• I had childhood memories of muddy rivers. But why disasters are  intensifying, what is the ecological price of disasters, Can Hill States be built differently. We must introduce a Himalyan Code of Infrastructure. 

When I was a young boy in Himachal Pradesh, the monsoon meant something very different from what it does today. Back then, schools would shut down for two months, and we children had endless days to wander the hills. My father’s government job often took us to the remotest corners of the state. I remember standing by rivers swollen with rain, watching the water churn-thick, muddy, and restless.

Even as a child, the sight worried me. I wondered: Will these mighty hills someday be washed away by the very rains that nurture them? In my imagination, the solution was simple—cover the mountains with a dense, unbroken green canopy so that not a drop of rain could carry the soil away.

As I grew older, I began to see the intricate village ecological system—forests, pastures, water springs, farms, homes—all bound together in a delicate balance. But when I later witnessed the furious pace of road-building, tunneling, and hydropower projects in these same fragile slopes, I could not reconcile it with the idea of true development. And today, after five decades, watching the devastation of 2025 unfold, that childhood fear returns with even more force. My heart bleeds as muddy rivers once again roar through the valleys, carrying away lives, homes, and dreams.

The fury of 2025

The monsoon of 2025 will be etched into Himalayan memory. Cloudbursts, flash floods, and landslides tore through Himachal Pradesh, Uttarakhand, and Jammu & Kashmir. Highways were buried, bridges collapsed, and entire villages cut off. The fragile geology of these mountains has always made them vulnerable.

But this year’s destruction was not just nature’s work. It was the outcome of climate extremes colliding with reckless construction.

Why disasters are intensifying

Scientists explain that warmer air holds more moisture. When monsoon winds meet western disturbances, the result is sudden, violent cloudbursts—sometimes dropping 100 mm of rain in just an hour. With freezing levels rising, more precipitation now falls as rain rather than snow, saturating slopes that were once frozen.

Meanwhile, glacial lakes formed by retreating glaciers are swelling, raising the threat of sudden outbursts. Together, these processes make the Himalayas a hotspot of compound disasters—flash floods, landslides, and glacial lake bursts, all in quick succession. But human action has made things worse. The Himalayas are not only geologically young and unstable; they are also being reshaped by bulldozers and blasting drills in the name of development.

Roads and tunnels: scars on fragile slopes

The past decade has seen an aggressive push to widen highways and build tunnels across the Himalayas. The Char Dham project, four-laning of the Kiratpur–Manali highway, and dozens of hydropower tunnels have left deep scars. Steep vertical cuttings, inadequate drainage, and unchecked muck dumping have turned roads into landslide triggers.

Each monsoon, freshly cut slopes crumble, blocking traffic and endangering lives. Hydropower tunnels, meanwhile, often intercept underground aquifers, drying up springs that sustain mountain communities.

The 2023 crisis in Joshimath was only one stark example of what happens when tunneling collides with fragile terrain. Instead of reducing vulnerability, many projects have engineered disasters into the landscape.

The ecological price

Every collapsed road represents more than a transport inconvenience. It means soil erosion, biodiversity loss, and damaged rivers. Muck dumped into streams suffocates aquatic life, while broken slopes fragment wildlife corridors. Springs—the lifelines of hill villages—dry up, forcing women to walk longer for water.

Economically, the losses mount: farmers’ fields are swept away, tourist economies crumble, and rescue operations drain public resources. For local people, “development” has too often meant displacement, danger, and disillusionment.

Can we build differently?

The Himalayas are not against development—they are against reckless development. Lessons can be drawn from other mountain nations. The Swiss Alps, the Andes, and Japan’s ranges show that it is possible to build infrastructure that respects nature’s limits.

Some solutions are neither exotic nor expensive

Drainage first, roads later. Water is the enemy of stability. Proper catch drains, side drains, and cross-drainage structures must be mandatory before any pavement is laid. Benched slopes, not vertical walls. Gentle, stepped cuttings match the natural angle of stability, reducing collapse risks. Bio-engineering. Vegetation can act as living armor. Coir geotextiles, jute mats, vetiver grass, willow plantations—all help hold slopes together. Recycle and reduce. Technologies like Full Depth Reclamation (FDR) recycle old road material, saving money and reducing quarrying.

Smarter tunnels. Pre-excavation grouting and waterproof linings can prevent tunnels from drying springs. Community water monitoring ensures accountability.

Rockfall protection. Nets, meshes, and catch fences—standard in the Alps—can prevent deaths from falling boulders.

Technology and early warning. Doppler radars, satellite mapping, and AI-based landslide prediction must become part of the Himalayan toolkit.

Towards a Himalayan Code of Infrastructure

India now urgently needs a Himalayan Sustainable Infrastructure Code. Such a code would:

1. Make landslide hazard zonation maps mandatory before project approvals.

2. Enforce drainage-first construction, with contractor payments tied to completed drainage.

3. Mandate that at least 30% of slopes be stabilized through bio-engineering.

4. Require hydrogeological studies and spring protection plans for all tunnels.

5. Tie payments to post-monsoon survival audits.

6. Integrate real-time alerts from the Geological Survey of India and IMD into highway management.

Such measures would not block development. They would ensure that every rupee invested is not washed away with the next monsoon.

A personal reckoning

For me, the devastation of 2025 is painfully personal. I return in memory to that young boy standing by the river, staring at muddy water rushing down the valleys. My instinct then was that the mountains could only survive if we kept the rivers clear during the rains—by protecting forests, soils, and slopes.

Fifty years later, my fears have come true. I have seen mighty rivers run brown with the soil of mountains, seen homes collapse under landslides, and heard the despair of villagers whose springs dried up after a tunnel was cut through their hills.

I have also seen reports and studies—like those of ICIMOD—pleading for more sustainable, ecological methods of building roads in mountain regions. Yet on the ground, what I still see is the same pattern: cutting mountains carelessly, dumping muck indiscriminately, and calling it progress. It is not too late to change. But if we continue like this, the Himalayas may one day collapse not just under the weight of climate change, but under the weight of our mistakes.

The way forward

The Himalayas are a living system. They breathe through forests, springs, and soils. They are not obstacles to be blasted aside, but partners in survival. Roads and tunnels will always be needed, but they must be built with the mountains, not against them.

The devastation of 2025 is a wake-up call. If we listen, we can still chart a future where the Himalayas remain green, resilient, and generous. If we ignore it, we risk turning the world’s greatest mountain range into rubble.

The author is a Kangra, Himachal Pradesh based professional.

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