Ulsoor Lake

Once upon a time, in the heart of southern India, there lived a city unlike any other. Its streets carried the fragrance of rain-kissed earth, and its people awoke each morning to the gentle murmur of water. This was Bengaluru—not the sprawling metropolis of glass and steel we know today, but the City of Lakes, where water was both lifeblood and lullaby. Every neighborhood had a lake—clear, vast, and alive. They were not accidental pools of rain, but masterpieces of human foresight, built centuries ago by kings and farmers who understood that to survive, one must live in harmony with water. These lakes drank in the monsoons, stored their generosity, and fed wells and fields during summer’s thirst. Around them bloomed groves of tamarind and mango, where herons nested and fishermen cast their nets at dawn. Children raced along the bunds, their laughter mingling with the calls of kingfishers, while lotuses floated like pink stars across the mirrored waters. The lakes were not just water—they were community, culture, and continuity. To live in Bengaluru was to live with water at your doorstep. But time is a restless tide, and the city began to change. First came the factories, belching smoke into the skies. Then came the roads, laid like scars across the earth. Concrete towers rose where once reeds swayed. The lakes—those patient guardians of the land—were now seen not as treasures but as obstacles. One by one, they were filled, encroached upon, and forgotten, their waters choked with sewage and neglect. The air that once carried the song of cuckoos now roared with the horns of traffic. Corruption greased the wheels of this transformation. Promises were broken, land was sold, and the lakes vanished into the pages of dusty archives. The “City of Lakes” became a city gasping for breath, its summers harsher, its rains angrier, its people thirstier. And yet, in this tale of loss, one sentinel still stands. In the heart of the city stretches Ulsoor Lake, a shimmering silver sheet guarded by time and by men in olive green—the Indian Army. Where others surrendered to greed, Ulsoor endures, its waters still catching the glow of sunrise, still cradling islands where cormorants rest their wings. The breeze here carries a softness long forgotten, whispering stories of a Bengaluru that once was. Walk along its banks, and you feel it: a sigh of relief, a fleeting escape from the city’s chaos. You see lovers leaning against railings, sharing quiet moments. You hear the dip of oars as boats glide across the water. You spot children wide-eyed at the sight of turtles surfacing, while joggers breathe in the rare freshness of morning air. Ulsoor is more than a lake—it is memory made liquid. It is the voice of the city’s ancestors saying, “We once built with care, we once lived with wisdom.” And perhaps it is also a promise. For if one lake can survive, maybe others can return. If Bengaluru remembers the song of water, maybe the City of Lakes can rise again—not just in name, but in spirit. For now, Ulsoor waits patiently, its ripples carrying both sorrow and hope. It is the last song of the lakes, and the first note of a future yet to be written.