By Aradhya Maithani
I still remember an argument I once had with a friend over the question of Devbhoomi. I belong to Uttarakhand; my friend is from Himachal Pradesh. We were both adamant in defending our positions — My state is Devbhoomi, not yours. Looking back, that argument reminds me of a powerful idea often discussed by subaltern scholars: “Who is more Indian than us?” In many ways, our debate echoed a similar sentiment — “Who is more Devbhoomi than this land?”
Through this article, I aim to reconstruct the very idea of Devbhoomi through a new lens. The word “Devbhoomi” is derived from Sanskrit and literally means “the Land of the Gods”. One of the most compelling explanations of this idea comes from the “Shanti Parva” of the Mahabharata. When King Yudhishthira asks Bhishma which country or mountain is foremost in sanctity, Bhishma replies “Those lands and mountains through which the sacred river flows are the most holy.” He adds that regions devoid of the sacred waters of the river are like ‘a night without the moon or trees without flowers’.
This mythological conversation helps us understand that Devbhoomi is not a narrow idea limited only to the number of temples or sacred sites within a state. Rather, it is a broader concept — one that includes “nature, rivers, mountains, and the environment itself”. Devbhoomi is not merely a certification or label; it is a civilisational idea shaped by history, geography, and collective memory.
When people ask, “Who is more Indian than us?”, they are not asserting power but continuity — a belief that identity is shaped by centuries, not certificates. In the same spirit, when a land has given rise to sacred rivers, sheltered sages, and carried faith long before it was ever named on a political map, one must ask: Which land can claim Devbhoomi more than this? Just as Indianness does not begin with independence or end with citizenship, the idea of Devbhoomi does not emerge from tourism campaigns or administrative borders. It begins in memory — in rivers worshipped as mothers, mountains imagined as abodes of gods, and forests where renunciation was practiced as a way of life. The question, therefore, is not who “wishes” to be called Devbhoomi, but which land has always been lived and revered as one.
Today, I believe that the idea of Devbhoomi should not be confined to a single state. It must be linked to the land itself. More importantly, Devbhoomi should not be understood only through religious significance; it must also be viewed through “environmental significance”. If we call it the land of the Gods, we must remember that this land is also blessed with fragile ecosystems and breathtaking landscapes — many of which are now being neglected and damaged by human activity.
The challenges facing Devbhoomi today are real and visible. Climate change has begun to show its impact across both Uttarakhand and Himachal Pradesh. Unregulated tourism, pollution, and rapid construction have placed immense pressure on the Himalayan ecosystem. Recently, Dehradun — the city of Dronacharya — recorded an air quality index around 300, an alarming indicator reported by environmental monitoring agencies. For the people who live here, Devbhoomi is not an abstraction. It is the field that erodes after every monsoon, the spring that dries up each summer, and the mountain that now slips instead of standing firm. Many locals quietly ask: if this land is divine, why are its guardians unheard?
Even many International and national studies further underline this crisis. Reports by “ICIMOD (International Centre for Integrated Mountain Development) and the World Bank” describe the Himalayas as a “Himalayan Grey Zone,” tracking risks through the HI-WISE (Himalayan Water, Ice, Society, and Ecosystems) framework. One major concern is the deposition of Black carbon— soot from diesel exhaust and agricultural stubble burning — on Himalayan snow. This darkening increases heat absorption, accelerating snowmelt in regions such as Mussoorie and Shimla. These analyses indicate that the Himalayas are warming at a rate significantly higher than the global average. The “Landslide Atlas of India (2023)”, released by ISRO’s National Remote Sensing Centre, identifies Uttarakhand and Himachal Pradesh as among the most landslide-prone regions in the country. Similarly, the “State of India’s Environment Report 2024” highlights rising numbers of glacial lakes and the retreat of glaciers in the western Himalayas — intensifying the risks of floods, landslides, and water stress across both states.
It is therefore the need of the hour to think rationally and collectively. Devbhoomi is undoubtedly a matter of pride — but pride also carries responsibility. Instead of limiting the idea of Devbhoomi to posters, slogans, and tourism campaigns, both governments and citizens must work to safeguard its
very existence because Essence without existence has no meaning.
Devbhoomi cannot survive as a slogan alone. If it is truly sacred, then protecting its land, air, water, and mountains is not devotion — it is duty.
Thus Devbhoomi must be understood not only as the Land of the Gods but also as a “living ecological system that demands protection”. Its preservation cannot be restricted by state or administrative boundaries. Safeguarding the “Real Devbhoomi” is a collective responsibility — of governments, local communities, and citizens across the country. Only by expanding our understanding of Devbhoomi beyond symbolism and into sustainability can we ensure that this sacred land continues to exist for generations to come.
(Aradhya Maithani is a Graduate from St Stephen’s College, Delhi University; and State Representative of national youth parliament 2024.)
