Farewell to the launch, a bridge to the future

Today marked my final official journey on the ‘Holebagilu’ launch — a ferry that has been the lifeline of our region for over 60 years. A long-standing dream, shaped by the relentless efforts of many, is finally becoming reality: A 2.2-kilometre bridge now spans the Sharavathi River, connecting the Tumari region, also known as Karuru Seeme, to the rest of the world.

Karuru Seeme comprises around 30 villages under four grama panchayats. Sharavathi river divides Sagar taluk in Karnataka’s Shivamogga district into two, and Karuru Seeme sits almost like an island on the backwaters of the Linganamakki Dam. The village before the river, on the Sagar side, is Ambaragodlu. On the Tumari side, is Kalasavalli. We call both ends Holebaagilu, which translates to “door to the river.”

The geography here is unique — surrounded by water, the island spans approximately 20 kilometres in radius. To reach Sagara, the taluk headquarters, by road alone meant a roundabout journey of nearly 100 kilometres. While there are schools in Karuru Seeme, pursuing education beyond matriculation requires relocating to Sagara. Many families could not afford hostel fees or lacked nearby relatives to accommodate their children. As a result, nearly one-third of students, especially girls, were unable to continue their studies. 

Though a small hospital exists, it has had limited success in emergencies.  Economically, the region has largely depended on agriculture, especially arecanut plantations. More recently, tourism linked to the popular Siganduru temple brought some investments in homestays and small businesses. Before the ferry came into service, residents crossed the river in small boats.

A long run

For six decades, the government-owned launch ferried both people and vehicles, operating from 7:30 am to 6:30 pm every day. A single trip would carry a public transport bus, six to seven four-wheelers, 10 two-wheelers, and a separate passenger seating area. The fare was modest — Rs 1 per person and Rs 20 to 40 for vehicles. The launch has worked for 365 days a year without fail. Only during the peak of summer, when the water levels have gone down, would it not carry vehicles. 

In the early days, there was only one launch. Later, with growing crowds, especially due to Siganduru pilgrims, a second launch was added. This humble vessel, now dwarfed by the towering new bridge, once carried our hopes, frustrations, celebrations, and everyday life. In a few hours, the launch service will officially cease. Even though we may see it floating quietly below from the bridge, it will no longer be our necessity. And that is a bittersweet feeling.

The rhythms of life in Karuru Seeme were orchestrated by the ferry’s timetable. A trip to Sagara, just 40 km away, was a full-day event. You would catch the morning trip, wait for shops to reopen post-lunch (often only after 4 pm), and then scramble to catch the final launch via bus by 4:30. Missing it meant an overnight stay. 

For those of us raised on the pulse of the river, this shift is deeply emotional. We did not measure our days by the clock. No one said, “I came at 9 am” Instead, we would say, “I came by the first trip” or “I returned on the second.” The launch trips even had names: Khali trip (when no buses ran), Varada trip (after a particular bus), Raju trip (the last trip, named after a longtime driver, Raju, whose name outlived his role). These phrases were part of our dialect, our culture, our identity.

In Karuru Seeme, homes are scattered, and during monsoons — when it rains relentlessly for five months — people barely step out. The ferry was our social corridor. That 22-minute journey was a place of meetings, gossip and silent companionship. If a friend or relative crossed the river, news would spread quickly. Just today, after taking the last trip quietly, we got a call from a friend on the other side: “Did you come this way today?”

The ferry also shaped our long-distance travel. To catch the 9:15 pm train to Bengaluru from Sagara, one had to take the 5:30 pm one or the Raju Gadi launch and wait in town for hours. We grew up according to this clockless routine, dictated entirely by the river.

Now that the bridge is finally opening, people are reminiscing, wondering what life will look like hereafter. There is excitement, certainly. But we often catch ourselves talking as if the launch’s end means we can no longer cross the river. Such is the deep-rooted association we have built with it.

A view of the newly-inaugurated bridge across the Sharavathi.