We know we must stop construction; start holding people accountable; give the hills time to heal; empower the locals; and reclaim the balance

I am from Uttarakhand. And I am sick of watching my Devbhoomi collapse—physically, emotionally, and ecologically, year after year.The signs are no longer subtle. They are loud, violent, and devastating. Landslides, road collapses, crumbling homes, breached rivers, broken bridges... Each monsoon plays out a disaster movie on loop. Come winter, it is blocked highways, isolated villages, and stranded tourists. New locations, same story. It’s not nature’s fury anymore—it’s nature’s revenge.

This is not a natural calamity. This is a man-made assault. Let’s stop pretending otherwise.

Enough of the “Development” Delusion: Uttarakhand’s fragile terrain has been brutalised in the name of progress. Hotels teeter on cliff edges, roads are hacked through virgin forests, and concrete homes rise like tumours along landslide-prone slopes. Forests are razed, tunnels drilled without logic, and rivers dammed with zero foresight. It’s not growth. It’s greed. Legal or illegal, sanctioned or ignored. It is organised exploitation. It is not new; it has been happening under the approving gaze of policymakers, builders, tourism boards, and district officials, all selling the same tired dream of “boosting tourism” and “generating employment”.

Boosting what? Generating employment for whom? If this is the price, the hills cannot afford it.

Stop Looking Up; Start Looking Within: The default explanation for every tragedy is nature’s uncertainty, climate change, cloudbursts, extreme rainfall and the young, fragile mountains. But behind every collapsed road and flooded village is an approval stamp, a missing audit, a violated rule. Who cleared construction in floodplains? Who gave NOCs on loose mountain ridges? Who looked the other way as illegal structures rose overnight?

The questions are many. The answers—conveniently missing. It’s time to fix accountability, not blame the rain.

Environmental destruction is not a byproduct of progress. It is criminal negligence. Those responsible must be identified, named, and prosecuted. From bureaucrats to babus, planners to panchayats—no one should be immune if found complicit.

And the people of Uttarakhand should no longer be forced to pay the price for someone else’s ambition. But will it ever happen?

Time for a Blanket Construction Ban: Let’s stop even pretending to hear. Stop this complicit tiptoeing around the truth. What Uttarakhand needs now is not regulation. It requires a complete, uncompromising ban on new construction—tourist, commercial, residential, and religious.

No new resorts. No new roads. No more excuses. This may sound extreme to some. To others and, more importantly, the locals, it will sound like common sense. But either way, the state cannot survive unless the bulldozers and the drills are stopped.

Uttarakhand, like the other ecologically sensitive hills, cannot afford the luxury of terms like “sustainable development” in a place where the very ground beneath is giving way. There is no sustainability in cutting trees that hold the slopes together; no wisdom in ignoring the ecological fragility of young, unstable mountains. No justification for sacrificing life for leisure.

Listen to Those Who Live in Uttarakhand: Ironically, the only people who seem to understand the hills are the ones who live among them. The locals. Not the hotel chains or construction lobbies. Not the politicians who fly in to cut ribbons and vanish after a photo-op. The locals have always feared, worshipped, and respected nature. They know what not to do. But no one listens to them. Their voices are drowned in a chorus of profit and power. If we want to save these hills, we must stop romanticising the mountains and start respecting their warnings. That begins by listening to those who call them home.

Chipko 2.0: We Desperately Need: In the 1970s, the Chipko movement in Uttarakhand involved villagers hugging trees to prevent their felling. It was not merely an act of defiance; it was a powerful message. And we clearly failed to learn. Today, the need is even more urgent.

We need a Chipko 2.0—an ecological uprising that doesn’t just hug trees but embraces rivers, ridges, valleys, and every fragile inch of the Himalayan soil. A movement that demands protection, proposes alternatives, and calls out violations. A movement that doesn’t wait for more bodies to be buried under rubble to raise its voice.

Final Wake-Up Call: One can’t complain. Nature has been patient. Too patient. But it is done whispering. Its warnings are louder, closer, and deadlier. We can no longer feign ignorance or helplessness. We all know what’s happening. There is no doubt as to why it is happening. The tragedy is that we know what needs to be done but refuse to act.

Stop the construction. Start holding people accountable. Give the hills time to heal. Empower the locals. Reclaim the balance. Because the hills are not just falling. They are collapsing under our watch. And soon, they might not take just roads and homes with them but entire lives, legacies, and a land that once felt divine. 

Act Now.