In 21st century independent India, our transit systems and perspectives on mobility continue to be shaped by pre-colonial legacies. This influence is reflected in the ideologies and attitudes that have shaped the aspirations of Indians. Over time, owning a car or private automobile became a visible marker of economic success and improving living standards. The elevated status of the car owner, in parallel, raised the status of the car on our streets and, in turn, undermined the status of the pedestrian.

This preference for motorised transport has extended into public budgets as well. In 2022, the allocation for road safety was a mere 0.4% of the overall budget of the Ministry of Road Transport and Highways (MoRTH). Despite this institutional apathy, we remain a nation of walkers. By choice or otherwise, according to Census 2011, 48% of people walk or cycle to work every day compared to less than 3% who use private vehicles. Yet two-wheelers dominate the physical road space, and our street designs persistently accommodate large, multi-axle truck turning radii, leaving pedestrians as the consistent losers in this hierarchy. This preference for motorised transport is further reflected in public spending priorities. Of all the planned expenditures on transport-related items, just 3% was set aside for metro work, while an overwhelming 73% was reserved for road infrastructure.

The etymology of the word ‘pedestrian’ invites us to consider whether the neglect of walkability in our cities has deeper symbolic roots. The word carries two meanings: a literal sense, referring to a person travelling on foot, and a figurative one, used to describe something dull, uninspiring, and lacking in imagination. This negative connotation first appeared in the late 18th and early 19th centuries, during a period marked by industrialisation, urbanisation, and widening social divisions. While the exact origins of this figurative meaning remain unclear, its historical context reveals how certain forms of mobility became associated with status and power, while walking came to be seen as ordinary and unremarkable. It is worth relating this symbolic history with our present-day apathy towards pedestrian infrastructure. The association of walking with the everyday and the unexceptional persists in the way our cities are built and managed. There is an urgent need to change that, and making walking cool again could begin with a reclaiming of the ‘pedestrian’ narrative.

Advocacy for pedestrian-friendly cities has remained fragmented and rarely benefits from the heavy marketing that accompanies other urban projects. Rebranding the symbolism of walking, and promoting it with pride, would require a concerted effort on the part of the lawmakers, decision-makers, politicians, civic groups, and citizens. This, in turn, must be supported by targeted resources and a genuine prioritisation of pedestrian infrastructure. While it is urgent to change the narrative surrounding walking, it is equally important to address the practical deterrents that keep people off our streets. India’s existing walking culture can be an asset here. Innovative incentive mechanisms, walking initiatives, and public campaigns should be an integral part of this shift.

Both national and local campaigns such as ‘Swachh Bharat Abhiyan’ on sanitation and ‘Meendum Manjappai’ in Tamil Nadu, which promoted the use of cloth bags, have demonstrated that sustained awareness-building efforts can lead to visible changes in public behaviour. Similar campaigns could form the foundation for a range of local, context-specific initiatives that build a diverse and compelling narrative around the value of walking from its benefits for the local economy to its positive effects on health and the environment. Chennai had its first pedestrian plaza at Pondy Bazaar in 2019, and five years later, the city is yet to add another such street to its network.

Transforming cities to be more pedestrian-centric requires significant investment, but the long-term benefits are undeniable. These may not be immediately visible, especially when delivered through isolated projects, but a sustained network of initiatives implemented over time can gradually and meaningfully improve a city’s livability. Governments will need to consistently prioritise pedestrian infrastructure over several decades, confronting immediate problems like congestion without resorting to road expansions and flyovers. It will also require us to become more comfortable with congestion, recognising that restricting private vehicle use and improving public transport options are essential for building more equitable and accessible urban environments.

By addressing the symbolism, prioritising infrastructure, and leveraging the walking cultures that already exist, we can work towards making walking an attractive, accessible, and celebrated part of everyday life in India. Decades of car-centric urban planning can be countered through a combination of small-scale tactical interventions and long-term investment from local governments committed to creating human-scaled cities. This means avoiding further expansions of car infrastructure and instead building public transportation networks and pedestrian-friendly streets. Such a shift demands participation from individuals, communities, governments, and policymakers alike, all working towards creating cities that put the needs of people, rather than vehicles, first.

Suggested methods of engagement for different stakeholders, school groups, and community groups

1. Tactical interventions by Community Groups, in partnership with governments, to safeguard pedestrian movement - curb extensions, pedestrian crossings, etc.

2. Local shops can be incentivized by governments to provide discounts to people who walk to their shops

3. School zones can be prioritized for pedestrians and walking by School administration, students, parent associations, etc.

Pavithra is the Co-founder of Design Co: Lab, an Architect, an Urban Planner and a Designer based in Chennai. As a strong advocate for safe and inclusive cities, since 2012, she has focused her career on placemaking, tactical urbanism, street designs, urban ecology and city planning projects in both public and private sector realms. An ardent lover of books and the written word, she also authors for Being Pedestrian, a blog on narratives of the city from the perspective of a pedestrian.

When people living with a disability ask for accessibility, they are not asking for assistance. Access to public transport and then using said public transport, moving around a precinct independently, are basic expectations from any living environment. This is a painfully distant dream for people living with a disability in most Indian cities. The city, the neighbourhood and the street must be designed to provide an accessible experience that is humane. Before we look at accessibility from the macro to the micro scale, we must try to understand accessibility from the perspective of various stakeholders, especially people with disabilities. General accessibility needs of people with disabilities who are non-ambulant (wheelchair users) and ambulant, visually impaired, and hearing impaired are to be given attention. This article looks into the case of the city of Chennai in southern India. The National Institute of Urban Affairs has introduced the “Harmonized Design Guidelines”, which has come up with a set of standards that can be used to design spaces with universal accessibility in mind.

The journey to accessing pedestrian walkways is distinct for each person with a disability. There are certain design guidelines that can be used to facilitate accessibility for people with disabilities, and this includes kerb ramps, TGSI tiles (Tactile Guiding Surface Indicators), and acoustic cues in pedestrian walkways. For a person who uses a wheelchair, the kerb ramp should be at a gradient not steeper than 1:12, and the minimum width should be 900mm. Tactile tiles are physical cues for the visually impaired, typically for orientation and guidance. They are primarily of two types: warning tiles (made up of dots) and guiding tiles (made up of lines). These parameters can be incorporated as shown in Fig. 1 at the Chennai Central metro station, present at the heritage and transit hub of M.G.R Chennai Central Railway Station.

In order to move about in any direction as per the pedestrian’s choice on the streets, pedestrian footpaths should be continuous with street furniture aligned, and a clear width should be provided for ease of movement. As shown in Fig-2 the footpath on Gandhi Mandapam Road at Kotturpuram is of width 2m to 2.4m, and the presence of bollards restricts the movement of two-wheelers on the footpath. The clear width is 900mm, so they are able to move with ease. Although tactile guidance tiles are absent, the street design reflects a near-accurate approach, with street furniture predominantly aligned consistently and only sporadic instances of minor obstructions along the footpath.

For people to move from one side of the street to another, pedestrian crossings should be at road level. Warning TGSI and kerb ramps are to be provided when there is a level difference. Table-top crossing can be provided so that movement is at the same level as shown in Fig-3, T. Nagar, North Usman Road, the road width is 12m and with footpath width of 2.4m. Usually, in junctions where constant pedestrian and vehicle conflicts take place, pedestrian-operated pelican signals as well as acoustic signals are to be provided for prioritising people living with disability.

Often, footpaths are integrated with the bus stop, wherein alighting and boarding must be given focus apart from the provision of TGSI tiles and ramps. Since there is often a level difference between the bus and the footpath, the interface must be designed such that people living with a disability can access it with ease. Directional signs must be provided so that wayfinding to the said bus stop can become easier. The bus stop must be illuminated with an illumination level of 50 lux. Handrails should be provided as well for moving independently. Ideal bus stops that are designed to be friendly for a person with a disability, as shown in Fig. 4, can be incorporated.

The Disability Act of 2016 requires accessibility for all public transportation. Therefore, in addition to other changes needed to enhance physical access, low-floor buses must be provided. This would improve public transportation for a wide range of users, including senior citizens, people living with disabilities, and pregnant women. The height of low-floor buses is only 400 mm, compared to standard-floor buses, which range from 900 to 1200 mm, as shown in Fig-5. Currently, 24.42 per cent of the buses operated by the Metropolitan Transport Corporation (MTC) are disabled-friendly, equipped with lift mechanisms, audio alert systems, and emergency buzzers. Recently, MTC announced that 352 new low-floor, disability-friendly buses would be introduced in Chennai. Additionally, to support better wayfinding, braille route maps and schedules have been installed at all bus stops.

In metro and railway stations, TGSI is provided, but it is not continuous and lacks adequate colour contrast on the platforms, which is an important feature for people with low vision, as shown in Fig. 6. Non-slip surface materials also need to be incorporated to ensure ease and safety of movement. For people with hearing disabilities, sign language videos for wayfinding are not available.

At Chennai Central Railway Station, battery-operated cars are provided to help passengers move along the platforms and reach trains more easily. This caters primarily to the elderly and both ambulant and non-ambulant users. However, ramps are not available for independent access to trains, requiring passengers to rely on assistance, as seen in Fig. 7. Even basic amenities such as drinking water are not fully accessible—the height of water dispensers is too high for wheelchair users.

Chennai’s railway stations have begun introducing measures to improve inclusivity. According to CMDA, about 17 stations in the Chennai division will receive guiding Braille indicators on platforms and railings, Braille station maps and information booklets, and Braille signage for key facilities. Additional planned accessibility features include reflective strips on stairs for people with low vision, sign language videos accessible via QR codes, and portable ramps for wheelchair users.

While it is to be noted that measures have been taken to provide initiatives to help with accessibility and wayfinding, they are still not designed for people with disability to be completely independent. For people with disabilities to opt for public transport, spaces should be designed as per standards and certain basic infrastructural needs are to be met. Despite multiple assurances from government bodies that physical assistance would be provided for persons with disabilities, it is their right to have their own mobility. Apart from physical infrastructure, economic concessions should also be provided, as people with disabilities still prefer private transport over public transport due to the inaccessibility of public infrastructure.

A lone woman isn’t a rare sight in the city. A lone, purposelessly wandering woman, however, is a rare sight in the city. Loitering gives anyone who does it a stake in the city and an identity tied to the city. Cities become safer for women not through more policing, but by simply accepting that women and marginalized people belong in public life as much as anyone else.

In Delhi, monuments and adjoining parks allow for loitering. Women can go alone to places like Qutub Minar and Sunder Nursery as long as there’s light. Events like Lodhi Reads, where people just gather to read, can be an opportunity for an easy day out for women. In the Garden of Five Senses and Sunder Nursery, the gardeners play cupid. The canopy-like cocooned gardens created by them allow expressions of love in a world where there are limited public or private places for couples to enjoy. The sight of a woman alone at a monument isn’t rare.

In films Mera Apna Sheher by Sameera Jain or Q2P by Paromita Vohra, the stark lack of women in public space is highlighted, but what is more stark is the awkward appearance of a woman in a male-dominated space. In Mera Apna Sheher, a woman sits for a long period of time alone in a park, stands for an equal amount of time beside a cigarette and tea stall, and on the side of the road during the night. There are constant stares, murmuring, light stalking, and people asking her for her purpose. “Aap yahan kya kar rahi hain?”, “What are you here for?”, looking to see if she is a prostitute (she doesn’t answer). When she stands on the side of the road waiting for a bus, a car stops and mimics her movements back and forth to tease her before she runs away. Q2P chronicles the lack of good public toilets for women in Mumbai. The people who pull the strings for women’s basic needs are conservative men who ask the interviewer, “Mahilaen bahar peshab kyun kar rahi hai?” or “Why even are the women peeing outside their homes?”.

There appears to be an illusion that women are necessarily dependent on male members of their family to fulfill their mobility needs. Many times, when a woman expresses her wishes to go outside the house, a quick reaction follows, “Why do you need to go out? What will you do outside? How many times do you need to go to the market?” This retaliation disempowers women inside their own homes. In married households, if a man can ask for a peaceful home where they are not nagged after a tiresome day outside, can women not ask for a peaceful time for themselves, away from their primary place of work – the home? What stands out for most women is the lack of space and time she is afforded to make decisions for herself. If she finds time, what will she do with it? A woman in Dharavi said, “I would pay for the park entrance if I have to, I just want peace, some time away from all this.”

Loitering and leisure are natural to the body. If there’s a reason there have been so many protests in India to have access to basic human rights, it’s because women feel the limits, the lines of control, the chains, the boundaries of their homes, their surroundings. Most places that allow for loitering are so because women, couples and other people take up space, sometimes forcefully. There have been numerous movements that enunciate the need to have autonomy and to allow for one to go where one pleases. These protests show that curfews for time and space are violent, and that we have to fight back. Pinjra Tod, was a protest started by women hostellers from government colleges of Delhi as a response to strict 8 pm curfews. It was a movement that questioned the hostel’s authority to curtail not just their goings and coming timings but also their dress codes. Meet to Sleep is another protest that was conceptualised by Jasmeen Patheja. This movement concentrates on the right to be defenceless. This protest called for women around India to sleep in public places to change the relationship between women’s bodies and public spaces. “Across parks, fields, river banks, or by the sea. Gather your girlfriends, let’s do this together. Under trees or on the bench in our streets. We will call the hiding sun. We will fall into a deep sleep. Together, let’s build ‘Meet to Sleep’.” Why Loiter is a campaign to reclaim public spaces for women and challenge patriarchal norms based on the book Why Loiter? It is important to note that these movements can be critiqued for representing, championing, and being led by a limited, privileged group of women.

Loitering, while it seems to be a harmless activity, isn’t so benign for women and marginal citizens. It is a taking back, the reclamation of space that they know should have always included them. Can the gardener loiter and lie down under the canopies she planted and cared for?

Driven by nostalgia for explorations of Manek Chowk, we felt compelled to explore how it responds to existing contestations and conflicts from evolving demand, increased motorisation, eroding urban form due to dispersed heritage conservation efforts, infrastructure deficit and extreme heat. We tweaked existing Walkability Indexes to include sensory perceptions and sociocultural connectedness in the Indian context to assess “walkability” in Manek Chowk. We devised an index that clubbed 38 parameters into four broad categories: (i) Convenience and Safety, (ii) Shade and Comfort, (iii) Aesthetic and Sensory Experiences, and (iv) Social and Psychological Well-being. To conduct a thorough assessment using these 5 criteria, we chose a walking radius of 500m from Manek Chowk, resulting in a study site of 250,000 sqm that contained a dynamic mix of commercial, residential, institutional and public space. Some prominent Pols, streets and areas that fall under our site area include Ratan Pol, Dhargalwar, Gandhi Road, Manek Road, Biscuit Gully, and Tankshal Road. We conducted several field visits on weekdays and weekends, at different times of day: mornings, afternoons, evenings, and nights. In initial field visits, we walked through the study area in groups of three, noted preliminary observations through voice notes, photos and videos. Later, we marked several indicators on large print-outs of maps, noting specific responses to parameters like types of activities, sensory perceptions, footfalls, heat, ventilation, etc. We made thorough notes of how the sensory perceptions, like smells, sounds, and visuals, changed from street to street. In our fieldwork, we also made note of community spirit and social interactions in different pockets of the study area.

(i) Convenience and Safety: This category comprises 11 parameters ranging from street widths, sidewalk coverage, and quality to night-time visibility. Two major streets, Gandhi Road and Manek Road, cut across the study area. The Chowk acts as a vital connecting node for surrounding traditional micro-neighbourhoods – Pols – making the convenience of walking crucial for visitors, residents and businesses alike. The Pols consist of more than half of the study area and are Ahmedabad’s unique residential microcosms that are typically a gated chain of about 40–50 houses inhabited by people of the same family, caste or occupation. Each Pol has a unique architecture responding to the community’s sensibilities, with ornamental doors, windows and facades being the common element across each Pol. Initially designed with pedestrian-only pathways connecting built-form entrances and shared open spaces to wider streets, Pol streets have no pavements or sidewalks, as indicated in Map 1. Growing motorisation and the aspiration of vehicle ownership now clog these narrow lanes with vehicular parking, leaving little space for pedestrians. Main streets with pavements or sidewalks fare poorly in quality, as they are obstructed by at least one of the five keys ‘obstructions’ identified in Map 1. Building extensions from shop fronts, Otlas (loosely translated to verandas or plinths), ornate porches, and on-street parking were among the most frequently occurring obstructions.

(ii) Shade and Comfort: This category consists of 8 parameters covering types of shades, built-form density, ventilation, and heat exposure. Although the site is densely built, the density and building distance from streets vary depending on the street widths, generating varied degrees of ventilation and shade. Areas with ‘very dense’ built-form, placed in immediate proximity of the street, had maximum shade during afternoons and a cool breeze flowing through the day (as indicated in Map 2). The only exception to this observation is the main Chowk area, shaded (parts of the Chowk are shaded by trees, and some parts are shaded by buildings) and well-ventilated throughout the day. Several shared spaces in Pols had make-shift shades made from cloth and tarp, while very few areas (less than 5%) were shaded by trees. Areas with all three types of shade (as indicated in Map3) were more comfortable to walk through during Ahmedabad’s hot summer afternoon. Extreme exposure to heat was experienced while walking on wide streets that weren’t shaded by buildings or trees (towards the site’s western end). Hence, internal Pol streets and shared open spaces were more comfortable to walk through than the main streets during the afternoons. While internal Pol streets are more pleasant to walk through during the day, the absence of adequate night-time lighting makes it threatening and uncomfortable to walk through in the dark (refer to Map 4).

(iii) Aesthetic and Sensory Experience: This category comprises nine parameters, such as visual elements, streetscapes, sounds, and smell. Main streets in Manek Chowk are laden with shops and vending carts, and are active around-the-clock, while the Pol streets are more passive, especially from late mornings to early evenings, as most people leave for work, while others enjoy a quick siesta. All the main streets in the neighbourhood fare better in streetscapes and aesthetics, owing to enhanced and consistent maintenance efforts (when compared to Pols) and a burst of colour brought by adjoining shops and vending carts. Walking through Ratan Pol is a visual treat as the street is filled with shops selling traditional clothes and wedding outfits – full of colour, embroidery, mirror work and metal work that shimmer beautifully in the sunlight. Hence, as indicated in Map 4, they are visually more pleasant and vibrant to walk through. However, we were occasionally greeted by wall murals and artwork in the Pols, along with the colored glass windows and ornate wooden doors and windows.

A high intensity of activities made the main streets much louder than the Pol streets. The average hourly decibel mapping of the neighbourhood (in Map 5) indicates that the main streets have decibel counts much higher than the norms prescribed by the Central Pollution Control Board. The type of sounds also varies by street type; the most recurring sounds along main streets include vehicular traffic and people, while along Pol streets, one can hear birds, appliances/equipment, and temple bells. The smell of incense sticks, sandalwood, sugarcane and citrus fruits (from juice stalls), and chai were the most recurring smells throughout the neighbourhood, fostering a pleasant experience. Whiffs of spices, metal, and urinals occasionally hit pedestrians walking along Manek Road, making it a mixed experience. Yet, one of the most memorable sensory experiences comes with the late-night food market. Delectable smells of Indian street food take over the area, and it marks the transition to the food market, followed by the buzz of people that turns louder as one approaches the Chowk.

(iv) Social and Psychological Well-being: This category consists of 10 parameters, such as footfalls, type of activities, level and type of social interactions, and the relationship of built-form with streets. Since most building openings are oriented toward the streets and shared spaces, one observes a widespread “eyes on the streets” phenomenon, generating more active and safer surroundings (Map 6). “Eyes on the Streets” is a popular term coined by Jane Jacobs, a celebrated American urbanist, that means when public spaces are active round-the-clock, they tend to be safer as more people mean more “informal surveillance”. Activity mapping – an exercise where one maps the type and frequency of each activity in typically a public space – indicates that Manek Chowk and its immediate surroundings have the highest day and night footfall, followed by Ratan Pol and Dhalgarwad (Maps 7 and 8). High commercial activity and vehicular traffic curbs community gathering and socialising towards the internal streets, anchored by tea stalls and religious spaces (temples and mosques). Even on the main streets, one would occasionally be greeted by glimpses of shopkeepers jovially chatting over evening chai.

Rampant vehicular movements and the lack of safe, adequate walking infrastructure throughout the site compromise the safety of pedestrians. Walkability in the Manek Chowk neighbourhood shares the same complexities and contestations as the space, calling for a reimagining and reclamation of the space in a way that maximises movement, safety, comfort, and connectedness for all.

“Make sure you walk to each corner of the room,” he shouted during my first theatre workshop. I did what he’d asked us to do. But I don’t know if that is why my arms felt self-assertive while pretending to fly like a bird’s wing in the middle of the workshop, or why my spine was able to contort into the back of a car towards the end of the session. My body felt bigger, more sure about itself, while in that room.

So, if a walk in a theatre class makes space familiar, if we walk with people, do those people become familiar as well?

*

He told me he wears comfortable shoes whenever he comes to meet me. It was our third date when he told me this. Maybe the one-hour walk after beers and pasta gave him the idea.

*

I met Riya when I was in Class 12. We lived three bus stops away. She got into a reputed architecture college and moved to Bhopal, while I quit architecture after a year, got into a journalism college, and stayed back in Delhi. For the next five years, every time she would come home for her summer and winter break, we’d meet at a crossing near my house, the most crowded one in between our homes, and take the same route every time. We’d walk together towards a panwadi in a neglected corner of the market near our homes, sit to smoke one cigarette each, find gum on our way back, and walk back home to meet my dad.

*

I wish when we think about ‘meeting’ our friends, there were more to imagine than ‘sitting’ across a table, over coffee, or on a couch. I wish we could imagine ‘walking’ next to each other. Because it’s funny to text a friend: “I’ll get ready and take the metro for an hour to come and walk with you.”

*

“I’ll get ready and take the metro for an hour to come and walk with you.”

“We can go to PVR Anupam when we get tired.”

“So what were you doing today?”

“I am building a computer. It’s annoying because I have to wait until all these random parts get delivered from different places. But interestingly, it feels like the book I have been reading. It’s called The City We Became. Like all these parts will need to come, and they’ll come at their own time, with their own prerequisites, and they might just not fit into what I am making? I mean, this book is much, much more interesting than that. The boroughs of New York City become different people who fight amongst themselves, and then come together.”

“I wonder what boroughs people in Delhi can be divided into.”

“I’m sure it won’t be hard to imagine.”

*

“How do you know each other?”

“Well, we walked for 10 kilometres on the day we met. It was February, one of the most pleasant months in Delhi. He had a meeting to go to in Connaught Place in two and a half hours, while I had nothing better to do than to take the metro home.

He told me about how he thinks spiritual enlightenment in Hinduism is far more liberal and polychromatic than in any other religion. He is someone who’d easily come off as a woke atheist, like Sam Harris, whose podcast he regularly listens to.

We never walked since. In the seven years that I have known him, I have met him at a café, in a car, at a house party, on a Zoom party during Covid. Which is to say, I have since met him while sitting. I wonder if we’ll ever walk again, especially now that he has a car and Delhi’s weather has only gotten more combative.

*

“Would you like to make out?”

“Uh, no. I don’t think so. I don’t see you that way. But we can hold hands.”

I think I offered it out of pity. And he knew it was out of pity as well, since he thanked me for holding his hand. Twice. He said he would have invited me to his place, but holding hands in a room would be tense in the way that holding hands while walking on the street at night isn’t.

*

I have walked with someone I love.

I can’t believe that we walked the streets. I can’t believe we walked the streets holding hands. I can’t believe we stole a kiss. It was a warm, lit night in the last minutes before the bookshop closed. “I wanted to buy you that book. Why did you buy it yourself?” The air outside was filled with creepers and feelings creeping in. It felt like there were flowers around me and in my heart.

The notion of owning a private vehicle was once perceived as a status symbol, making it the preferred mode of transport over walking or even public transport. The increase in private vehicles and urban density has resulted in congested roads, leaving little to no room for pedestrians. This has led to a vicious cycle wherein the lack of pedestrian infrastructure discourages walking as a mode of transport, further increasing the reliance on private vehicles.

As someone who has had a driving licence since the age of 19 and has heavily relied on private vehicles as the preferred mode of transport out of convenience. Walking and public transport were perceived as a dreaded last resort. However, the convenience of driving has now faded away. Being stuck in traffic for no end or the lack of road safety has become intolerable. Furthermore, driving in the city led to many health issues like fatigue, back pain, irritation in the eyes and even poor mental health. This has made public transport and walking a healthier and preferred option. A major factor in being able to choose walking and public transport is also the accessibility to such infrastructure from my workplace and home.

Bengaluru has undergone rapid urbanisation over the last decade. A city that was once known to be green and pedestrian-friendly is now riddled with flyovers and underpasses, aiming to connect the extreme ends of the city at a fast pace. Despite the flyovers and underpasses, it is ranked number one in the country and number six in the world out of 357 cities by TomTom Traffic Index 2023 (the TomTom Traffic Index evaluates cities around the world by their average travel time, fuel costs, and CO₂ emissions, collected over a period of one year).

Refer Map.1 - Illustration demonstrating the journey with the different modes of transport, junctions and the points of decision making/ choice

This article is an attempt to capture the choices I make in my commute using simple mental maps. Five stations after Baiyappanhalli, my walking journey begins from the MG Road Metro Station and ends at work. There are different routes taken by foot on this 2.5 km stretch from MG road metro station to O’Shaughnessy road, but these routes are not only based on time, but also shade, time of day, movement and safety. The walking routes taken, although different, have a few common decisions.

On average, I cover about 12,000 steps, 5 km and 50 minutes of walking in a day within this stretch alone. The terrain is mostly flat, making one think the walk shouldn’t be that hard. However, narrow footpaths, dimly lit streets and dangerous road crossings along the route pose critical barriers to moving on foot.

Refer Map.2- Illustration demonstrating the journey on foot with junctions and the points of decision making/choice.

The first decision would be the choice of exit from the MG Road metro station. Here, there are two options: Church Street, a cobbled street with light traffic flow and footpaths. Vendors, shops and restaurants line the street, making it a popular and lively street at any given time of the day with heavy foot traffic; and MG Road, a parallel road to Church Street. Here too, in some places, shops share fronts, but they spill into the pedestrian footpath, causing obstructions here. MG Road was once a green and pedestrian-friendly street that has now become a major vehicular thoroughfare with the metro line running along its side. The choice made has always been Church Street, as opposed to the footpaths of MG Road, which feels unsafe, has under-maintained footpaths and fast-moving traffic. As safe as the choice made me feel, it is also the more time-consuming option. Church Street holds a lot of significance as a place of leisure, with street art, flea markets along the 1 Shobha Mall, music from pubs and restaurants and all the bookstores posing as a distraction and mental relief.

The next area I encounter is the St. Mark’s Plaza. The plaza acts as a roundabout for vehicles and an easier, convenient crossing for pedestrians. The plaza gives an opportunity to pause and decide the road one would want to take. The junction connects major roads seamlessly for pedestrians as well as vehicles. The fountain with seating at the centre of the plaza offers a relief from the sounds of traffic and is often a point for most pedestrians to pause. The ornamental Frangipani trees (Temple Trees) planted at existing crossings guide pedestrians towards the edge, safely across the roads.

Following the plaza is St. Mark’s Road, the most convenient and walkable section on my route. It has low-traffic flow, a large Rain Tree canopy cover providing shade, shrubs segregating fast-moving traffic from the slow, and a stone compound wall adjacent to the footpath, adding a touch of old Bangalore charm. This is a low-foot traffic area, making it the fastest and most comfortable street on my route.

Residency Road is the only junction I come across that has a working pedestrian signal. The junction also has a wide footpath with a seat to take a break. The occurrence of this bench may be due to the fact that there is a school close by.

Hayes Road has less traffic and is well-shaded with wide footpaths. However, the bollards are incorrectly placed, making it slightly difficult to walk on the footpath. I often find myself playing a game of “will I pass this bollard”, making the vehicular road seem to be more convenient to walk on. My commute is sometimes a gamble with time, convenience and safety.

Although jaywalking is not prohibited by law, it’s also not the safest or convenient option. However, there are instances like crossing the General KS Thimayya road where jaywalking is the only choice. Heavy, three-lane, one-way, fast-moving traffic makes the road almost impossible to cross safely. Unfortunately, there is almost no way to avoid crossing this road. This is also the most frustrating one as it takes the longest time to cross while being only 300m away from work.

While pedestrian infrastructure is getting better in Bengaluru city, with upcoming cycle lanes, more footpaths and new metro lines making people in the city hopeful for more sustainable and convenient mobility options in the future, unfortunately, these options are not accessible to everyone in the city, including myself. Given a choice, I would rather make the healthier option to walk from home to the metro station, but the lack of footpaths or public transport leaves me no choice but to rely on a private vehicle. Oftentimes, the choice in mode of transportation is based more on compromise than convenience.

Professionals like urban designers, planners and architects often bring in creative solutions with a holistic approach, keeping in mind inclusivity, sustainability and attention to detail. However, the responsibility doesn’t solely rely on designers. With the help of specialized higher-education institutes, cooperation from various government bodies, citizen activist communities and good architects and designers, we will finally see change happen. Even though we are far from seeing visible results, I remain hopeful as I see the processes of a better future taking shape.

Walking on a footpath in an Indian city is often less a stroll and more a real-life video game like ‘Dodge that Pit’ Or ‘Temple Run’; an obstacle course, a journey that requires navigating hastily dug-up pits – graves for cute kittens; open, uncovered drains that pose a constant hazard – for children forever lost retrieving balls; and a chaotic maze of parked motorcycles –Pulsars and Hero Hondas, sometimes even a Duke in a slightly upscale neighbourhood. One must sidestep foul-smelling garbage from yesterday’s social gatherings, and dodge the crimson stains from paan-chewers, all while navigating meandering cows and their droppings. This constant vigilance is set against the ever-present threat of a city bus veering too close to the footpath, turning a simple walk into a test of survival.

“If you are walking on the streets, then do so with great caution”. We are reminded by loving family members. This advice underscores the harsh reality. The purpose of a footpath is self-evident in its name - a path for walking. It is meant to be a safe, elevated designated zone for pedestrians, protecting them from traffic while covering essential utility lines for electricity and drainage. Simply put, footpaths are for walking, not bypassing traffic on motorcycles.

However, in practice, they are treated as free-for-all spaces. With the abysmal state of the infrastructure of the footpath, it becomes fair game for hawkers selling knick-knacks, street food vendors selling from makeshift stalls, and cows lazily chewing cud. They serve as dumping grounds for refuse, and most notoriously, as parking lots for vehicles.

One might question whether the quality of footpath infrastructure is due to a diminishing number of pedestrians. The data suggests otherwise. Analysis of the 2011 Indian Census reveals a complex mobility landscape where walking remains a critical mode of transport. In urban areas, nearly 23% of the population walks to work1. This preference to walk is stronger for shorter distances, with walking being the top choice for commuting under five kilometres. The sheer number of people who rely on their feet highlights the absolute and profound apathy towards pedestrian access and safety.

The failure of infrastructure creates a cycle of apathy. The answer lies within the framework of our urban development. The deplorable condition of Indian pavements is a direct consequence of decades of bad urban planning, chronic underfunding, and systemic apathy from governing bodies. To accommodate the ever-increasing number of vehicles in our cities, pedestrians have become an afterthought. City budgets often prioritise road widening projects or flyover construction, like the newly launched tunnel road project in Bangalore city. All this while the budget allocation for creating and maintaining safe footpaths is meagre, if it exists at all.

This neglect creates a vicious cycle. When a shared public space like a footpath is not constructed nor maintained, it signals the loss of value of that space. It becomes a broken, dangerous, and uneven strip of land, resulting in citizens ceasing to respect it as public infrastructure. It is seen as abandoned territory, fair game for anyone to claim and use. This erodes a sense of collective ownership and responsibility, and turns what should be a public good into a symbol of collective failure.

This breeds further decay. It is a common sight to see residents of well-maintained bungalows, large mansions, and apartment complexes, discard their garbage directly onto the pavement. This in turn, is a stark irony, a demand for personal and domestic order coupled with a complete disregard for the shared public space right outside the gate. This is not just an individual failure, but a symptom of a larger systemic problem where neglected infrastructure fosters a culture of indifference.

The consequences of this neglect are dire. A 2008 survey by the Central Road Research Institute suggested that nine out of ten pedestrians felt unsafe while crossing roads.² Today, it is hard to imagine anyone feeling safe, as much as one might be a seasoned jaywalker. Indian roads are a cacophony of horns, yet a warning is rarely for the pedestrian. A moment’s hesitation or a glance over the shoulder could lead to a fall into an open sewer line. As one might parody a famous line, “Beware, for the footpath is broken and full of evil.”

This grim reality is most horrifying for the city’s most vulnerable, many of whom sleep on these same pavements. These so-called footpaths become deathtraps, a fact that adds a chilling layer of reality to incidents where homeless individuals are run over by speeding vehicles.

The question then arises of what must be done about this cycle of neglect. Are we to simply accept the situation as it is, resigning ourselves to navigating the daily gauntlet, and offering a prayer to the footpath gods at the numerous roadside shrines we pass? Or do we demand a change?

The solution lies not just in better urban planning, stricter enforcement mechanisms, governance and regulatory frameworks, but also a fundamental shift in our collective mindset. A footpath is not a privilege, but a basic right and the foundation of a liveable and walkable city. Reclaiming it and restructuring it, such that it is not an extension of our homes or a shortcut for our vehicles, but a shared, safe space for all is imperative if any change; safer walking conditions are to be expected at all.

You can’t always just walk anywhere; you must like walking enough to go on for a long time. You can’t just go to the same place every time, either. Walking requires curiosity, patience, a certain amount of delusion, lust, self-indulgence, and a will to move. Exploring parts of the city independent of anyone else’s perceived notions makes walking fun; it’s not always acceptable, but it’s fun.

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As I walk on the roads of Greater Kailash, Panchsheel, or Defence Colony, I try to hold in my memory as many details of the houses I walk by – the size of the balcony, the texture of the façade, the way the plants have been arranged by the occupants, and the detailing on the gate. There’s too little time to note all this, but I must, and I must walk quickly to the next house, because I’m too scared of people noticing me lingering around, that I have stopped in front of their house to leer or that I have turned around to look at the house again. I hope I don’t come across as a swindler or worse, I hope I don’t come across as someone who is envying their house, as someone who thinks their flamboyant interiors look pretty, because they’d be right.

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But isn’t lingering all we do while walking?

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Lingering outdoors, not to go back indoors? So that we don’t have to feel the walls around us? Lingering to talk more with whoever it is one is talking to, lingering to see more of what you can’t see completely. We often don’t walk too fast when we are walking because distance doesn’t seem to count as much as time outside does, and the air is more breathable than the air between the walls, even if the AQI has been deemed unhealthy.

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On Lodhi Road, Jor Bagh Road, Teen Murti Marg, or Nyaya Marg, the gaps in the fencing are too narrow to peep inside, so I walk to imagine my life as it would be in a white, single-storey house on one of these Margs in Central Delhi. I’d walk in the front garden in the morning, receive my guests at the cul-de-sac in the afternoon, and write a review of a history book on my coffee table near one of the colonial windows. But that’s all I have managed to find out so far. Perhaps on one of these days, the gate will be left open, and I will get a longer peep inside. While any house on the road is inaccessible for a loafer to enter, the houses in this part of the capital city are inaccessible even to look at. To be found lingering near one of these bureaucratic homes could cause the worst scare: of my being a secret agent.

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But aren’t you already a secret agent? You go against your parents with a vengeance. Look! That person over there on his balcony could also be one; he looks like he belongs in this fancy place, but is struggling with it. Like his mother abhors his graphic t-shirt with holes in it, and that’s the reason he likes them.

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I had only been to Khan Market a handful of times, until I got a job there. Each time, I would walk in a rush, almost hiding: what if someone finds out that the tag on my clothes, or my parents' salary slip don't belong there? So when I did get a job there, I realised I finally had a chance to look up into the eyes of every passer-by. I started taking short walks during my workday – one after lunch and one at any other time of the day. The first two weeks, I left the market and walked around its boundaries to establish the famous Margs and the landmarks near the Market (Amrita Shergill, Max Mueller Marg, Subramania Bharti Marg). The week after the third, I took out Google Maps to swivel around till I zoomed into the market’s image and saw two U-shaped buildings with a cobbled lane in between. I started to walk within the Market this time, to memorise as many stores and labels in each go: Good Earth on the outer left corner, Third Wave and Starbucks on the other end, Jaypore opposite Third Wave, Bloom Cakery next to Blue Tokai and so on. I’d imagine someone calling me to say that they are lost, and when I ask them what they see around them, and they say ‘Ritu Kumar’, I can tell them which right to take to reach my office.

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I did a quick Google search for safe places for women and what came up were cafes, pubs, and malls, all places for consumers, where to be there, you have to buy something or look like you can afford what they are selling. These are safe, yes, but one assumes that safety can be manufactured by keeping “non-belongers” out even though the idea was proved untrue when peddlers were cleared out of the Churchgate station in Mumbai, because with the familiar lights of the carts and the familiar faces of the vendors missing at night, more women felt unsafe than before. Women take refuge in the familiarity of local hawkers. Kabuliwalas and Kashmiri shawl peddlers had built good friendships with women, and the women, in turn, trusted these men.

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When I walk on the roads of Dwarka — the place where I went to school, drove my first scooty, learnt how to drive, and drew my first map — I linger on the apartment boards a little longer. I imagine someone calling me to say that they are lost, that I ask them what they see around them, and that they say, ‘Ispatika Apartment’. That’s all I really want! That I can tell them which left to take to reach my house.

In Mumbai, more than half of all daily journeys are made on foot. Walking is a vital means of last-mile connectivity. Although this article focuses on the first and last leg of my daily journey, my experiences walking to and from Ghatkopar Railway Station, these experiences are shared by many residents of my neighbourhood and other similar neighbourhoods across Mumbai.

Walking through my neighbourhood, the main street is lined with large copper pod trees that cast cooling shadows. On one side, the footpath comes alive as the commercial stores and grocery stores begin their morning activities. The other side features a narrow footpath between a tall compound wall of a gated community and parked auto rickshaws, leading locals to prefer walking on the street, so that they are not constantly navigating an uneven footpath. Mornings are a refreshing experience, what with the shade cast by the copper pod trees and familiar exchanges with shop owners opening their stores for the day. I smile at known faces heading to the nearby pocket park for a quiet start to the day with a morning walk, while catching up with neighbours. Most of the residents in this locality, including me, have been living here for more than 20 years, producing a familiarity that reduces the need for constant alertness while walking.

My experiences walking further outside my neighbourhood are quite contrasting. Depending on the day and the weather, I take a shared auto rickshaw or bus, or I walk all the way to the railway station. As one continues onto Golibar Road, both sides of the street feature narrow footpaths bordered by the tall compound walls of gated residential areas and parked heavy vehicles, reflecting a street designed primarily for vehicular movement rather than pedestrian continuity. Although buses stop at designated bus stops, railings along the footpath and frequently parked vehicles block access at exit points. As a result, pedestrians often walk carefully along the edge of the carriageway to reach the bus, navigating through moving traffic rather than using the footpath. Further on, informal settlements line the road, and their residents’ lives spill out onto the road. The footpath suddenly disappears as one approaches a vast 5-street intersection. This walk is particularly challenging as pedestrians have to navigate oncoming traffic from various directions with no safe crossing points.

After crossing the last intersection at Lal Bahadur Shastri Marg (abbreviated as L.B.S. Marg), a major arterial road in the city, one reaches the vicinity of the railway and metro station, colloquially called the station area. This zone is heavily commercial with tall office buildings and retail shops selling a variety of food, clothing and other household items. The station area poses a unique set of challenges for pedestrians. The footpaths are discontinuous, confined and compact with hawkers selling quick breakfast foods to commuters, compressing further the already limited pedestrian space. Once again, a lot of people prefer to walk on the road with the traffic to avoid delays. After navigating through hawkers, parked vehicles, and oncoming traffic, reaching the railway station feels like a relief. Each safe arrival brings relief, highlighting how routine movement has become dependent on constant negotiation.

Evenings in Ghatkopar are a busy time. The streets are filled with returning commuters, adding to the chaos of the busy commercial area. Retracing my morning route, this phase of my daily journey demands heightened vigilance. The station area bustles with evening commuters and students grabbing snacks before heading home. Queues form for shared auto rickshaws, with some opting to walk due to increasing rush-hour congestion. Navigating this area is especially challenging for pedestrians, particularly women and vulnerable groups, amid crowded evening market activities.

Exiting the station area and crossing L.B.S. Marg leads to a dimly lit footpath, an uncomfortable area for women to cross, especially during the evening hours when visibility is reduced. One side of the street is shadowed by a hospital wall and continuous railings, creating a confined feeling. The footpath here is narrow, hardly 1.1 m wide, and the railings appear intended to discourage frequent and haphazard pedestrian crossings along this busy road. Consequently, these conditions push women to walk on the other side of the street, which, despite having continuous railings, is better lit and animated by shops and human activity, offering a greater sense of passive security. Crossing the next busy 5-street intersection and walking through the narrow length of Golibar Road with informal settlements requires alertness due to heavy vehicular traffic from all directions, demanding quick reflexes and heightened awareness. This segment of my daily journey is physically and mentally taxing, draining energy through constant risk.

As I cross Golibar Road, my neighbourhood comes into view in the distance. Above the partially-lit trees, I spot the hill dotted with numerous small lights from the informal settlements. I feel relieved; I am almost home. Traffic is minimal, providing relief as I remain alert passing by parked vehicles, which cast large shadows. In the evening, women often prefer to walk away from vehicles and on the road for safety. As I cross over to reach the footpath leading to my house, I can see the activities on the footpath; children are playing, parents waiting to pick up their teenagers from after-school classes, and senior citizens emerging for a breath of fresh air with babies on their arms. I see sometimes shopkeepers place water bottles outside for the children, contributing to a sense of community. Reaching home safely marks the end of another negotiated journey.

Walking within my neighbourhood is shaped by activity and familiarity, compared to the fragmented and demanding experience of walking beyond it. This contrast reveals how walkability is not unevenly produced through everyday design decisions, priorities and exclusions. Along this route, pedestrian movement is repeatedly interrupted, redirected, or compressed, requiring individuals to adapt to conditions not designed with them in mind. Over time, such negotiations become normal and as part of daily life but for me they continue to raise questions about whose movement the city is designed to support with ease, whose remains conditional, and how much effort is silently expected from those who walk.

The urban heat island effect occurs when a city experiences much warmer temperatures in comparison to peri-urban and rural areas because of having replaced its natural land cover with a dense concentration of man-made surfaces that absorb and retain heat. Aspects that contribute to rising temperatures are high heat-conductive surfaces, a lack of vegetation or green areas, large built-up areas, and atmospheric pollution. To sum up, urbanisation and the replacement of natural landscapes are major contributors to global warming, leading to adverse effects on local environments. These extreme temperatures not only make walking uncomfortable but also unhealthy and unattractive.

A walkable environment is crucial to the building of liveable cities as it facilitates healthy lifestyles that make spaces for social interaction on a daily basis while also reducing greenhouse gas (GHG) emissions and pollution. To enhance the walkability of a neighbourhood, it is vital to plan, design and develop urban public spaces and streetscapes according to principles of nature that are conducive to pedestrian needs of aesthetic and comfort. To sum up, I quote Jane Jacobs, who advocated the concept of walkability before many of us, in saying succinctly, ‘’Walkable Cities do benefit our environment, economy, as well as health’’.

Think about a street you love walking through. It probably has lots of trees that provide valuable shade. We can learn from this because the integration of nature into urban environments develops biophilic spaces leading to climate and nature positive cities.

Biophilic spaces can be elementally named as cool pockets, which is a concept used to increase connectivity to nature and space. This can be incorporated at both the building and city levels. One example is in Thane City where one of Maharashtra’s biggest urban public parks was inaugurated in February 2024 and named NaMo Grand Central Park. This park is about 20.5 acres and embraces a biophilic design approach by integrating nature into development and operating as the city’s newest green lung. It features a diverse collection of over 3,500 trees and provides various amenities to enhance visitor experiences.

These cool pockets are simply comfortable, green urban spaces and streetscapes that provide a healthier environmental quality, social interaction, safety and improved pedestrian outdoor thermal comfort. In this way, people’s connection with nature plays a vital role, and simply having green spaces in cities can do wonders in enhancing their walkability.

Awareness and integration of these biophilic concepts are hugely important in the 21st century. Such a design will not only create sustainable neighbourhoods but will also encourage pedestrians to be more part of the city. As John Muir once said, in every walk with nature, one receives far more than he seeks. In that same spirit, we should take steps toward green initiatives that protect our natural environment and make our cities walkable. Our collective action will help accelerate and localise the Sustainable Development Goals to make our cities self-sufficient and resilient.

Kolkata with its colonial allure, holds a special place in my heart. The city’s tramways, once arteries that breathed life into its bustling streets, now face challenges amid the relentless march of modernity. As a tram activist, my mission transcends mere nostalgia; it is a commitment to rekindle these tracks as a sustainable and efficient mode of transportation for the iconic yellow trams, weaving through narrow lanes evoke not just nostalgia for me, but also embody an opportunity to preserve Kolkata’s heritage while meeting contemporary mobility needs.

Delhi with its expansive sprawl where historical splendour and urban chaos are juxtaposed with one another provided me with invaluable insights into the intricate dynamics of transportation. The constant struggle for space on the roads, compounded by escalating vehicular density, underscored an urgency for eco-friendly transit alternatives. Advocating for trams in Delhi meant confronting congestion and pollution and envisioning a future where the clatter of tram wheels harmonised with the city’s cacophony.

Mumbai the city that never sleeps, presented to me a narrative of distinctive challenges and opportunities. Here, local trains serve as lifelines, and even so the bustling streets demand a holistic approach to urban mobility. Trams, with their knack for navigating crowded areas efficiently, emerged to me as a viable solution. Integrating tramways into Mumbai’s bustling landscape necessitates navigating bureaucratic hurdles and garnering support from the diverse communities that call this city their home.

Now in Ahmedabad, a city where tradition seamlessly melds with modernity, my advocacy extends beyond tramways to embrace the broader concept of walkability. Ahmedabad’s streets narrate tales of history, from walking through intricately carved homes in the poles to modern marvels dotting the cityscape. Here, the embrace of walkability transcends the revival of tramways and is about fostering a cultural shift, where walking isn’t just a mode of transportation but a celebration of a city’s heritage.

This vision transcends the rhythmic clanging that come with tram bells, encompassing the idea that choosing to walk distances less than 2 km should be a natural inclination in urban settings. Ahmedabad, with its broad avenues and thoughtfully planned urban spaces, proves to me to be an ideal canvas for promoting walkability. From the tranquil Sabarmati riverfront to the lively markets of the old city, every step could become an exploration of this city’s diverse facets.

Advocacy for walking isn’t solely a health-conscious initiative; it’s a rallying call to reclaim the streets for pedestrians, fostering a sense of community and connection. For me, its about transforming an urban landscape into spaces where one can take a stroll, engage with their surroundings, and concurrently reduce their carbon footprint.

In the intricate tapestry of my journey as a tram activist and advocate for walkability, each city contributes a unique thread of thinking. Kolkata’s tramways represent a bridge between the past and the future, Delhi’s congestion underscores the pressing need for sustainable solutions, Mumbai’s dynamism demands adaptability, and Ahmedabad’s well-planned spaces offer a canvas for envisioning a pedestrian-friendly future. As I continue to weave my narrative, my hope is to inspire change one tram track and one walkable street at a time.

My research examines the intersection of urban form and gendered experience in Madurai, located in the southern region of Tamil Nadu, India, where I grew up and currently reside. Renowned as a temple town, Madurai’s infrastructure is interwoven with religious edifices and centuries-old pedestrian landscapes that surround them. The unique character of these religious neighbourhoods prompted me to assess the inclusivity and friendliness of these walkable public spaces for women.

Gender plays a profound and often restrictive role in shaping our experiences within public environments. The influence is less about physical paths and more about the intangible societal constructs that dictate how women must navigate the city. In cities worldwide, the harsh reality is that women often view walking alone, particularly at night, as a precarious endeavour. Even more disheartening is the pattern in some societies where women are culturally conditioned to confine themselves primarily to domestic spheres, rendering active, independent engagement in the public realm unfamiliar to many. This spatial confinement, often rooted in fear, diminishes women’s autonomy and their fundamental ‘right to the city’.

The Vandiyur Mariamman Teppakulam, a vast ceremonial temple tank, is a critical case study in the gendered mobilities of Madurai. The tank’s perimeter, with its vibrant vendors and traffic-laden encircling roads, serves as a microcosm of the city’s social structure. The ratio of women, both in unaccompanied groups and as lone walkers, frequenting Theppakulam is notably higher here than in secular alternatives like Eco Park or the Walkers Club Madurai. This disparity suggests women are successfully claiming space here in a way they do not elsewhere. The key to this divergence lies in the nature of their presence; women’s urban mobility is often characterised by multi-purpose trips, combining necessary errands like buying vegetables and visiting food stalls with leisure. Conversations with these women revealed that the religious nature of the space plays a significant role in legitimising and expanding their access.

Beyond walking, I observed that women actively use the parapets and ledges of the tank boundary wall as informal seating areas for extended periods, defining these structural elements as places for rest and conversation, not just transition. The space facilitates frequent social meets, non-familial groups of friends, colleagues or neighbours who walk together and then pause to sit and talk, generating surveillance and shared comfort that reinforces a sense of safety.

The high visibility and concentration of female vendors selling flowers, offerings and other consumables along the periphery seem critical in creating a welcoming and legitimate atmosphere for other women. Their active presence normalises women across the site, broadening the accepted domain beyond spiritual or recreational use to include the marketplace. Women often transform the religious ritual of temple circumambulation into a deliberate extension of their stay long after their formal temple duties are complete. By pausing, sitting and observing the environment, they claim the time of the space, asserting their right to independent leisure.

This phenomenon aligns with the principles of feminist urban planning. As academic Shilpa Phadke suggests, the spiritual grounds of religious structures offer a valid rationale for women to traverse the neighbourhood independently, enabling leisurely pursuits. This is a crucial distinction: the religious motive provides the necessary social sanction for relaxed public occupancy, a contrast to typical leisure destinations such as parks or walking clubs.

A middle-aged woman once explained her preference to me by saying, “I visit the Mariamman temple every other evening. After completing my prayers at the temple, I stroll around Theppakulam and sit on the ledges for some time before returning home. It is a nice place to relax in the evenings, mainly because of its proximity to the temple and the calming atmosphere.” Another woman told me why she found parks unappealing in comparison: “Parks are usually visited by young couples or children, and I no longer find them appealing for leisure. I prefer walking around the temple premises because it offers a more peaceful environment, and I often encounter many women like myself there.” The initial temple visit serves as the main impetus, justifying further lingering.

The public space near the temple enhances women’s perception of safety. A group of ladies asserted one afternoon that “Theppakulam, being part of the temple, draws crowds of families and women, rendering it a safe spot for female socialisation. The religious association of the spot reduces the likelihood of undesirable activities, unlike parks or clubs.” Their comments highlight the power of natural surveillance: the area is constantly bustling with families, vendors (including many women) and other female visitors, creating a network of informal company. This active, diverse community presence minimises the apprehension of crime that drives women to employ precautionary measures and avoidance tactics in other, less socially sanctioned public spaces.

From an architectural and planning perspective, this trend in Madurai is not merely a cultural curiosity; it is an important reminder of what truly inclusive public spaces can look like. The case of Theppakulam highlights that inclusive urban spaces must meet interrelated conditions. Firstly, they must accommodate both necessary trips, whether errands or acts of spiritual duty, and leisurely occupation, allowing people to use the space for diverse purposes. Secondly, design must foster social legitimisation by creating environments where women have the unquestioned right to linger, unburdened by the need to justify their presence. Lastly, vibrancy and visibility are essential: spaces should be well-lit and animated through community engagement, which itself becomes a primary form of safety.

The real challenge for a city is to adapt what works well in traditional settings to our modern, everyday public spaces. Parks, promenades and city squares should aspire to be as visibly and consistently welcoming as any religious space, allowing the principles of walkability to foster social equity for all citizens.

References:

1. Phadke, S., Khan, S., Ranade, S. (2011). Why Loiter? Women and Risk on Mumbai Streets. India: Penguin Books.

When I pursued my post-graduation in Urban Design at the School of Planning and Architecture, Bhopal, walking and cycling became integral parts of my routine. The campus, located on the outskirts of the city, offered limited recreational activities for the hostel residents. Consequently, exploring the sprawling, lush green campus on foot or by bike became my favourite way to unwind with friends. These were often followed by enjoying a hot cup of chai at the canteen or the local chai tapri outside the campus gate.

“Walk and be happy; walk and be healthy,” wrote Charles Dickens, one of my favourite authors. A value I have taken rather seriously and cultivated into a passion that continued into my career as an urban designer. So far, I have explored cities and neighbourhoods, ranging from Amaravati’s emerging landscapes to the quaint villages near the Krishna River and the bustling streets of Fort Kochi and Ernakulam. Walking immerses me in the daily rhythms, challenges, and unique characteristics of each place. This firsthand engagement allows me to propose relevant, context-sensitive solutions that improve urban life. By walking, I connect with the essence of a city, experiencing its true spirit and fostering a deeper understanding that informs my urban design projects.

Navigating the streets of Kakkanad, a suburb of Kochi, as a working mother with a toddler in tow, reveals significant challenges and raises concerns about the city’s walkability. During my daily walk from 6:45 to 8am, I have observed a noticeable gender disparity among pedestrians. The streets are predominantly occupied by men, with few women walking alone, even in these well-lit, early morning hours. Women are often accompanied by their partners and dressed in multiple layers of clothing unsuitable for walking, unlike men, who comfortably wear proper walking gear. Despite the hot weather, I too am compelled to wear full-length pants and T-shirts, enduring the heat and perspiration.

The narrow footpaths often force me to press against walls to avoid brushing shoulders with strangers. Later, when I take a short 20-minute walk with my daughter, I find that it is risky to let her walk without my holding her hand. School buses speeding through our neighbourhood streets and the lack of footpaths make it unsafe for pedestrians. The roadside wilderness, with threats from snakes, venomous insects, and scorpions, heightens our vulnerability and my reluctance to let her walk on her own. Inadequate lighting and garbage strewn around add to our discomfort, with illegal dumping of food waste creating a breeding ground for disease. The unsanitary habit of roadside spitting, particularly by migrant labourers, further exacerbates the problem, making our daily walks fraught with challenges and health risks.

Navigating blind spots at intersections is a constant challenge, turning the smallest of the junctions into a potential accident zone. Crossing every corner demands extreme caution, and I would find myself straining my senses to anticipate any threats. I would listen intently for the sound of approaching vehicles, tuning out other distractions like music or phone conversations that might impair my hearing. I position myself and my child at the edge of the sidewalk or curb, where we have the best possible view of oncoming traffic.

The absence of proper footpaths is another glaring issue, forcing us to walk on busy roads. I am constantly on edge, gripping my child’s hand tightly to ensure her safety. Even the existing footpaths offer little relief. Their height poses a challenge for shorter individuals like me, let alone my toddler. Each step is a small struggle, navigating the uneven path with difficulty. The discontinuous nature of the footpaths adds to our frustration, forcing us into a constant up-and-down motion that leaves us weary and fatigued. Without a proper footpath, I am always on guard.

On scorching afternoons, that are becoming more common, the road surface becomes unbearably hot, turning our walks into endurance exercises. With no shade in sight, each step brings us closer to exhaustion. This often compels me to take the car instead of walking to pick up my daughter from her play school, even though it’s only a 10-minute walk from our home. This choice, made by many other parents like me, causes congestion around the school and further delays in our return.

In the evenings, heavy traffic floods our neighbourhood streets, making it impossible for my daughter and me to enjoy a continuous walk without constantly stepping aside to avoid passing vehicles. The reckless driving of heavy vehicles adds to our difficulties, posing a constant hazard. We walk on our streets with trepidation, acutely aware of the lurking dangers.

As night falls, the deserted streets become even more unsafe, prompting us to quicken our pace and seek refuge indoors. The fear of encountering antisocial elements, such as eve-teasers or chain snatchers weighs heavily on my mind as we navigate the dimly lit alleys. Pollution in the air adds to our woes, with smoke and dust particles hanging heavy in the atmosphere. I worry about the long-term health effects on my child, knowing the risks of constant exposure to such pollutants. This harrowing experience often forces me to stay indoors in our flat, cutting down on her outdoor time, which in turn adds to her screen time.

Despite these challenges, my daughter and I continue to trudge through our daily walks, no matter how short they might be. I remain hopeful that someday, these pressing issues of walkability in our city will be addressed, paving the way for a safer and more accessible environment for all.

Now, two decades older, I find solace in the simplicity of walking. Strangely, walking seems to solve unrelated problems like therapy. Once, eager to prove my hypothesis on the power of walking, I conducted a series of correlation and causation tests to see if strolling through one’s neighbourhood could help resolve broader life issues - finances, heartbreak, low energy, feeling stuck in a rut - and found that they do in fact seem to find resolution through the new perspectives walking offers. With every step, my brain’s neurons fire up as if they’re working out in a mind gym for muscular grey matter! Walking boosts brain function. Neurology shows that it enhances cognitive performance and creativity. It alters neural wiring and is said to improve spatial navigation capabilities, helping you polish savvy skills such as reading a map or finding the way without a map. It essentially means one develops the stamina to perceive and interpret the world with new mental maps, perspectives and innovative approaches to challenges. My working hypothesis is that the amount one walks can determine the quality of questions one raises, and that, consequently, improves one’s quality of life because is not the quality of questions one asks directly proportionate to one’s quality of life?

I split my time between Bangalore and London, two cities with contrasting walkability scores; one evokes thrill while the other exudes calm, one is more inviting while the other is better for observation. I however, cannot quantify my experiences of Mathikere, Bangalore, versus Islington, London; one offers my favourite dosas, the other my favourite trees. I’m inclined to believe that every city becomes walkable with the right Spotify playlist, but the tangible answers I’ve mapped include factors such as density, car dependency, connectivity to urban blocks, and the linear versus labyrinthine geometry of streets.

In my day job, I build GIS models of cities, spending significant portions of my workday pondering why certain streets are more enjoyable to walk on or why specific spots within a street compel us to pause or gravitate toward them. Smaller city blocks tend to attract more foot traffic, with shops and markets forming the heart of such communities, while residential areas exhibit a more natural ‘edge’ that intensifies around commercial hubs. My master’s degree introduced me to spatial network analysis through graph theory and mathematics, where I learnt the terms ‘intelligibility’ and ‘connectivity’, all pertaining to how easy it is to find an address or how connected a route is to a network. These measures allow for a whole new field in urbanism, called wayfinding. Much like life or video games, wayfinding often is the key to uncovering the city’s treasures. A sense of how ‘integrated’ or ‘’segregated’ one is within a street network and able to find their hidden Iyengar Bakery or the popular Pub around the corner.

These questions and insights about the road network of a city and how it is connected is crucial for unravelling the secrets of a city and enhancing walkability, along with the social, economic, and environmental benefits that walkable spaces foster. I once collaborated with a firm on a project about tree worship in cities, uncovering various factors influencing people’s decision-making processes. Through this project, walking the segregated and integrated precincts of Bangalore allowed me to understand how different individuals perceive it: From fruit vendors to working women. I discovered how our spatial memories of the home differ from other influences, such as shade, temporality, familiarity, and activities that warrant better mapping.

Through my explorations of urban spaces, I’ve also found profound inspiration in the intersection of art and city life. From street murals that tell stories of community resilience to interactive installations that invite passersby to engage with their surroundings. Art and storytelling have the power to transform how we perceive and interact with our urban environment. Walking is now my philosophical quest, and as Nietzsche has said it best, ‘It is only ideas gained from walking that have any worth’

I’m intrigued by the potential of art to not only beautify our cities but also to foster a deeper connection between residents and their surroundings. By incorporating artistic elements into urban design and planning, we can create spaces that not only function efficiently but also inspire creativity, foster a sense of belonging, and promote social cohesion. The narrative of our cities can vastly improve when all stakeholders participate in its expression. With the urban population of the globe projected to reach 70% in the next 25 years, the process has become more complex.

In this essay, I know that I’ve perhaps not said anything new, but nonetheless, in writing it, I’m adding my voice to those saying we need to crack the urban code through life on foot, reducing reliance on cars and enhancing better-smelling public transport. I believe we can uncover urban marvels through walking, with input from architects, planners, coders, artists, grandmothers, children, and everyone in between. We must find ways to collaborate because each voice contributes to building better spaces, step by step.

My journey began with me boarding the local state transport bus from Roorkee, which took me to Haridwar Bus Station from where I caught another bus to reach Rishikesh. When I reached the Rishikesh bus station, I searched for a rickshaw that would take me to my accommodation. Unfortunately, I was travelling on a weekend, and the town was already buzzing with tourists when I arrived. Following some customary haggling I climbed into a rickshaw that would take me to the closest location from where I could walk up to my hostel.

Rishikesh spans both sides of the River Ganga. One can cross over the river either by foot or on a two-wheeler via the famous suspension bridges called the Ram Jhula and Laxman Jhula, the latest addition being Janki Jhula. One can also reach the other side of the Ganga by road in a private car or taxi. To reach the hostel I booked I walked across a bridge up some winding roads. The part of the town I went through to get there, was very old and had narrow streets. There were not many ways to get around, and almost everyone could be seen walking to their respective destinations. The terrain was not flat either, and had many steep slopes and steps. It was only on the last day of my stay there, that I learnt there were some shared taxis that plied a few routes up and down this mountain side town, but that they were quite expensive and so also inaccessible to many.

I had read reviews about my hostel and learnt that it required quite a hike to reach it. I thus had decided to borrow a friend’s backpack instead of taking my faithful trolley bag and this turned out to be the best decision I made. On my walks, over the next few days, I saw several tourists struggling to move their luggage trolleys on the uneven, unsmooth concrete roads. In Rishikesh, even the newly developed streets had been laid with cobblestones, making pulling a trolley through them difficult. To add to the visitors’ woes, it rained on all three of the days I was visiting and so the roads were full of muddy puddles unable to drain properly.

I spent much of that weekend going on walks; they never seemed to tire me out. I was excited to explore this place I had not been to before. The temperature was cool, the sky overcast and I found that the streets were so full of life, they made for many unexpected sensorial experiences, including those that felt like an obstacle course for as beautiful as the cobblestones were, they were not the best for walking in the rain on. There were also many cows and they wandered freely about the streets pooping everywhere. The cow dung often would mix with the rainwater as it ran down through the roads and to create a slurry I kept hopping and jumping over to avoid soiling my shoes, but nonetheless came in contact with leaving an unpleasant odour.

Some streets were also undergoing renovation work, but civic authorities had not provided an alternate route for pedestrians to use. This meant that one needed to wind round back through the maze of muddy streets, manholes and construction rubble all the way again to reach their destination. I noticed that there was a lack of road signs pointing directions to prominent locations, which sometimes meant that I had to walk double the distance since I was relying on Google Maps for navigation; a frustration that mounted when construction workers redirected me to another road and another and another road that seemed to entrench me further into the maze of mountain streets.

One evening, I crossed the bridge to explore the markets on the other side of the River Ganga, and as I made my way back to my hostel in the dark of the night, I soon realised that the route was inadequately lit, prompting me to rely on the flashlight of my phone to illuminate my path. I found this to be a daunting experience, given the deserted streets and the sense of isolation. Although I emerged unharmed, I could not shake the feeling of being constantly alert and hyperaware of my surroundings. This incident led to a self-imposed curfew for me on subsequent nights.

On my wanderings, I observed a diverse array of tourists in Rishikesh, from the elderly to the young, from rural dwellers to those regional. I could not help but notice the lack of amenities for the tourists and the absence of inclusive pedestrian infrastructure. Many were caught in the rain without umbrellas, resorting to makeshift covers for protection, while their luggage suffered and turned wet and soggy beside them.

Reflecting on my experience, I could not shake the discomfort I felt at the disparity between Rishikesh’s fame as a tourist destination and its shortcomings in providing basic comforts to walkers. While my trip provided the escape I sought, the absence of reliable public transportation and comfortable trails left me feeling exhausted. I could not help but consider what it must have been like as an experience for less mobile travellers, such as the elderly or families with young children, who may struggle even more under such conditions. It takes little imagination on my part to think of a Rishikesh where the roads have railings and the inclines are less steep, so that anyone and everyone can enjoy its beauty and charm without having to struggle and risk being injured on its streets.

My walks under the “Walk for Arcause” campaign are a humble attempt to learn, receive, imbibe, and generate ideas from what I and all those who walk with me experience when walking for “our cause” as architects, which is to spearhead social and responsible actions from stakeholders in the built environment. The first walk was kick-started in 2022, covering a distance of 1700 km in 70 days, from Kolkata to Delhi, and we are now at the tail end of its 6^th edition, having covered a total of approximately 2900 km in altogether 134 days. The experience of walking through India’s diverse and culturally rich environment has offered me a unique new perspective on our country.

I find that walking is a form of surrender; the choosing of slowness over a fast-paced life and of tuning my senses into each experience rather than numbing them with speed. It was only through this surrender that I could experience the depth of each place and find my purpose, which went on to shape the vision of the Ethos Foundation.

During these journeys, I met several personalities whom I call “showstoppers”. They prompted me to ask of myself and others critical questions about accessibility, safety, and inclusivity. Through them, I learnt about the impact of design and how often it is undervalued. Meeting Harshvardan Dubey, a person with visual impairment, in Datia, Madhya Pradesh, highlighted how our public spaces are not designed to be inclusive. He said, “I can easily navigate my way around my home, but as soon as I step out, I need to be assisted, as most spaces are very unwelcoming to people with disabilities.” This encounter led me to develop an initiative aimed at creating awareness and empathy through the lens of inclusivity.

The walk that followed was doubly tedious because of the soaring summer temperatures and the absence of trees, coupled with the lack of water and rest points. Finding toilets during the long stretches of walking was another challenge, and often the toilets in petrol bunks were a saving grace. On many days, however, no petrol bunk fell on my route. It became common for me to use abandoned buildings, open grounds with high compound walls, natural vegetation, and even toilets in the homes of locals. Something as basic as a toilet became a luxury during my walk. My narrative on toilet woes would be incomplete without mentioning Sunita Devi from Latehar, Jharkhand. Recognising the importance of toilets in improving village life, she became a woman mason. She challenged patriarchal norms in the construction industry and went on to train and empower many other women in toilet construction.

As I walked vehicles would whizz past me; a reminder of how the quality of highways is used as an indication for the development of our country. Several of those I walked past were clearly of international standards, but journeying through them on foot revealed to me deep-rooted challenges. It became apparent to me that highways are designed without considering the local way of life. Pedestrians who needed to navigate such high-speed roads to get to schools, fields, and workplaces or even to graze cattle did not often seem to have been factored in. I could see the development versus displacement debate come alive before my eyes in the nuances of who was using the roads. One such story was of the community practising the Pipili craft in Odisha. Pipili is an appliqué technique involving colourful embroidery and patch stitching on cloth. Its popularity has started fading away since a highway was designed to bypass the town with travellers passing through the region no longer able to stop and be exposed to the craft. The idea that faster road infrastructure would bring more economic growth to the village has deprived them of even the financial health they had enjoyed earlier.

In walking through the villages, I observed what I call “invisible monuments”, simple structures and homes designed with traditional materials and methods form points of identification in the context of the hyperlocal. These structures stand as the identity of the region. I believe that bringing attention to these as “‘monuments”’ would bring more equity in the storytelling of our histories of places and people. They are as much a cultural asset to the country as the famous and popular public monuments. These and many other experiences along the 2,900 kilometres collectively built my understanding of how the cause of architects today should be to develop sustainability in both thought and action.

This practice of walking as ethnography allowed me to see things that may be missed when travelling by a vehicle. It helped me connect deeply with people, nature, and the built environment in ways that would never have been possible using any other mode of transport. Discovering how one village, town, city, or even country became another at the pace of a walker was enlightening.

Taking up this arduous challenge made me view my vocation through the billion lenses of our country. Through 134 days of walking different regions of India, I experienced a mix of wonder and curiosity growing in my heart. I met people and listened to their stories filled with notes of injustice, joy, misery, problems, and solutions, including the stark economic paradox where infrastructure designed for speed bypasses and unintentionally starves local livelihoods like the Pipili craftspeople. Yet, their outpourings would generally end with something to the effect of ‘hum santusht hain’ (nonetheless, we are satisfied). Their understanding of contentment became my ally of acceptance, helping me navigate through this walk. It still builds in me the resilience to follow through and work towards the solutions to those inquiries, using design and collective action as the tools to bring change.

Further Reading:

1. Vol. 7 No. 6 (2025): MAJ Special Issue 2025 | DIVERSCITY – Ecology, Memory and Urban Regeneration | UIA International Forum 2024 KL

2. Arcause Blog

3. About Gita Balakrishnan

Picture this: It was early July in Mumbai. My favourite season, the monsoon, was in full swing. It was late afternoon when I finished a pleasant meeting with my friend Samir at a café in Growel’s, a mall in the northern neighbourhood, where I live. My friend took a cab southward, and I decided to walk home instead of taking a taxi. Blame it on my high spirits. After all, home was just about 2.5 kms away, and the clouds had cleared up.

The walkway from the mall to the main road was narrow but paved. As I reached the exit of the mall, however, it just disappeared! I was forced to cross over from the extreme right to the extreme left of the road ahead, cut across the exit meant for vehicles and gingerly make my way to the main road, apologetically delaying the motorists by a few seconds. The main road, which was in fact a service road, was dug up by more than half its width. With the rubble all over it, it wasn’t fit even for vehicles. With this sudden bottleneck upon them, the vehicles and their drivers were in a very animated mood, trying to push their nose ahead and squeeze through to the other end. It was quite a melee with 2-3- and 4-wheelers, in so many diverse avatars, all trying to get ahead. The most impatient ones were the electric scooters accompanied by the delivery jockeys who didn’t want their wares to go cold on the road. I had to wait a while to decide where to place my next step, and all I got for my patience was a splash of warm mud over my clothes! I was tempted to look for the next empty auto-rikshaw and scoot home. But I fought back the itch and decided to soldier on. Now I was moving ever so slowly on the very edge of an unfirm road. I put up with the incessant honking, stares from passersby and even a few curses along the way.

That’s when it occurred to me that it took me these many years – 20+ – living in suburban Mumbai to realize that the roads of this city are no longer meant for a person to walk. Perish the thought! They are built and maintained primarily for wheels. Even a zebra crossing is no longer spared for a pedestrian, even if they manage to find one, as vehicles often happen to stop over them. The pedestrian is clearly on their own and surely at their own risk if she/he undertakes such an adventure as walking home. I am sure insurance companies wouldn’t like to cover such specimens anymore, at least not in urban India.

After taking 15 minutes to cross 50 meters in this fashion, I came onto the W.E. Highway, which was wider but as crowded because this 3-laner was managing 6-lane traffic; cheek-to-jowl, bumper to bumper, even the peanut sellers were finding it hard to find a foothold. With vehicles suddenly revving up to higher gears as they eased onto the highway from the service road, I had to wait and watch before I resumed treading home, still a kilometer away. A 100-meters later, the challenge presented to me was to choose between climbing on the flyover or walking over another service road: narrow & pot-holed. I chose the flyover, and it didn’t take me long to realize that it wasn’t a smart decision either! It’s expected to be understood by those who use roads in the town that flyovers mean higher average speeds; and that, to speeding motorists, finding a pedestrian on a flyover is as incredible as sighting an alien.

Unmindful of all those stares, I continued my journey on the extreme left where there was, and hopefully still is, a 2-ft wide apology for a sidewalk. I was edgy all right with cars speeding past so close to me. I managed to survive the scare and climbed down to the foot of the flyover after 10 mts. Here, as the traffic from the service road joined the main road, I found myself right in the middle of a speeding contest between motorists on both my left and right. This was the most treacherous moment, and I had to gesture hard and wild to get noticed and be given a few inches to scamper to relative safety while staring down irritated looks.

At the next junction where I had to turn right under the flyover, the red lights turned on just in time for me to cross over to the other side. That was easy! But once I emerged on the other side, I found chaos as there was a traffic jam blocking traffic from all the sides. A single traffic policeman was heroically trying to untangle the mess. I took this as an opportunity to wade through the stationary assemblage of vehicles and slip on to the last leg of my walkathon.

Once inside Thakur village, the progress was without much ado except that it was still slow given the many encroachments on the pavements. So, I had to squeeze past tyre puncture shops, tea stalls, Vada pav vendors before I could finally put my foot inside our society premises, huffing and puffing. All of 2.5 km in one hour and fifteen minutes.

Glad to be home but sad to learn that pedestrians as an urban species are near extinction! He doesn’t seem to figure in, in the estimations of town planning any more, leave alone in the imagination of the motorists!

Given the extent to which we rely on automobiles to navigate our cities, we often do not know how many old structures exist in our neighbourhoods. Take the example of the Goschen Library in Chintadripet, Chennai. Constructed in 1927 in a classical style by Sri Vijayaraghavulu Chetty during British rule, the library was part of a larger plan by the Corporation of Madras to establish reading rooms across districts. Vijayaraghavulu Chetty built it in Chintadripet to nurture a reading culture in his locality. The library was named after Lord Goschen, the Governor of Madras at the time.

My colleague and I wanted to visit the Goschen Library as part of our research on local planning in our neighbourhood. Our walk began at the Guindy railway station and continued to the Chintadripet MRTS station so that we could also explore the Chintadripet locality, which was a weaver’s settlement during British rule. The library building, which we were searching for, has a large front setback from the road and is covered with trees, which made it difficult to identify. We considered asking local people for help, but very few had even heard of it. When we finally found it and went inside, two people were sitting in the hallway reading their newspapers. They were local residents who enjoy visiting the library in the mornings.

We spoke to the librarian, who shared a distressing story of the library with us. The library had once been used by many people, including those from outside Chintadripet. After technological advancements and urbanisation in the area, its importance faded. He added that a fish market with sewage spilling onto the road, located about 200 metres from the library, has discouraged people from walking there and forced many to use their own transportation to cross the street. Today, the library is used by only five or six regular readers, mostly for newspapers. An inbuilt newspaper collection point along the compound wall adds character to the building. Over time, the library has struggled. It was shut down for several years during a failed attempt to convert it into a machinery museum, reopened in 1993 with declining users, and was later damaged by the 2015 and 2023 Chennai floods, which destroyed many of its books. Although writer Tamizh Prabha, a native of Chintadripet, launched a novel there out of personal connection, the century-old building now stands in a dilapidated state, carrying memories but little recognition.

One major reason for this neglect is the lack of walkability in Chintadripet. The area, located near Egmore Railway Station at 1.6 kilometres away and Chennai Central at 3.2 kilometres away, suffers from heavy traffic and congestion. Once envisioned as a weaver’s settlement, known as Chinna Thari Pettai or Small Weavers Village, its charm has been eroded. Arunachala Naicken Street, the main east to west road containing eight notable heritage buildings including the Goschen Library, is now overwhelmed by mixed-use developments, roadside shops encroaching on sidewalks, and a bustling fish market that leaves the streets messy with sewage water. On-street parking further obstructs pedestrian movement. The enjoyment of this heritage street has been entirely lost.

Without walkable spaces, residents cannot experience their settlement’s identity, nor can younger generations learn the names of the heritage structures around them. If this condition persists, the cultural and architectural identity of Chintadripet and its surviving heritage buildings will be completely lost. People often expect the government to protect such structures without taking the initiative themselves. Yet if walkable environments were created in Chintadripet, residents would naturally discover their heritage. They would know about the Goschen Library, pause to admire its beauty, and carry forward its legacy. Walkability not only makes a place safer, more comfortable, and more accessible. It also plays a crucial role in preserving the identity of entire settlements.

I had the opportunity to travel to a few different cities in India over the past couple of months and, being someone who enjoys exploring cities on foot, saw myself walking quite a bit. Initially, my focus was trained largely on my dismay at the lack of good walking infrastructure. There was a lot of weaving between the pavement and the main road I had to do, and the obvious takeaway from this was how poorly the pavement was designed in large stretches. That was until I took a step back and tried to notice what design elements were around me that made walking on Indian roads a unique experience in itself.

A recent design input that I have seen in Delhi, but only just joined the dots on, is the use of imagery of deities to prevent public urination. Public urination is a problem in most Indian cities because of the lack of public urinals available to people. While the number of urinals has increased, old habits still seem hard to shake off. An ingenious way of protecting boundary walls from this offending liquid has been to cement tiles with the image of Lakshmi, the goddess of good fortune, and her different avatars on bits of the wall that face the public. Who would want to desecrate Lady Luck herself, the reasoning goes. It’s a simple but effective solution and can be seen around a lot of public infrastructure, including in parks.

While walking through the busy roads of Madurai, I noticed a sudden uptick in pedestrian activity in areas where a temple was situated because these are areas of public congregation. How does one know they are near a temple? Why, the walls are always painted red and white. This colour combination represents historical auspiciousness and the unity of Shiva–Shakti; male and female components of the universe. As far as the red and white stripes stretch, thus far will the pedestrian-intensive activities occur. Cars are second-class citizens on these lanes, and people will shake their heads at those foolish enough to attempt to drive on these streets.

While walking through Bhubaneshwar, I was struck by how Lutyens-like the city looked. Separated cycle lanes stretched for kilometres, beautiful leafy walkways were dotted with benches, and come dusk, the city had taken to playing with different public lighting options, which had the delightful effect of changing the feel of each street. Near the Vidhan Sabha, ornate cast-iron lamp posts impress upon the walker a sense of history and seriousness about government affairs that happen there. Closer to the dhabas where families and young people hang out, the lamp posts are sleek, curvy designs with warmer and brighter lights that encourage people to linger on. An amusing detail I noticed was that large sections of the footpath at the centre of the city were painted green as a clever and subtle reinforcement of the ruling party’s colour. The press had had a field day tutting the wisdom of this move, pointing out that Bhubaneswar had certainly become a “greener” capital because of the move, but in a way that did nothing for the environment.

Looking out for these quirks while walking has become a favourite activity for me now. While there is much left to be desired for pavements in India to reach international standards of design that make them safe and accessible to all, it is also enormously entertaining to try and pick up on regional indicators that have seeped into the pedestrian experience in different parts of the country. Pavements are not just paths to our final destination. They are also wonderful ways to deduce and identify the heartbeat of different neighbourhoods based on something as simple as the paint used to colour a path.

As an urban designer, I felt very critical of the place I called home and grumbled to myself about the state of the so-called heritage area, but the cynic in me believed there wasn’t much I could do. One day, on my way back from work, I stopped for some tender coconut water and overheard a child ask his father, “Appa what’s behind all these cars?” His dad lifted him up, and the child was surprised to see there was a huge temple pond of water, hidden behind all the parked vehicles and abandoned cars. “Wow. Can we go there?” he asks his dad, who replies, “It is so dirty. There’s nothing much there. Why would you want to go there? No one does.” They eventually left after paying the vendor, but that simple interaction echoed in my mind all day. What was the point of being an urban designer if I could not contribute to my own neighbourhood’s improvement? I wished I could have thrown an invisibility cloak around all those parked cars, fixed the broken sidewalks, cleaned up the overflowing garbage and added some lights and benches, just so that the kid could have explored the area with joy, and felt safe in his neighbourhood.

It was easier to imagine what was possible on Photoshop. So a group of us — designers, architects and residents got together to imagine and communicate a few ideas to make the street more pedestrian-friendly. This switch in attitude from being someone who merely talked about the problem to someone who was a change-initiator was gradual but grew stronger as more people understood the need for such initiatives. An elderly resident we spoke to, for instance, said that she walks to the temple for a sense of peace and to stay active. However, the pathways leading to the temple are full of broken alcohol bottles, trash and traffic, which “defeats the purpose,” she told us.

Many issues of city planning are evident in these streets. A funny one I noticed was that despite the “NO PARKING ZONE” signs, vehicles were always parked right in front of the sign. There was no one to enforce the rule, making it easy to violate it. Moreover, in the absence of usable sidewalks or accessible streets, children, the elderly, and the differently-abled found this to be a very dangerous street to navigate, especially during peak traffic hours and the rainy season. Even cows roamed freely on the streets, got hurt, or contributed to the traffic jams. It was chaotic and scary, at times, to go for a walk!

Who the street was owned by played a huge role in the way our initial engagement unfolded. We found out that the sidewalk around the tank belonged to the temple trust, while the rest of the street, where vehicles were parked, was property of the city corporation. This meant that we had to convince both owners to come on board with the initiative. To be able to walk safely and comfortably is a right, not a luxury, but this argument was not enough to convince the concerned parties to provide resources or support our effort. So I had to take a different approach.

The temple deity Marundeeshwar has a name that translates to “The god that cures illness.” Devotees were once able to take a dip in the temple tank to “heal” themselves. While talking to the temple authorities, we remarked how ironic it was that the current state of Mada Veedhi could cause illness and accidents, not cure it. At times, I even noticed persons with disabilities visiting the temple as the belief in its curative powers is common among devotees. The temple authorities understood our point and agreed to support our idea to reimagine a more healing experience for the pilgrims.

Despite the positive response, we continue to stumble upon roadblocks at every stage. For instance, we had to make an economic case to funders and politicians as to why they should spend money and effort on this project. The local businesses around the temple were our go-to for support, as poor walkability and maintenance directly impacted their businesses. A lot of questions were raised about the viability: “Where will people park their cars?” “Who will take care of the new pedestrian path?” “Will roadside vendors be affected by this?”.

To address these concerns, we and some volunteers conducted surveys to understand traffic patterns and user experience, mapped out a few spots where parking could be reallocated, and listed other problem areas on our streets. One suggestion was to create a system that could manage and maintain the streets by designating parking in certain spots, for limited hours, and charging a fee for the same. This fee would support the monthly maintenance of the completed pedestrian path. We also decided we had to start small, and gain local support, so we decided to clean up one corner and host an event, thereby transforming it into a temporary pedestrian paradise!

There is still a long way to go towards realising this vision to reclaim the limited public access we have in our city. However, when more people ask why not, instead of why – like our collaborators and team of volunteers— a world of possibilities opens up. I hope one day to walk these streets and enjoy the view of the temple pond from across it.

Further Reading:

1. Art, history and culture coopted as allies in an exercise to declutter streets around a famous temple in Chennai - The Hindu