Invisible on the Footbridge: How Society Is Changing for people with disabilities
By Praveen Kumar
There was a time when help came naturally — unasked, unforced, and full of human kindness. As a visually impaired person, I have travelled across cities with a quiet sense of confidence, trusting that someone, somewhere, would offer a helping hand when needed. But today, that landscape is changing — and not always for the better.
Recently, I traveled from MG Road to Yeshwantpur Railway Station in Bangalore to catch a train to Tumkur. That journey laid bare a truth I have been noticing with growing unease: a deepening hesitation among people to engage, to assist, and to connect. At the Trinity Metro Station, a staff member assisted me board the train as it is part of their duty. But when I reached Majestic interchange — one of the busiest metro intersections in Bangalore — I was left to fend for myself. Some co-passengers offered basic guidance, but it was patchy, uncertain, and lacked the warmth of genuine concern. By the time I reached Yeshwantpur Metro Station, I was entirely at the mercy of strangers. A few people pointed vaguely toward the metro exit point— but when you can't see, a pointed finger is as good as a closed door. When I asked a co-passenger for help, he unknowingly began guiding me in the wrong direction. Relying on my own sense of orientation and familiarity with the station’s layout, I stayed alert. Eventually, a station staff member assisted me to the Indian Railways ticket counter.
After purchasing my ticket, I once again had to seek help. This time, someone guided me toward the foot overbridge. The footbridge was a chaos of hurried footsteps and swirling crowds, each person wrapped in their own urgency. I stood there, vulnerable, pausing often to ask for directions to Platform 4, as announced over the speakers of my train number and platform. Most people ignored my requests. Some pointed wordlessly, and others brushed past, too busy to notice a man with a white cane. Finally, one man took a moment to lead me to the top of the stairs. With my cane tapping the steps and my heart trusting my instincts more than anything else, I descended toward the platform. Even there, help remained elusive. A shopkeeper gestured vaguely when I asked if the train was on the correct platform. Trusting his assurance, I moved forward carefully, feeling the dirty train carriage with my hands, finding a door, and boarding with a mix of uncertainty and determination.
Inside the reserved coach, where I only had an unreserved ticket, some passengers resisted my attempt to find a seat, asserting their right to their reserved spaces. After a few tense moments, I finally found a place to sit. The Ticket Inspector, noticing my situation, showed a rare spark of kindness and allowed me to stay for the short journey.
Yet, the sadness that clung to me was not just about the practical difficulties I faced. It was the deep, gnawing ache of realizing that in today’s fast-moving world, a person with a disability is often rendered invisible — or seen merely as an object of charity, seldom recognized as an equal traveler, a fellow human being. Most importantly, the growing insensitivity of civil society.
The same day another incident reinforced this unsettling feeling.
In Bangalore again, I tried to book an Uber to travel from Rajajinagar to Richmond Circle. As often happens, the drivers kept canceling. I finally sought help from a security guard to hail an auto-rickshaw. The driver who stopped quoted me a fare nearly double what was fair — and he did so even after noticing that my whitecane was with me. His behavior made it clear: to him, I was not a customer; I was an opportunity to exploit.
Another time, in Delhi, I was waiting near the metro station gate for a friend. A man approached me and quietly offered me money. I was stunned. He spoke good English, but still perceived my blindness as a reason for charity, not dignity. I firmly refused, but I carried that moment with me, weighing heavily.
These experiences are not isolated incidents; they are reflections of a society in painful transition.
Have we become so engrossed in our own lives that we no longer notice the quiet needs around us?
Have we shifted from a society grounded in empathy to one numbed by indifference — or worse, conditioned to see people with disabilities either as burdens or as objects of charity? Are we producing more educated people with lesser sensitivity and purpose?
The erosion of everyday kindness speaks volumes. Invisibility is more brutal than outright hostility. Being unseen, unacknowledged, and untouched by the currents of shared humanity is a wound deeper than physical barriers.
Yet even in this changing world, I carry hope. Every small gesture — a guiding hand, a genuine smile, a moment of true acknowledgment — reminds me that humanity is not lost. It only needs to be awakened again. It is not just about supporting people with disabilities. It is about nurturing a society where every person, regardless of ability, feels seen, respected, and included. It is about building a world where a footbridge is not just a passage across platforms — but a bridge of empathy between human hearts and interdependence.