The Pothole's Cruel Hand: How Bengaluru's Neglected Roads Continue to Steal Futures

It was, you could say, just another Monday night. A husband and wife, Sridhar and Jyothi, were making their way home, a routine journey many of us take for granted. But for 35-year-old Jyothi, that evening on Bengaluru's notorious Huskur APMC road would tragically be her last. Her life, in truth, snatched away not by fate alone, but by a gaping, unforgiving crater in the tarmac—a stark symbol of administrative apathy, of promises left to rot.

Sridhar, navigating the dimly lit stretch, was faced with a sudden, horrifying choice: plunge into the chasm or swerve. He swerved, of course, instinct taking over, desperately trying to spare them. But the treacherous surface, uneven and broken, offered no quarter. The bike, perhaps a Honda, skidded violently. Jyothi, riding pillion, was flung from the seat, her head striking the unforgiving ground. The bustling city sounds would have been instantly muted, replaced by a sudden, chilling silence, broken only by Sridhar's cries of anguish. She died right there, a life extinguished too soon, all because of a stretch of road that should have been repaired years ago.

Sridhar, thankfully, sustained only minor injuries, a small mercy in a sea of grief. But for the grieving family, and indeed, for the wider community, the incident wasn't just an accident; it was an indictment. A clear, damning message about the state of our infrastructure. Residents, fed up, truly exasperated, poured onto the streets. Groups like the Karnataka Rakshana Vedike weren't just protesting; they were roaring, demanding accountability. They wanted answers, yes, but more importantly, they wanted action. Immediate action.

And why wouldn't they? This particular stretch near Huskur APMC isn't new to this kind of tragedy. It's been a crumbling mess for ages, a perpetual headache for commuters, a daily gamble. Promises of repair, you see, have been made — again and again — only to evaporate into thin air, much like the commitment of those in charge. Locals recount how countless pleas, impassioned letters, even previous protests, have fallen on deaf ears, landing squarely in a bureaucratic void.

The police, it must be noted, have indeed registered a case at the Sarjapur station. The charges? Negligence, specifically against the relevant authorities. But here's the thing: while legal action offers some hope, it can't bring Jyothi back. It won't mend the broken hearts. What it can do, perhaps, is serve as a searing reminder. A catalyst, even, for change. Because until these death traps are smoothed over, until the infrastructure truly matches the ambition of a city like Bengaluru, more lives, sadly, remain perilously at stake. And that, frankly, is a tragedy we simply cannot afford to keep repeating.