What have I become?

By Apeksha Narayan

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As I sit here with myself, I ask, what do I really know of who I am now? What have I become? Was this always the life chosen for me, or was it simply imposed, slowly, quietly, until I forgot I could be anything else?

When I look back, far back, and even at the uncomfortable present, I am flooded with questions that have no clear answers. They say I have always had a market-driven soul. From the time of Kempegowda to now, I am told that commerce has been etched into my bones, that trade and opportunity were my destiny. That I was built, designed, even for accumulation. For movement. For profit. For growth without pause.

They praise me for this. They revere me. They call me the land of opportunity, the city of startups, the safe ground where ambitions are planted with hope that they will grow. They thank me for employment, for dreams that found a beginning here. But I wonder, has anyone ever asked if I was ready to carry all of this?

Has the government, for all these years, truly held space for the people who arrived with faith in me? Now, I am not denying that many succeed. I see them every day, thriving, climbing, celebrating. But my worry lingers with those who did not. Those whose dreams slipped quietly through the cracks. Where did they go? What became of them?

Were they pushed into invisible corners where exploitation waits patiently? Did the promises I was associated with become burdens instead? Did I betray them, or was I simply never capable of holding everyone I invited in?

Ambition has always found its way to me. Young dreams, old hopes, tired perseverance, people come carrying everything they have. And I, having seen faces from across the country and across the world, must admit something painful: I have not been enough. I have failed many of them.

I could not give them homes. I could not give them roads that don’t break their backs or spirits. I stretched myself thin, expanding endlessly, swallowing villages whole, mistaking physical growth for progress. I kept growing outward while forgetting to grow inward.

What confuses me most, what truly escapes my comprehension, is the anger in the name of language. Why must belonging be guarded so violently? Why am I being torn apart by words meant to connect? Why can I not remain plural, porous, welcoming?

I do not want to be restricted. I do not want to choose who deserves me. I want to be a place where people arrive and exhale. Where languages coexist without suspicion. Where the differences are not treated as a threat.

Sometimes it hurts when people say they don’t feel like they belong to me. I won’t lie. But I tell myself, perhaps they, like me, are also experiencing an identity crisis. Perhaps we are all searching for something stable to hold on to. That thought comforts me, briefly. I even laugh at it sometimes, a tired laugh.

They often say something kind about me, that my weather is beautiful. I suppose it is. Better than many other cities, they say. Though they forget to mention my mood swings. I am unpredictable, emotional, and temperamental. And today, at twelve noon, under this sharp sun, I feel exposed enough to question myself aloud.

If it were evening, if there were a cool breeze brushing against me, I might have written something gentler. Something nostalgic. Something about trees and memories and quiet streets. But today, I feel heavy. I feel like confronting myself.

Once, they called me the Garden City. Now, some call me the Garbage City. I carry that transformation like a wound. I grapple constantly with who I was versus who I am forced to be. I grew too fast. I consumed too much. I mistook expansion for evolution.

Sometimes I fear I will grow so large that I will begin to swallow even the tier-two cities around me, laughable, perhaps, but also terrifying. Growth without reflection is a kind of hunger that never ends.

I am Bengaluru. And I am tired of pretending I am okay.

I am conflicted, overstretched, and unsure of my purpose beyond productivity. I carry dreams and disappointments in equal measure. I want to be kinder. I want to be more welcoming. I want to remember myself.

But for now, all I can do is sit with these questions and hope that being honest about my fractures might still mean I am alive.