By Anurag Chauhan
The devastation now unfolding in and around Dehradun is a sobering reminder that the Himalayas will not quietly bear endless human pressure. Days of relentless downpours, sudden cloudbursts and violent flash floods have left bridges collapsed, roads severed and neighbourhoods inundated. Entire communities remain cut off, their lives upended. These events are often described as acts of God, but that phrase hides an uncomfortable truth: much of this damage is man-made.
From Maldevta to Sahastradhara, Tapovan to Prem Nagar, the scars are everywhere. Long-standing bridges have been reduced to twisted metal. Riverbanks have been scoured away. Homes and shops lie buried under silt. Such failures reveal more than the sheer force of water; they expose years of unplanned construction and a systemic disregard for the fragile geology of the Himalayan foothills.
Climate change adds urgency. Rainfall patterns are shifting, cloudbursts are becoming more intense and glaciers are melting at unprecedented rates. But to attribute Dehradun’s crisis to climate alone is to miss the human choices that magnify nature’s power: the casual cutting of slopes, the paving over of natural drainage channels and, most visibly, the relentless depletion of trees and green belts that once held these hillsides together. In the race for roads, resorts and smart city projects, large stands of sal and pine have disappeared. The protective canopy that slowed rainfall and anchored soil is thinning, leaving bare slopes to crumble under every storm.
Tourism is central to the state’s economy, yet the constant influx of visitors has become a double-edged sword. Roads and waste systems designed for small hill towns now strain under seasonal surges of traffic. Many visitors treat these valleys as disposable backdrops for selfies, leaving behind plastic bottles and litter that choke rivers and soil. When every meadow becomes a parking lot and every quiet bend a picnic ground, the landscape loses the capacity to absorb even ordinary rainfall, let alone a cloudburst. This behaviour is not solely the tourists’ fault. Successive governments have promoted all-season tourism without enforcing strict waste-management rules or limiting visitor numbers in ecologically sensitive zones. The result is predictable: more hotels and homestays built on unstable slopes, more impervious surfaces that accelerate runoff and more lives placed in harm’s way.
Disaster management through evacuation drills, rescue operations and relief camps is necessary but insufficient. These measures respond after the damage is done. What Dehradun needs now is prevention rooted in science and local knowledge. The Uttarakhand government should establish a dedicated task force of experts, drawing on the extraordinary talent already present in the city. Institutions such as the Wadia Institute of Himalayan Geology, the Forest Research Institute and other local research centres house scientists who understand the terrain, its hydrology and its seismic risks. Their guidance must shape every road alignment, bridge design and building permit. Policies must carry the weight of their expertise, not just political convenience. Such a task force should have the authority to halt or redesign projects that threaten ecological stability and to recommend stringent zoning laws that protect river corridors, green belts and recharge zones. It should also monitor compliance so that environmental impact assessments become more than paperwork filed to obtain clearances.
But we cannot place the burden solely on the government. Citizens must act as stewards, not bystanders. Residents who approve illegal hillside construction, cut trees for quick profits or allow drains to clog with debris share responsibility for each landslide and flood. Homeowners and local businesses can plant trees, restore green belts and maintain natural drainage. Communities can insist that local bodies enforce building codes and protect remaining forest patches. Visitors and residents alike must also embrace basic discipline. A tourist spot for one person is someone else’s home; treating these hills as disposable playgrounds only deepens the crisis. Simple acts such as carrying reusable bottles, respecting trail limits and avoiding fragile riverbanks matter more than many realise.
This is hardly our first alarm. Uttarkashi’s flash floods earlier this year and the 2013 Kedarnath tragedy both demonstrated how quickly the mountains reclaim what is built carelessly. Each disaster brings pledges of reform, yet the pattern repeats. To focus only on rescue and relief is to ignore the deeper question: are we willing to change how we live with the mountains?
Nature does not require our protection. It is powerful, self-renewing and ultimately indifferent to human timelines. What needs protection is our own future. Living in harmony with these hills means recognising their limits, restoring forests that anchor slopes, preserving river channels and respecting the slow rhythms of a landscape far older and stronger than us.
Dehradun now stands at a crossroads. Continue on the current path and each monsoon will bring fresh devastation and deeper loss. Choose restraint and intelligent planning and the city can remain a vibrant gateway to the Himalayas rather than a cautionary tale of ecological hubris. The choice is ours. The mountains have already spoken. And as we take those lessons to heart, it is also important to recognise the tireless efforts of officials, rescue teams and local volunteers who have worked day and night to safeguard lives during this crisis. Their swift action in evacuating vulnerable families, providing shelter and restoring essential services has saved countless people and deserves our gratitude even as we commit to the harder, long-term work of prevention.
(Anurag Chauhan is an award winning social worker and an Arts Impresario promoting India’s reach cultural heritage)
