a day ago
In Himachal Pradesh, a Himalayan tragedy thanks to warped ‘development'
Written by Tikender Singh Panwar
Once again, the hills of Himachal Pradesh are trembling — not just from the fury of the monsoon, but from decades of ecological neglect, distorted development and political apathy. This year's rains have already taken more than 30 lives, damaged infrastructure worth over Rs 500 crore, and displaced hundreds. The Himalayan state is no stranger to such calamities, yet our response remains tragically predictable: Relief and, then, silence.
What we are witnessing is not a one-off disaster. It is the outcome of a development model that has failed to respect the fragile ecology of the Himalayas — a model actively pushed by central agencies, funded by large capital, and accepted by state governments desperate for revenue. And at its heart lies a crisis of governance, one that cannot be patched by disaster response alone. It calls for deep introspection and a democratic reckoning.
That is why the call for a Commission of Inquiry — first made years ago — must now become a central demand. The stakes are too high to continue with business as usual.
There's an old Himachali proverb: 'nai baat nau din' — a new concern lasts only nine days. But in today's news cycles, it doesn't even last that long.
The 2025 devastation, which is still ongoing, is only the latest chapter in a longer story of ecological decline. Experts, including the IPCC, have consistently warned of increased precipitation in shorter time spans in the Himalayan belt. This implies not just heavier rains but far more intense damage unless our infrastructure and settlements are designed to adapt. Instead, the opposite is happening.
Nowhere is this more evident than in the highway expansions spearheaded by the National Highways Authority of India (NHAI). The earlier Parwanoo-Solan four-laning project triggered massive landslides and slope failures due to unscientific vertical cutting. One might expect lessons to have been learnt. Yet, the new stretch between Kaithlighat and Dhalli continues the same reckless approach — carving roads into fragile rock faces without adequate geological studies or slope stabilisation. These highways, celebrated as symbols of connectivity, have become corridors of calamity.
The town of Mandi, long nestled in a relatively stable valley, witnessed devastating floods this year. Riverbanks that once marked a natural buffer are now sites of human settlement — homes, shops, and even government buildings. As the Beas River swelled, it reclaimed what was once its own. Planning authorities have allowed, even encouraged, encroachment into riverbeds, often under the illusion of 'development'. But rivers remember their courses, and when they do, destruction is inevitable.
The massive hydropower push, another legacy of post-1990s liberalisation, has amplified vulnerability. Dams have mushroomed across river basins in Kinnaur, Lahaul-Spiti, Chamba, and Kullu — with scant regard for ecological thresholds. Muck from these construction sites is routinely dumped into riverbeds, narrowing channels and raising riverbeds. When the rains arrive, this loose muck turns into a lethal force, taking down everything in its path.
The hydropower model — built on the assumption of perpetual revenue — has neither delivered long-term employment nor sustainable energy. Instead, it has left behind ecological scars, displaced communities, and made vast swathes of the state more disaster-prone.
The roots of this destruction lie in the post-1990s shift in state-centre dynamics. Himachal, once known for a people-centric, state-driven development model under leaders like Y S Parmar, was pushed into a different paradigm — one that reduced the role of the state and promoted the commodification of natural resources. With limited revenue-generation capacity, Himachal was lured into exploiting its rivers, forests, and landscapes to serve the demands of capital.
The culpability of the Union government cannot be overstated. Central agencies like NHAI have bulldozed through ecological concerns. Simultaneously, the Centre's fiscal policies have cornered states into seeking revenue through environmentally destructive industries — hydropower, tourism, and cement. This is not federalism; it is fiscal coercion.
In the aftermath of the 2023 monsoon, the state pegged damages at over Rs 14,000 crore. But who is accountable? Why were homes built on unsafe slopes? Why did no agency question the dumping of muck into rivers? Why are geological reports ignored?
A Commission of Inquiry, headed by a retired Supreme Court judge — ideally someone with an understanding of the region — is urgently needed. But it must not be limited to a post-mortem of damage. It should serve as a platform for a collective reimagining of development.
This Commission must do the following:
1. Examine the cumulative ecological impact of infrastructure and hydropower project
2. Assess the role and failures of central and state institutions
3. Investigate planning lapses in towns and rural settlements
4. Provide recommendations for sustainable, ecologically sensitive development
5. Most importantly, engage the people directly — through public hearings, testimonies, and local consultations
6. It should dig into the Himalayan model of development and suggest another arm of the NHAI (Himalayan), which is akin to the BRO. It is common knowledge that the state's PWD and the BRO are better equipped and capacitated for building roads in the Himalayan region.
This is not just about expert panels and policy papers. But this cannot be done behind closed doors or driven by Delhi-based think tanks. It must evolve from the grassroots. People must be trusted as co-authors of their future.
Each landslide, each flooded village, each shattered home is not just a disaster, but a warning. The Himalayas are speaking. Are we listening? A Commission of Inquiry is not a bureaucratic formality. It is a moral and political necessity.
The writer is former Deputy Mayor of Shimla
