Let’s face it — we’ve invited this disaster

The debate over what caused the calamity at Dharali and Harsil in Uttarkashi was still raging when a similar disaster struck Tharali and Chepadon in Chamoli.

Barely had we registered this when more bad news came from Jammu and Kashmir — of mountains caving in, rivers in spate and lives lost. Among the dead were pilgrims bound for Vaishno Devi.

Himachal’s Kullu and Mandi were still mourning recent tragedies when, once again, cloudbursts and landslides wreaked havoc in Kullu, Mandi, Chamba and Kangra.

The monsoon is still active. Who knows what news will arrive tomorrow? As I write these lines, reports are coming in of fresh debris sliding into the Bhagirathi at Harsil.

This has become an annual story, with ‘global warming’ and ‘cloudburst’ trotted out as stock explanations. ‘Fate’ and ‘God’s wrath’ are other handy agents to pin it on, to explain away the tragedies before we go back to business-as-usual. Conveniently, human beings and their misdeeds get a free pass.

Take Dharali. The market, hotels, homestays and houses buried under 20–30 feet of muck were not there 25–30 years ago. The original village still sits a good hundred metres above the Bhagirathi and the Kheer Ganga. So does Mukhba on the opposite bank. Both are still safe.

On 5 August, when the Kheer Ganga came roaring down with a torrent of debris, Mukhba’s residents were whistling and waving, warning those below while filming the scene. Note: The deluge didn’t touch old Dharali. It stayed within the floodplain — its natural course.

It was humans, chasing quick money with the government’s blessing, who had taken over the river’s domain. Delhi and Dehradun remained safe; ordinary people paid the price.

The same story was replayed on 24–25 August in Chepadon and Tharali. The mouth of a local stream had been colonised by a bustling market. When the debris thundered down, it buried the bazaar, houses, the police station, even the SDM’s residence. Nothing happened to the old Chepadon village, built higher up.

Once again, devastation struck exactly where humans and their ‘development’ had encroached on the rivers.

The Himalayas have been warning us for decades. The alerts of the 1970s were ignored. Since 2010, almost every year, this young mountain range has revolted against unscientific development. The 2013 Kedarnath disaster was the loudest warning yet. In 2021, 2022 and now 2025, the Himalayas are rebelling again.

To blame it on cloudbursts or global warming is to make excuses. Cloudbursts are not new, only the terminology is. Localised extreme rainfall has always happened.

On 26 August, the Kathua tragedy in Jammu and Kashmir was attributed to 190.4 mm of rain in 24 hours. That is indeed a deluge. But in 1926, the same place got 228.6 mm. What was the damage then? Compare the ‘development’ of today with the ‘backwardness’ of 1926 — the difference is instructive.

The dense, biodiverse forests of the eastern Himalayas are still somewhat intact, though they too are now in the crosshairs of ‘development’, in the overarching, seemingly impossible-to-overrule interest of ‘national security’. Last year, the government gave the green signal for heavy concrete works in these frontier forests.

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Himachal and Uttarakhand have seen the worst destruction. They have also witnessed the worst of this uncontrolled development.

When the Beas swept away hotels in Kullu, the river wasn’t at fault. Nor the Kheer Ganga when it swallowed new Dharali. These weren’t cloudbursts or GLOFs (glacial lake outburst floods) either.

Uttarakhand’s ‘double engine’ government is on a development overdrive. Areas marked as eco-sensitive zones are being overrun with impunity. How many trees have been cut for the all-weather Char Dham road? How many mountains blasted and carved? There’s no reliable count. All norms and sober warnings have been tossed aside.

The Supreme Court had set up two high-powered committees, led by environmentalist Ravi Chopra and including renowned geologist Navin Juyal. They opposed this model of development and offered alternatives.

But this was Prime Minister Modi’s dream project. Dreams that bulldozed cautionary warnings. Experts resigned in protest.

Navin Juyal kept warning, presenting scientific facts. His 2023 report clearly spelt out the dangers for Dharali, Harsil and other fragile sites.

Both Dharali and Harsil lie in the Bhagirathi Eco-Sensitive Zone — a 4,157 sq. km expanse between Gangotri and Uttarkashi town — notified in 2012 to protect the Ganga’s ecology and watershed near its origin. The Bhagirathi Eco-Sensitive Zone has a functioning old road. But that won’t do for the powers that be — it must be widened into a four-lane highway.

So 6,000 deodar trees have been marked for felling. These giant trees hold down massive boulders and rocks. What happens when they’re gone?

Geologist S.P. Sati too has long been warning about the sinking of Joshimath and the wider Himalayan crisis. But who’s listening?

Extreme rain is to be expected. Global warming has indeed accelerated glacier melt. Glaciers will crack and collapse. Landslides are inevitable on steep slopes. This is the nature of the young Himalayas. And debris will always travel down ravines and rivers — never uphill. So, don’t blame it on nature — it is reckless, unscientific development that is provoking these disasters.

Our ancestors knew where to settle villages. They farmed by the riverbanks but built homes up on solid rock. Those old villages still stand firm.

In the mad rush to turn Uttarakhand into a dream tourist destination, you’ll find hotels, homestays and guesthouses with ‘river views’ mushrooming all over the flood zones of rivers. Governments egg them on with permits and tax breaks.

But rivers and mountains have no fear of bulldozers; they are not afraid of the ED or CBI. They only know their floodplain.

Development is necessary. Tourism and pilgrimage are primal human urges. Modern-day needs must also be met. But before hurtling down the treacherous slope of development, we should try to understand the Himalayas, its temperament and account for nature’s unpredictability.

Generations of researchers have studied the mountains. They’ve identified fragile zones and fault lines. Why dig up behind Kedarnath temple to erect a giant concrete memorial? Why send dozens of helicopters roaring overhead every day? Why not let pilgrims endure a little hardship for Shiva’s darshan? Think of the carrying capacity of the mountains.

The facts, warnings and alternatives are all on record.

Cloudbursts will happen. Rivers will rise. Mountains will crack.

The real question is: Will our development policies leave enough room for them?