Opinion Punctuality optional, patience mandatory: A commuter’s guide to the potholes of Bengaluru
Everyone has their own pothole coping mechanism. Some people have created live maps of the city’s most dangerous roads, while I treat some as old friends, others as celebrities and the most dangerous of all – the unpredictable strangers
Everyone has their own pothole coping mechanism. Some people have created live maps of the city’s most dangerous roads where people can upload reports and call attention to unsafe stretches (Express Archive/Amit Chakravarty) For the past decade, commuting in Bengaluru has never been merely about travelling from point A to point B. It has evolved into a meticulously orchestrated daily exercise: Mapping the route, calculating traffic snarls, and leaving hours early in a vain attempt to arrive on time, only to discover that no strategy can shield you from the city’s true nemesis: Potholes. The moment you think you’ve mastered the rhythm of the city, the ever-present potholes, now emblematic of Bengaluru roads, turn even the most familiar route into an unpredictable situation. They serve as a reminder to every commuter that in this city, punctuality is optional, patience is mandatory, and reaching your destination is never a certainty.
Over 25 years of navigating Bengaluru’s streets, I’ve learned something crucial: Potholes are not all the same. Each one has a personality, a story, and a way of making you feel, sometimes annoyed, sometimes helpless, but always alert.
There are “familiar potholes”, the ones I know like old friends, though not the kind you’d wish to see every day. They’ve been around forever, ignored by the public, neglected by the government and remain invisible to anyone but those who traverse them constantly. They are familiar because they refuse to vanish, having existed long enough to fade into the city’s background hum, almost as if silently mocking me.
Then there are the potholes that suddenly become famous, which I’d like to call “celebrity potholes”. These are the ones that attract attention from both the public and the government, either because an accident or two have occurred at this location or because they reside in the busiest, most strategic parts of the city, contributing to unruly traffic. I remember the commotion near Cubbon Park metro station in September, when the Deputy CM personally came to inspect the potholes, promising repairs with a hard deadline of October 31. Overnight, these once-ignored dents in the road were popularised, featured in news articles and Instagram posts. Suddenly, their existence mattered, not because of commuters like me, but because someone was finally watching.
And finally, there are the “rainy-day” potholes, the unpredictable, treacherous surprises that appear overnight, filled with water and danger, waiting to test your luck. You ride along cautiously, never sure if the next puddle will swallow the wheel of your car or just cause a harmless splash. You never know what damage they might do or whether you’ll end up making it to your destination unscathed. Every commute becomes a test of luck, patience, and your reflexes.
What worries me most, though, is that the situation keeps getting worse. As a commuter, I can’t help but fear the next accident waiting to happen or the next set of rains in the city that will worsen an already battered set of roads. Untreated, “alive” potholes are hazards for autos and two-wheelers alike, and they’ve already caused more than enough damage.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to romanticise the chaos or justify it with these categories of mine. Everyone has their own pothole coping mechanism. Some people have created live maps of the city’s most dangerous roads where people can upload reports and call attention to unsafe stretches. Or they continue to rant about it to their fellow commuters. For me, this categorisation is a way to make sense of the madness, to tell myself, albeit sarcastically, that maybe, someday, things might get better. And maybe, one day, I might even look back at these potholes with a strange sense of nostalgia.
The writer is a Bengaluru-based lawyer and is currently with Vidhi Centre for Legal Policy
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