Before my internship, Guwahati was simply the city I moved through every day. I walked its roads, climbed its stairs, waited in its queues, and navigated its spaces without much thought. Accessibility, to me, was a distant concept, something I had “heard of” in laws or discussions but never consciously applied to my surroundings. It was only after working closely with children and adults with disabilities that my way of seeing the city changed significantly. Guwahati remained the same, but my lens did not.
Working in an environment where accessibility was intentionally built into daily life made me realise how invisible barriers are to those who do not encounter them personally. Inside the organisation, ramps, wide pathways, supportive staff, and patient systems allowed individuals to move, learn, and participate with dignity. Stepping outside into the city, however, the contrast was immediate and unsettling. Places I had never questioned suddenly appeared exclusionary, not because they were openly hostile, but because they were thoughtlessly designed.
Footpaths in Guwahati are a clear example. Many are uneven, broken, or abruptly disappear. Others are occupied by vendors, parked vehicles, or debris. Earlier, these were minor inconveniences to me, something to step around. Now, I began to imagine how impossible these paths would be for a wheelchair user or someone with limited mobility. The city often forces such individuals onto busy roads, exposing them to danger simply because accessible pathways are missing or ignored. This made me question who the city is truly built for.
Public buildings and institutions present a similar picture. Some spaces attempt to incorporate ramps, but these are often steep, narrow, or poorly designed, suggesting that accessibility is treated as a formality rather than a necessity. I recall visiting places where ramps existed but lacked railings or led to locked doors, making them effectively useless. These experiences highlighted a recurring issue: accessibility is frequently approached as a checklist item, not as a lived reality that requires understanding and empathy.
Public transport, too, became impossible to ignore through this new lens. Buses with high steps, overcrowded compartments, and no visible assistance systems make independent travel extremely difficult for persons with physical disabilities. For individuals with visual or hearing impairments, the absence of audio announcements, visual indicators, or trained staff further restricts mobility. Watching people struggle to board or disembark made me realise how independence, something I take for granted, is denied to many simply due to poor planning.
What struck me most, however, was not just the physical barriers but the social attitudes surrounding them. On several occasions, I noticed people stepping in to help, lifting
wheelchairs or offering support. While these gestures are kind, they often stem from sympathy rather than a recognition of rights. My internship taught me that accessibility should not depend on goodwill or charity. True inclusion allows individuals to move and participate independently, without having to rely on constant assistance or draw attention to themselves.
At the same time, my observations were not entirely pessimistic. There are spaces in Guwahati, particularly newer establishments, that show conscious efforts toward inclusive design. Wider entrances, smoother pathways, and thoughtful layouts suggest that accessibility is possible when it is prioritised. These spaces stood out to me precisely because they felt effortless to navigate, reinforcing the idea that good design benefits everyone, not only persons with disabilities.
One assignment during my internship required me to write a reflective blog on accessibility, pushing me to intentionally observe and analyse the spaces I visited. This exercise sharpened my awareness and forced me to slow down and notice details I would have otherwise ignored. It became clear that accessibility is not just about infrastructure but about mindset. Cities are not inherently inaccessible; they are made so through neglect, lack of awareness, and poor implementation of existing laws and guidelines.
This experience has left a lasting impact on how I view Guwahati. The city now appears layered, with visible and invisible barriers shaping who can participate fully in public life. I can no longer move through spaces without noticing who is excluded and why. This shift in perspective has instilled a sense of responsibility in me, not only as a citizen but as someone studying law and social systems. Awareness is the first step, but it must be followed by questioning, advocacy, and conscious action.
Ultimately, accessibility is not about catering to a small section of society. It is about recognising diversity as a fundamental aspect of human existence. A truly inclusive city is one where dignity, independence, and participation are not privileges but rights. Seeing Guwahati through this accessibility lens has transformed the way I understand the city and my role within it. I now realise that the spaces we design reflect the values we uphold, and until accessibility becomes central to planning and practice, inclusion will remain incomplete.