3 min readFeb 3, 2026 08:13 AM IST
First published on: Feb 3, 2026 at 08:12 AM IST
Delhi’s winter often leaves little room for reflection. Between the smog, the fog, and persistent conversations around air quality, visibility — both literal and metaphorical — tends to shrink. Yet, it is precisely during these months that certain sights prompt a pause. One such is that of pigeons huddling on narrow window ledges. It is an unremarkable image, but one that raises a larger question about how urban spaces are being reorganised — and for whom.
Pigeons have not always occupied AC units and concrete sills. They lived on trees, and older forms of architecture that allowed for coexistence. As cities expanded, these spaces disappeared. Urban wildlife has adapted to shrinking habitats.
Our response to this adjustment is instructive. Balconies are netted, access restricted. The concern is practical, but it mirrors a larger pattern. Development often addresses immediate discomfort while obscuring the longer processes that produce it.
This pattern becomes clearer when viewed beyond pigeons. Urban development creates centres of growth and peripheral zones. In cities like Delhi, Mumbai, and Kolkata, domestic helpers, daily wage labourers, informal workers — much like urban wildlife — often reside alongside development rather than within it. They adapt to the city without being fully absorbed by it.
What connects these seemingly disparate adaptations is a shared logic of development that reorganises space without reorganising responsibility. Those who cannot shape policy adjust to its outcomes, inhabiting the city and its landscapes provisionally rather than securely. It is in this broader context that debates around ecological spaces such as the Aravalli range acquire significance. The Aravallis act as a natural barrier against desertification and play a critical role in groundwater recharge and ecological balance. Their importance lies not only in conservation terms but in how they sustain regional livelihoods and climatic stability.
When uncertainty arises over land-use norms in such regions, it raises questions about how development engages with landscapes that operate on much longer timeframes than policy cycles. Development policy frequently operates on short timelines, while its consequences unfold over decades. What is treated as land-use today becomes the material condition of life tomorrow. Landscapes shape livelihoods, climate, and resilience long after policies change. Decisions that alter them are rarely reversible.
It is here that questions of inclusion become unavoidable. The language of development in India emphasises inclusion — sabka saath, sabka vikas. Yet, this raises an uncomfortable question: Who constitutes the “sab” in practice? Development inevitably produces margins. Some are included, others remain adjacent. Development debates often privilege those who can articulate their claims in the language of policy, law, and capital. Communities that live alongside forests, hills, and common lands possess forms of knowledge that are articulated differently. When such knowledge remains outside decision-making processes, development risks mistaking silence for consent, stripping agency at its most primary level.
The sight of pigeons in the cold reveals how development reshapes space, redistributes inconvenience, and normalises exclusion. The challenge before us is to ask harder questions about its design — and about whose lives and landscapes are accounted for in the process.
Mohanta is a Delhi-based researcher and writer
The sight of pigeons in the cold reveals how development reshapes space, redistributes inconvenience, and normalises exclusion. 
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