By Shiv Kunal Verma
Even though I grew up under the shadow of the Himalayan Range and the twinkling lights of Mussoorie were eternally competing with the stars and fireflies that illuminated our nights, it was the Shivaliks that really defined Dehradun. Amidst the craggy outcrops, there was always a chance of seeing the occasional ghoral (Naemorhedus goral) or a brood of kalij pheasants (Lophura leucomelanos) scratching by the roadside. Though troops of Hanuman langur were a common sight, there were few, if any, rhesus macaques to be seen in those days. The deras of Van Gujjars could be seen at two or three locations, and as a child, I was fascinated by the red beards of some of the senior males. Their buffaloes were massive, and if a herd wandered on to the road, we would have a traffic jam consisting of four or five cars!
Over the last couple of years, I have watched with amazement and apprehension the new highway being constructed right through the Shivalik Hills. Given the region’s geographical sensitivity, one would have thought the entire Dehradun-Delhi traffic would be diverted along the Lachhiwala-Haridwar axis, which, in any case, used to be the old railway alignment. In this day and age, where year after year, the impact of climate change is staring us in the face, it’s amazing that the city fathers have allowed this to happen.
The Shivalik Hills run more or less parallel to the loftier Himalayas, extending from the Chenab and the Ravi in the west to the Teesta in the east, a distance of more than a thousand miles. These fossil-laden hills tell their own unique story, but now with superfast highways cutting across, who has the time to listen to the song of the birds or the rustle of the trees anymore? Every year, when the Sal flowers, it is a sight to behold, but it’s more than likely our future generations will not have the time of day to look up from their speedometers and smartphones as they whizz past in fancy cars.
The Shivalik Hills that hem in Dehradun from the southern side are also unique as they are home to a substantial elephant population. With forest cover fast shrinking across the subcontinent, the Rajaji region is connected to Corbett creating one of the most important remaining elephant habitats in North India. Interestingly, even before Jolly Grant became the location of the Dehradun airfield, the Barkot forest block had a perennial man-animal issue. In the early 1960s, the Government of Uttar Pradesh issued a notification asking army officers posted at the Indian Military Academy to help cull what was then considered to be an exploding population.
My father, then a captain, posted as a platoon commander at the Academy, along with his younger brother Vijay, and Captain Sushil Pillai from the Assam Regiment, eagerly set off. News filtered back a couple of days later that they had shot a tusker and two females. My mother, who disliked any form of killing, took me to the location where the bull elephant had died in a sitting position. I was three years old then, and my chacha hoisted me onto the tusk and pulling out a khukri, he began to hack away at the flesh. From my vantage point, I watched the grey skin give way to pink flesh, and I don’t think I ever got over the horror of it all. Six decades later, to see ourselves systematically hack away at the Shivalik Hills, I get a feeling of déjà vu. Climate change is the stark reality of our times, and the Doon Valley needs to get its act together. Otherwise, a few years down the line, we will be asked the million dollar question: ‘यह सब जानते हूए भी, आपने यह सब रोका क्यू नहीं?’
(Shiv Kunal Verma, with his roots in the Doon Valley, is considered to be one of India’s foremost military history writer and film maker.)
