Every morning, Raghav Karanth gets off his bike at the Marathahalli signal, helmet tucked under his arm, eyes fixed on the timer counting down. He has worked in the area for 8 years now.
He knows the shortcuts,
the chai stall that opens first, and exactly which lane moves when the signal turns green. What he has never thought about is the name Marathahalli itself. For him, like for most people, it is just a place you pass through, not a story you stop to read.
Long before Marathahalli became a landmark for IT parks and flyovers, it was a small village on the outskirts of old Bengaluru. The name comes from two words: Maratha and halli, the Kannada word for village. Together, they point to a time when this area was known as the village of the Marathas.
When Soldiers Lived Here
Historical references and local oral accounts suggest that during the 17th and 18th centuries, Maratha forces moved through and stationed themselves in parts of southern India, including regions around present-day Bengaluru.
Marathahalli lays along an important route connecting Bengaluru to what are now parts of Tamil Nadu and Andhra Pradesh. Soldiers camped in such locations not for a day or two, but often for months.
Where they stayed, support settlements grew. Farmers supplied grain, traders followed, and families settled nearby. Over time, these temporary camps became permanent villages identified by the people who lived there.
How the Name Took Root
The area was once referred to as Marathara Halli, a descriptive phrase that literally meant the Marathas’ village in Kannada. As generations passed and language softened, the name gradually became Marathahalli.
By the time British administrators mapped villages around Bengaluru, the name was already in everyday use. Like many place names in the city, it was never formally declared. It survived because people kept saying it.
Unlike other historic places, Marathahalli does not display its past openly. There are no forts, inscriptions or signboards marking its Maratha roots. The farmland disappeared, the village expanded, and eventually, concrete took over.
The IT boom of the late 20th century erased nearly every visible trace of its early history. Yet the name endured, quietly carrying centuries of memory even as everything around it changed.
A Familiar Pattern Across Bengaluru
Marathahalli fits a broader pattern seen across Bengaluru. Neighbourhood names often outlast the occupations, communities or events that created them. Places like Yelahanka, Ulsoor and Shivajinagar still reflect layers of history that are not immediately visible in the modern city. These names act as markers of who once lived, worked or passed through these spaces.
One evening, stuck in the same traffic again, Raghav Karanth overhears a conversation about the area’s history. For the first time, the name Marathahalli feels heavier, older. The signal turns green, bikes surge forward, and the city moves on.
But the village of the Marathas, hidden beneath flyovers and office blocks, continues to exist in the only way it can now, through its name.
