirmala Gowda
Vrishabhavati river in 1965 near PES college. Photo by Jaqueline colaco
Vrishabhavathi, a tributary of the Arkavathi River, was once a river of significance. Beginning as a sacred spring, it was seasonal but vital. The community relied on it for irrigation, pottery, and daily life. In the 1970s and ’80s, families picnicked along its banks, children played, and birds waded in its shallows. It may not have been grand, but it was a river that mattered.
Today, the Vrishabhavathi flows unseen, unnoticed, except for its stench. From the Purple Line metro, one can glimpse its dark, sluggish form, burdened by the waste it carries. But no one looks. No one lingers. Now, it is remembered as Kengeri Mori, a drain for the city’s waste, no longer a river with the right to live and support life.
And that is the real loss.
We don’t just forget rivers; we erase their identity, their role, and their right to exist. And still, we act as though the river’s suffering doesn’t concern us. We turn away, assuming we have nothing to lose. The pollution that suffocates her doesn’t disappear; it contaminates the soil, affecting crops, livestock, and even the milk that reaches our homes. Though our water now comes from distant sources, piped and treated, we overlook how the toxins in the river still affect the very groundwater we rely on.
The COVID-19 lockdown showed us something important: when the polluting industries slowed, Vrishabhavathi began to heal. For a brief moment, she ran clearer at some locations, proving that recovery is possible if given the chance.
This graphic novel preserves the stories of what once was and what has been lost. As we search for water farther away, we destroy rivers like the Kaveri, Netravathi, and the Western Ghats landscape, refusing to see what we have already lost. These pages hold memories of what was, what changed, and what was taken.
But perhaps, more than anything, they hold a question.
How much longer must this river fight to exist, not as a drain, but as a living river? Even burdened, she is not gone. And neither is the hope of restoration, if we finally recognize her right to be.
- Madhuri Mandava
