The heat in Bidadi is thick with a mix of dust, defiance, and disbelief. Once a sleepy town outside Bengaluru, this cluster of green fields and quiet villages is now at the centre of an unfolding confrontation between two visions of India’s future. On one side are the farmers who have cultivated these lands for generations. On the other is the state’s ambitious plan to build India’s first artificial intelligence-powered city, a sprawling, high-tech township promising sleek infrastructure, green energy, and digital precision.
For the farmers who oversee the crops of millet, the paddyfields and the sugarcane, this promise of the future comes at the cost of their present – and their livelihoods. Their opposition is now drawing political attention and solidarity marches, and their determination is growing.
The Greater Bengaluru Integrated Township, or GBIT, is billed as a symbol of modern India’s ambition. The 9,000-acre GBIT site is intended to be a model for sustainable urban living. It will be carbon-neutral, waste-free, and powered by AI. At a cost of $2.4bn, this new AI town will host digital industries, innovation labs and research centres, and will generate thousands of jobs. That, at least, is the plan.
The promotional images show glass towers glinting under a clear sky, green boulevards, and no traffic, the perfect merger of technology, sustainability, and economic growth. But for the people whose farms are in the way, it feels more like erasure.
The fertile plains around Bidadi supply food to the city of Bengaluru, especially fresh vegetables, the rhythms of the harvest dictated by monsoon and market. Now, the old boundaries once set out by banana groves and coconut trees are being replaced by modern stone markers.
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Farmers say the notices arrived suddenly, and all the maps were unclear. Officials spoke about compensation packages, annuities, and partnership models that sounded alien to those whose assets are measured not in balance sheets but in bushels of ragi (finger millet).
“We have nowhere to go and no plans to leave. This is our soil, seeded by our sweat and blood. No artificial intelligence is worth a single farmer’s life,” said Hanumanthappa, a 72-year-old farmer who owns two acres.
During my visit to the lush green farmlands, the atmosphere was filled with the sound of local birds and the scent of crops. Yet this community may not survive. In Bidadi’s narrow lanes, where homes open into cow sheds and courtyards echo with the breeding of cattle, the idea of an AI city is met with incomprehension.
For months, farmers have gathered to discuss this intrusion into their lives. Old men sit cross-legged on charpoys debating land records, while younger ones update protest schedules on their phones. Women, often the silent backbone of these farming households, bring water and food. They cook under the scorching sun as children run about with handmade placards.
The administration insists that the new AI city will lift the region, promising generous compensation schemes. But people around here have seen other fertile tracts vanish under the concrete. These assurances sound like a familiar story.
The idea of an AI-powered city is certainly seductive, with its promise of efficiency, of data-driven governance, and a new economy. But the question here is who benefits from this onrushing modernity. While policymakers dream of innovation corridors and intelligent grids, the farmers wonder whether progress is worth such damaging consequences. They see the AI city as a gleaming mirage, one that may enrich investors but that will destroy their lives.
The government has promised to protect landowners and ensure fair compensation. Yet each new announcement rekindles suspicion, each survey triggers unrest.
In Bidadi, at dusk, you can see the distant glow of Bengaluru’s skyline in the distance – it’s a city of tech parks and start-ups, the very image of India’s digital rise. But here, in the half-light of the fields, another India lingers, one that still draws strength from the soil, one that demands to be part of the story rather than its forgotten casualty.
Vasudevan Sridharan is a freelance journalist based in southern India
