Written by Ankita Ojha
On August 5, the mountain above Dharali cracked open. It wasn’t just a cloudburst — it was a breaking point. The flash floods that followed in Uttarkashi swept away homes, guesthouses, roads and lives. For many, it may have felt sudden. But in the wider context of Himalayan development, Dharali is not an aberration — it is a diagnosis.
Over the last decade, the Indian Himalayas have become a stage for recurring calamity. From Kedarnath in 2013 to Chamoli in 2021, to the slow-motion collapse of Joshimath in 2023, and now Dharali — disaster has become cyclical, almost expected. Each event is followed by a brief alarm, ad-hoc compensation, and then silence. But these are not “natural” disasters alone. They are symptoms of a deeper malaise: A development model that values speed over stability, visibility over viability, and symbolism over safety.
Development in the Himalayas has become a matter of numbers — kilometres of road laid, thousands of tourists counted, and pilgrim corridors widened — often without corresponding attention to the ecological and cultural systems they cut through. The Char Dham highway project, for example, has been criticised by the Supreme Court-appointed Ravi Chopra Committee for bypassing scientific slope stability norms. Vertical cutting of fragile hillsides, unregulated muck dumping into rivers, and the absence of cumulative impact assessments are not unfortunate oversights — these are design flaws built into the growth narrative.
This quantitative obsession is not unique to Uttarakhand. As David Harvey famously argued, capital seeks “spatial fixes” — ways to invest in infrastructure to absorb surpluses and generate returns. But the Indian Himalayas are not a blank slate; they are a young, active mountain system with delicate balances. The more we impose linear infrastructure in a nonlinear landscape, the more we court catastrophe.
This contradiction is most visible in the transformation of sacred geographies. Himalayan pilgrimage — once defined by rhythm, seasonality, and walking — has been remade into a spectacle. Today, choppers slice through the Kedarnath valley every few minutes. In Sonprayag, multi-storey parking lots rise from unstable riverbeds. Forests once resonant with birdcalls are filled with the grind of machinery. This is not spiritual access; it is infrastructural overreach.
The result is an uncanny co-existence of devotion and degradation. The same routes that carry pilgrims to shrines are also marked by helicopter crashes, plastic-choked rivers, and water scarcity. The sacredness in the Himalayas has shifted from an ethic of care to an economy of volume. Carrying capacity studies are either absent or ignored. The terrain has become a product, not a relationship.
During the 2024 Askot–Aarakot Yatra — a 1,150-kilometre foot journey across the spine of Uttarakhand — these contrasts were vivid. In villages like Nandgaon and Bakhand traditional housing lies buried under layers of concrete, a material both alien and unstable in these geographies. In ghosted settlements across Dharchula and Tawaghat, roads were finally built for the sacred Chota Kailash Yatra — but too late for the generations who waited. The school and clinic that now exist hardly make sense — under equipped, under-staffed, and unable to meet even basic needs. A road without services is not connectivity; it is corridor planning without care.
And roads for whom? In Tejam, a 15-kilometre walk from the nearest roadhead, women have died giving birth or on the way to hospitals, while Kedarnath can now be reached within minutes by helicopter. Dharali itself was a point of access for the Gangotri Pilgrimage route yet the seasonal inflow of pilgrims does little to help improve the basic health and education facilities, making large-scale migration a hallmark of development.
Beneath the crumbling highways and sinking towns, the Himalayas hold an archive of common-sense coexistence — one that has been consistently ignored. For generations, mountain communities have built homes from stone, mud, and wood, adapted to temperature variation and seismic activity and rhythm. These houses stood above flood lines, oriented away from known landslide zones, and assembled with reusable materials that aged with the landscape rather than against it.
Meanwhile, in Sarmoli near Munsyari, an alternative thrives quietly. Women here have fostered a community-based ecotourism model that integrates agriculture, mat-weaving, and conservation. Anchored by collectives like Maati Sangathan, they have shown that development does not require extraction — it can be regenerative, rooted, and dignified. This isn’t nostalgia. It’s a blueprint for a slower, more ethical modernity — one largely missing from state planning documents.
During the Yatra, we met Sunil Kainthola — environmentalist, one of the key visionaries behind the historic Nanda Devi Declaration, and founder of the Mountain Shepherds Initiative. As we climbed toward Uttarkashi, he reminded us: “In the Himalayas, the walk is not just a journey — it is a discipline. You don’t conquer the trail. You adapt to it.” This ethic — of enduring difficulty rather than erasing it — once underpinned traditional pilgrimage and local lifeways.
But the modern development imagination seeks to remove discomfort altogether. It promises airlifts instead of acclimatisation, shortcuts instead of sensitivity, and infrastructure that flattens the terrain — both physically and metaphorically. Yet the Himalayas are not governed by the logic of capital or convenience. They are shaped by seasonal rhythms, ecological volatility, and cultural patience. Any attempt to make them submit to 24×7 accessibility will only escalate collapse.
To speak of the Himalayas today is not to romanticise their fragility, but to acknowledge their refusal to be governed by haste. Development is urgently needed — but not in its current form. We do not lack infrastructure; we lack ecological intelligence, democratic intention, and spatial sensitivity.
The Himalayas are not anti-road or anti-tourism. But they are unforgiving when treated as inert. These mountains are young, volatile, and alive — geologically and culturally. They cannot be endlessly reshaped to suit templates drafted in distant capitals. The logic that flattens terrain, bypasses community, and treats the mountain as void — is not development. It is extraction with a PR strategy.
Dharali’s disaster is not a standalone event — it is a culmination. And yet, it can also be a call. We must now shift from development as visibility to development as viability; from speed to sustainability; from imposition to dialogue.
Common sense in the Himalayas should not be uncommon. But until we recover it — in our designs, our institutions, and our imagination — we will remain in cycles of amnesia and aftershock: Walking not with the mountains, but over what’s left of them.
The writer is a research scholar at the Centre for Political Studies, Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi. Her work focuses on disaster, climate change, and development politics in the Indian Himalayas
