Rains and Reckoning

In almost every monsoon season, the local news carries familiar stories: roads swallowed by torrents or buried under sudden landslides, as the mountains yield reluctantly to the force of unending rain.

Over the years, my experiences have slowly shaped some firm and deeply considered views on this. Feel free to disagree with me.

Excessive rains are not new to these mountains; they have lashed the land for centuries, shaping valleys and rivers in their wake. What is changing, however, is their intensity. The climate crisis is amplifying these events: as temperatures rise, clouds hold more moisture, releasing it in sudden, violent downpours—the cloudbursts that now strike with greater frequency and force. The climate crisis has also affected the way monsoons and western disturbances act, integral to rains in our subcontinent. Now, there are times when these excessive rains go on incessantly for days at a stretch.

The real danger arises when nothing stands in the way of unchecked water. Rampant deforestation, which I see unfolding all around, is one of the chief culprits. A man I know felled nearly an acre of orchard to raise a sprawling mansion, later boasting of his love for nature by placing a few fern planters on his balcony, a hollow gesture, almost mocking the earth he stripped bare. Without trees to bind the soil, the ground loosens, and with the rains, it tumbles down in landslides that block our roads and smother our valleys. Trees do far more than hold the soil; their canopies soften the lash of torrential rains, while their roots keep the ground porous, allowing it to drink in water. Strip them away, and the land’s resilience crumbles with them.

Much of the deforestation in these mountains stems from two forces. First, the relentless push for ‘development’: the widening of roads, the raising of massive buildings, the carving of land in the name of progress. Second, the lure of profit through illegal logging, where timber finds eager buyers to feed the frenzy of construction spreading across the Himalayan states. Together, these forces gnaw away at the very forests that shield and sustain us.

Next comes the mindless blasting of rock and the gouging out of soil with heavy earth-moving machines. Such assaults inflict irreversible scars on the land, leaving the surrounding slopes fragile and hollow. Then, it takes only a few spells of heavy rain for the weakened ground to give way, and the damage unfolds swiftly and brutally.

Even the smaller village roads are too often littered with construction material, while their drains lie choked and neglected. With nowhere to go, the rainwater spills across the roads, eroding them, and then carves out new paths of its own sometimes cutting through orchards and fields, sometimes into homes, leaving damage in its path. While planting some bramble saplings at one end of our orchard, I noticed muddy water flowing from a higher point. On investigating, I discovered it was caused by a blocked drain beside the road on the top, another small reminder of how neglect can ripple through the land.

Another troubling pattern I have observed is the rush of construction right in the beds of streams and rivers. From buildings to roads, heavy structures rise in these fragile basins, with blind and ill-formed faith that retaining walls will hold back the waters. Perhaps they do for a year or two, but such arrogant presumption is a sure recipe for disaster. Increasingly, I see this everywhere. When the torrents come, swollen by deforested slopes and streams choked with debris, the floodwater shows no mercy. It tears through everything in its path, sweeping away the very buildings and roads that humans so confidently placed in its way.

Migration and development have always been part of human history, here as elsewhere. For centuries, people have moved and built anew. What must concern us now is the unchecked, mindless development that leaves behind only scars of destruction. True development is essential: good schools, reliable hospitals, livelihoods, and better connectivity are the needs of the people. But the path forward must be sustainable. Safe, clean, comfortable, and affordable public transport serves the hills far better than carving multi-lane highways for a car-centric economy. Small homes and vernacular architecture blend with the terrain in ways that massive concrete blocks never can. And above all, we must protect our forests, trees cannot be felled with such casual disregard. After all, this is the land that once gave birth to the Chipko Andolan; perhaps it is time we ask ourselves what became of that spirit.

Each time, the slopes crumble, fields are swept away, and roads vanish under mud and stone. Yet, amid the destruction, the people here rebuild with quiet determination, and the forests and rivers slowly reclaim their balance. It reminds us that nature carries on, quietly strong and patient, and if we pause, pay attention, and live with care, we can endure too. In this rhythm of loss and renewal, there is a gentle teaching: resilience is born not of force, but of humility, patience, and respect for the world we are part of. If we learn from it, we too can find our place within the enduring flow of life.

True progress is mindful development that honours and protects the natural world..

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