It began as a heavy rain, the kind that Himachal Pradesh has seen before. But by the night of June 28, it became clear that this was no ordinary monsoon rain. Cloudbursts over the upper reaches of the Beas basin triggered a chain reaction — landslides, glacial run-off, river swelling, and catastrophic flooding.
In Mandi district alone, dozens were killed, including schoolchildren swept away in school buses and entire families buried under collapsing hillside homes. As the disaster unfolded across the State, the death toll crossed 100, with many still missing, according to official estimates as of mid-July.
Local rescue teams described nightmarish scenes: an elderly couple in Jogindernagar clung to a tree for nearly 10 hours before being rescued; a mother in Sarkaghat tried to shield her infant as their house caved in — only she survived. Entire stretches of National Highway no. 154 disintegrated. Power lines were torn down, communication snapped, and thousands stranded without food or medical aid. Farmers watched their orchards disappear. Small dhabas and homes — often the only sources of livelihood — were swept away in minutes.
Damages across Himachal have reportedly crossed ₹2,100 crore, with Mandi bearing the brunt (State Disaster Management Authority estimates). Relief centres overflowed, and the overwhelmed local administration resorted to calling in the Army and NDRF. Yet, for many in the villages dotting the hill slopes, the help came too late. And with the monsoon only just beginning, the fear of further destruction looms large.
And yet, the tragedy did not come as a surprise. It was foretold — not by oracles, but by decades of scientific warnings, community memory, and ecological common sense. The June disaster is not an exception. It is part of a deeper reckoning: the Himalayan flood is not on the horizon — it’s already here.
New normal
The rising temperatures in the Western and Central Himalayas have fast-tracked glacial melt and made rainfall increasingly erratic. Scientific data show that the upper Himalayas have warmed by nearly 1.8 degrees Celsius in the past 50 years — almost twice the global average. The result? The monsoon arrives with violent bursts, glaciers retreat with alarming speed, and glacial lakes threaten sudden outbursts. The destruction in Mandi was just the latest flashpoint.
And it won’t be the last. Across regions such as Palampur and Barot, local communities no longer see floods and landslides as exceptions. Instead, they have become part of the annual cycle. As one Gaddi farmer observed, “We don’t question floods any more — they’re part of childhood stories now.” Disasters are no longer occasional — they are woven into the rhythms of everyday life. Into calendars, rituals, memory, and even school routines.
Anthropogenic climate legacy
This is precisely the long arc of destruction the IPCC has been warning about. Emissions from the industrial era do not vanish with the monsoon; their impact lingers for decades, even centuries. The 2022 and 2023 IPCC reports confirm that we are already living with “committed warming” — irreversible climate consequences locked in by past emissions. The glaciers now retreating will not return in our lifetimes. Flood-prone zones will continue to expand. Disasters don’t merely continue; they accumulate.
This means the children of the Himalayas will inherit not just a warmer world, but one marked by perpetual instability — unless the trajectory of response changes radically.
Children of 1996 and beyond
Here, the generational divide becomes stark. Those born before 1996 grew up in a relatively stable climate. For them, weather followed patterns, and seasons held meaning. But for those born after — the so-called “disaster-evolved generation” — uncertainty is the only constant.
These are children who, in Kullu, pack raincoats and first-aid kits in their school bags. Teenagers in Shimla grow up learning how to mark flood zones on their maps. This is not wartime mobilisation. It is climate adaptation — and it’s becoming habitual. But when disasters become ordinary, the tragedy deepens. What should be shocking becomes routine. That is both our loss and our collective test.
Melting mountain
These floods are not just products of melting glaciers; they are the consequence of an ideology that celebrates extraction over harmony. Consider the Hindu notion of Pralay — the cosmic flood that destroys the world in cycles so it may be reborn. In the Srimad Bhagavatam, this deluge is divine. But today’s Pralay is human-made, driven by unchecked greed and ecological indifference.
Marx, too, offers a chilling echo: “All that is holy becomes profane, and all that is solid melts into air.” Our sacred mountains are no longer revered — they are ripped apart to fuel roads, power plants, and tourist resorts. Hydropower projects blast riverbeds into submission; highways are cut crudely into unstable slopes. Tourism, rather than elevating the region, leaves behind plastic waste, broken trails, and ecological imbalance.
We were told this was development. But each step forward in production — each road, tunnel, or intensified farming zone — erodes the Himalayan equilibrium. Infrastructure begets run-off. Deforestation triggers landslides. Marx’s critique endures: the crisis isn’t just about carbon emissions — it’s rooted in a material system that prizes profit over preservation.
Material production reimagined
To respond meaningfully, we must reimagine how we build, where we build, and for whom. Infrastructure must be reoriented to work with nature, not against it.
Rather than concrete storm drains that quicken run-off and erosion, flood management can adopt meandering stream corridors lined with native vegetation. Terraced forest buffers and marshlands at the foot of slopes can absorb excess rainwater and slow down deluge events.
Homes and hamlets must be reconstructed atop engineered terraces — elevated, buttressed by stone retaining walls, and supported by deep-rooted grasses that anchor the soil. These are not utopian ideas. The State Disaster Mitigation Authority (SDMA) has outlined them in multiple reports. It also stipulates that no settlement should exist within five metres of natural drainage lines — a rule that remains widely violated.
As for the roads that slice across hillsides, less than 30% adhere to basic slope drainage codes. Most rely on gravity — a dangerous gamble. Every monsoon, this negligence turns into a landslide headline.
Institutional gaps
The SDMAs of both Himachal and Uttarakhand have produced reports filled with hazard maps, vulnerability indices, and strategic frameworks. But these often end up as paper-bound intentions without executable timelines or budgets.
Take Uttarakhand’s plan to reinforce 15 critical stretches of the Corbett highway. There is no funding blueprint. Himachal’s SDMA lists over 1,200 vulnerable buildings in Kangra and Kullu districts, but without offering relocation or structural audit strategies. What we see is a pattern — noble bureaucratic insight diluted by administrative paralysis.
The problem is not in knowledge — but in will.
Psychological shift
In Chamoli and Kullu, the psychological landscape is shifting. Emergency kits are now as routine as ration cards. People pack water pouches, torchlights, and important documents, knowing full well that the next landslide could erase their homes in minutes.
Schools and villages must go beyond token disaster drills. Regular training, community-based hazard mapping, and local radio alert systems are the need of the hour. Most important, people must also be taught what not to carry during evacuations. In many tragedies, precious minutes are lost trying to save religious artefacts or household heirlooms.
Resilience must become muscle memory — not rhetoric.
Liberation in adaptation
The wisdom of both religious and political thought offers guidance. The Hindu invocation Lokah samastah sukhino bhavantu — “May all beings everywhere be happy and free” — reminds us that true liberation begins with security: a safe home, a reliable alert system, and a dignified livelihood.
Marx reminds us that personal freedom is a mirage without collective structures. If unbridled capitalism tore through community solidarities, it is now tearing through the mountains. Real emancipation lies not in individual resilience but in collective systems: shared water buffers, state-funded terracing, and community-managed forests.
The individual breathes easier when the village is strong.
A call to action
Mandi’s devastation was not a glitch. It was a grim parable in a longer Himalayan narrative. And yet, the most dangerous mistake would be to respond with more of the same: dig, drain, and deny.
We must build infrastructure that is flood-adaptive by design. Disaster mitigation agencies must move from planning to implementation — with funds, audits, and accountability. Preparedness must become a daily civic routine. And most critically, we must restore a material spirituality — one that regards the Himalayas not as a resource bank, but as a living cosmos.
The “disaster-evolved” generation already understands this intuitively. Their resilience is not a genetic trait — it is a forced adaptation. But it also holds the blueprint for the future.
As the Bhagavata Purana warns, “When earth falls into chaos, the cosmic waters rise.” But redemption does not lie in waiting for a saviour. It lies in what we choose to build now — with compassion, justice, and courage.
If all that is solid melts into air, let the foundations we lay today rest not just on concrete, but on collective memory, cultural wisdom, and ecological harmony.
This is Kalyug’s challenge — and capitalism’s reckoning. The Himalayan Pralay has arrived. Whether we drown in it or rebuild from it is entirely up to us.
Tikender Singh Panwar is an author of three books on urbanisation — The Cities in Transition, The Radical City, Challenges of Urban Governance; He is a former Deputy Mayor of Shimla and currently a member of the Kerala Urban Commission; views are personal