Looking past Bengaluru's concrete: A terrain that lives in its names

Bengaluru is often imagined as a flat, endless sprawl. But look past the flyovers and the signboards, and the city reveals a very different geography. Beneath the concrete, this was a city of rugged mountain passes, intricate water networks, rolling heaps and protected commons — land used by the community but safeguarded by the state.

The sluice gate of Kempambudhi Kere.

We often forget that Bengaluru sits 900 metres above sea level, perched on the Deccan Plateau. It isn’t a flat tabletop; it is a terrain of ridges and valleys. Cyclists know this instinctively, and the old names of the city confirm it.

To find the high ground, look for the suffixes Gudda, Betta and Male. Each points to a hill or rocky elevation. Names like Chikkabettahalli (a little hill village) and Guddahalli (a hilly village) speak of settlements carved around natural high points. Even Gulakamale hints at a stony terrain. 

A digital image highlighting the name of ‘Chikkabettahalli’ found in an inscription.

Some stories, however, are more intricate. Take Malleshwaram for instance. A 1669 CE inscription near the Kadu Malleshwara temple records the village as Mallapura and the deity as Mallapurada Mallikarjuna. Over centuries, the name merged and morphed into Malleshwara.

Then there is the suffix Ghatta, a marker of mountain ranges or rugged slopes. Bannerghatta is not just the name of a park; it describes the rocky southern edge of the city. Similar suffixes in Challaghatta and Chunchaghatta remind us that these ancient undulations once guided where our ancestors built their tanks.

Even suffixes like Kuppe or Guppe carry topographical meaning. Often assumed to mean “hamlet,” in Mysorean etymology, it literally means a heap, a pile, a mound, or simply settlements perched on raised earth. So, Attiguppe translates to ‘Heap of Fig Trees,’ while Thagachaguppe refers to a mound covered in tagache (Cassia tora), a bright yellow-flowered herb. 

And then there is Kathriguppe. Here, Kuppe is a mound, but Kathari suggests scissors or a dagger (Katar). Was the terrain dagger-shaped, or did the name commemorate a warrior? Historians still debate.

The water grid

If the hills defined the city’s skeleton, water shaped its lifeblood. Bengaluru’s ancient water security rested on Keres, Kuntes and Kodis.

A digital image highlighting the name of ‘Hesarughatta’ found in an inscription.

The suffix Kere is ubiquitous referring to large irrigation tanks. Still visible in names like Mathikere, Tavarekere (Lotus Lake), Abbigere and Kalkere, they remind us that the city was essentially a wetland.

But where did excess water go when tanks overflowed? That’s the role of a Kodi or Godi, the waste weirs or stone outlets from where water safely escaped the tanks. Names like Adugodi, Hebbagodi, Kadugodi and Jodi Huskur Kodi mark the areas near these crucial safety valves.

Meanwhile, the smaller Kunte were ponds tucked into natural depressions and were used to wash cattle or clothes. Konanakunte, which literally means a buffalo pond, Yellukunte and Bagalakunte remind us of these humble water points.

The system wasn’t random. Rainwater cascaded from the Guddas and Kuppes into the Keres, overflowed through the Kodis, and spilled into the Kuntes, sustaining a network of lakes, ponds and wetlands. In other words, Bengaluru was not just a city with tanks — it was a gravity-fed water grid carefully attuned to the plateau’s contours.

The green belt

Bengaluru followed clear land-use rules even centuries ago, a fact encoded in localities bearing the suffix Kaval. In old revenue records, a Kaval was state-protected grazing ground. These were vast stretches reserved for livestock or specific trees where no agriculture or housing was allowed. These areas acted as a buffer between cultivation and habitation. Names like Jarakabande Kaval, Vyalikaval and Shrigandhada Kaval (sandalwood forest) preserve this legacy.

A digital image highlighting the name of ‘Mallapura’ found in an inscription.

But where did the cattle go at night? That is where the suffix Doddi comes in. A Doddi was a cattle pound or enclosure. Names such as Javaregowdana Doddi, Jayapura Doddi and Saludoddi indicate the city’s once-pastoral lands. If the Kaval was the open grazing ground, the Doddi was its secure home.

The sweet rice gate

Among the hills and ponds, there were the gates or Vagilu. While some controlled entry to the fort, some have interesting stories behind them. Take for instance the Srinivagilu on the Inner Ring Road. An 8th-century inscription calls it Sihi Nel Vagilu, an entrance to the sweet rice field. It suggests that the land that connects Koramangala was once famous for a fragrant variety of rice. The name endured, a whisper of a landscape that has since vanished.

A digital image highlighting the name of ‘Srinivagilu’ found in an inscription.

So, the next time you navigate a pothole in Guddahalli or wait for a bus in Attiguppe, look around. The names still reflect the nature of the terrain. They speak of a time when rainwater from the Males and Kuppes filled the Keres, overflowed through the Kodis and nourished the grass in the Kavals. Concrete may now cover the soil, but the city’s memory remains etched in its toponyms.

(The author is Honorary Project Director, The Mythic Society, Bengaluru)