By Sooraj Nanaiah

I remember cycling down Hyder Ali Road at 3 pm on my way to tennis coaching. I was 14 years old, the sun overhead and the heat harsh. But the road — lined with tall rain trees — made it bearable. Their thick canopy provided shade, kept the ground cool and made even a summer afternoon manageable.

That wasn’t an accident.

The older parts of Mysore were designed with people in mind. Not cars.

The neighbourhoods I grew up in felt spacious. The streets weren’t clogged or crowded. Homes had verandas, open balconies and gardens — not just for looks, but for function. They allowed for airflow, encouraged casual interaction and gave the streets a sense of openness and life that’s largely missing today.

And with it, a mindset shift. We began prioritising space for vehicles over everything else. Trees were cut, footpaths narrowed, roads widened and gardens paved over.

Hyder Ali Road is just one example. A stretch once known for its greenery now has less of it — all to reduce drive times by a few minutes. But those trees weren’t just decorative — they provided cooling and gave that road a certain old school charm and character.

The changes have been steady and visible. Many houses no longer stop at a single garage — they now dedicate the entire ground floor to stilt parking, with high compound walls that shut neighbours out from even a peek inside. A quiet sign of how cars have reshaped architectural priorities. I find these new structures an eyesore — but that’s what we get when convenience takes precedence over elegance.

Closer to home, I worry about my own neighbourhood. The streets here are still lined with honge mara — Indian beech trees — that support entire micro-ecosystems. Squirrels, butterflies, bees and even migratory birds rely on them. Locals call this stretch the “honge mara road.” It’s part of the identity of the area. On a hot day, you can really feel the difference — the street is noticeably cooler than the surrounding areas, a reminder of how much microclimates matter in a warming city.

But these trees are under threat. They stand just outside the boundaries of empty 50×80 sites and while they aren’t inside private property, I fear they may still be cut down — either to clear space for roadside parking or in anticipation of mini-apartments that seem inevitable.

The assumption is always the same: every street must accommodate multiple cars. Trees become optional. The logic is always the same — convenience.

Singapore Model

Meanwhile, cities like Singapore — hotter, denser and with fewer natural advantages — chose not to let cars shape urban life. Car ownership is tightly regulated through high registration fees and limited quotas, while public transport was prioritised early with a fast, reliable metro system. Streets are designed for people — with wide footpaths, shaded walkways and seamless connections. The result: preserved green cover, efficient mobility and walkable neighbourhoods. Singapore beat the car by design, not by accident.

We didn’t need to invent a new playbook. We needed to adapt and innovate with one clear goal: preserve the integrity of the city. Innovation isn’t about chasing the new for its own sake. It’s about solving modern problems while protecting what gives a place its identity, function and liveability.

Car crippled Bangalore

Mysoreans often look to Bangalore as a preview of the future and feel anxious about progress and growth. But Bangalore’s challenges are the result of a city being increasingly redesigned around the car.

Over the last two decades, Bangalore embraced a car-centric model of urban development. Roads were widened, flyovers multiplied and intersections were re-engineered — not for pedestrians or public transport, but to prioritise vehicle flow. Footpaths were narrowed or erased. Trees were cut down to make room for   road expansion.

Plan Mysuru beyond cars

Growth isn’t the problem. If anything, Mysore suffers from a lack of meaningful ambition — the kind that invests in public infrastructure, supports local businesses and creates opportunity for the people who live here. Instead, the city has leaned heavily on real estate speculation.

Land prices climb. Gated layouts spread. But little is done to build a sustainable cultural or economic engine. Young people with ideas and initiative often leave — not because they want to, but because starting something here doesn’t make sense when rents are high and support systems are thin. The city must grow — but with a certain vision.

My friends and I often debate how to measure the true health of a city. We look at the usual metrics — land value, car ownership and construction rates — but conventional models only tell half the story. They measure activity, not vitality. A more telling indicator, we’ve found, is this: How many birds, bees, butterflies or squirrels do you see in your neighbourhood?

It sounds simple, even whimsical. But these creatures only thrive in stable, breathable environments — with old trees, clean air and low noise.

When they disappear, it’s not just an ecological loss — it’s a signal that something is out of balance. Because the real question isn’t just whether a city is growing. It’s whether that growth is making everyday life better — for everyone, not just developers and landlords.