The torrential rains that lashed Jammu recently left the city resembling a sprawling water basin. Streets turned into streams, residential colonies resembled islands, and the fragile infrastructure buckled under the sudden onslaught of water. Panic spread as vehicles were marooned, homes inundated, and drains spewed filth back into living spaces. Social media filled with images of submerged roads and anxious citizens. But as the waters swirled, a larger and more haunting question loomed: is Mother Nature alone to be blamed for this fury, or have we ourselves scripted this disaster?
It is tempting, almost convenient, to look skyward in search of blame. After all, rainfall is an act of nature. The Himalayan belt, to which Jammu belongs, has always been a region of volatile weather—cloudbursts in one corner, snow avalanches in another, sudden landslides triggered by mountain storms. But what we witnessed in Jammu was not a natural calamity in isolation; it was the collapse of urban planning in the face of a predictable natural event.
For decades, Jammu has expanded without a blueprint that respects either its topography or its ecology. What were once floodplains, wetlands, or small rivulets that absorbed excess rainwater have been encroached upon and replaced with concrete. Traditional nallahs that carried storm water to the Tawi river are clogged with garbage and unauthorized constructions. Storm water drains exist more on paper than on the ground, and when they do exist, they are poorly maintained. As a result, even a few hours of torrential rain turn the city into a lake.
The fury of nature is a constant, but the vulnerability of human settlements is variable—and that vulnerability is largely man-made. We have systematically dismantled the natural drainage systems that our ancestors had once preserved. The expansion of colonies on the city’s outskirts came with scant regard for water channels.
Builders carved roads and leveled plots with no thought of where rainwater would flow. Civic authorities, already under pressure from a growing population, looked the other way when wetlands were converted into residential enclaves. In such circumstances, rainfall does not merely fall from the sky; it rebounds upon us as a punishment for years of indifference.
This pattern is not confined to Jammu alone. Across the Himalayan belt, from Himachal to Uttarakhand, and from the Kashmir Valley to the Northeast, the story is chillingly similar. In Shimla, landslides swallow houses built precariously on fragile slopes. In Kedarnath, the memory of 2013 floods still sends shivers through the collective psyche, reminding us how reckless development along riverbanks can magnify tragedy. In Kashmir, the 2014 deluge showed how urban expansion into floodplains made Srinagar a waterlogged prison for weeks. Each of these episodes reveals a common thread: when nature tests, our flawed planning collapses.
What is particularly alarming in the Himalayan region is that this fragile ecology is being stretched beyond its natural capacity. The mountains are young, geologically unstable, and prone to erosion. Cutting into their flanks for highways, hotels, and urban expansion weakens their very core. The incessant felling of trees reduces the soil’s ability to absorb rainfall, leading to rapid runoffs and floods in the valleys. Add to this the relentless piling of concrete in places that should have been left as green buffers, and you have a perfect recipe for calamity.
Some would argue that climate change has intensified rainfall patterns, making weather events more unpredictable and violent. This is true, but it is only half the story. Climate change may explain the intensity of the rains, but it does not explain why cities like Jammu drown so easily. That has everything to do with governance, planning, and civic responsibility. Torrential rains are natural; water-logging in residential colonies is not. Floods may be divine; clogged drains are man-made.
The paradox is stark: every government promises “smart cities” and “modern infrastructure,” yet a few hours of heavy rain turn these urban dreams into nightmares. Jammu’s plight is emblematic of a larger crisis in governance across Indian cities, especially those situated in ecologically sensitive zones. We spend crores on widening roads, beautifying chowks, or erecting new commercial complexes, but little on maintaining the humble but crucial drainage system. Urban development becomes a spectacle, not a science.
The recent rains also raise uncomfortable questions about our collective societal choices. As citizens, we too have played a role. Many of us build over drains, dump garbage into nullahs, and demand new colonies in fragile areas. Our craving for expansion and comfort often blinds us to ecological limits. Civic apathy and citizen negligence together create the conditions in which nature’s ordinary acts become extraordinary disasters.
In this light, it is unfair to invoke only “nature’s fury.” Nature has always rained, snowed, stormed, and thundered. What has changed is the way we have left ourselves vulnerable. The disasters unfolding across the Himalayan region are not simply accidents of climate but consequences of human folly.
The way forward demands honesty and courage. For Jammu, it means a radical rethinking of urban planning. Drainage systems must be mapped, revived, and expanded. Encroachments over water channels must be removed, no matter how politically inconvenient. Wetlands and floodplains must be protected as natural safety valves. Civic bodies need to shift focus from ornamental projects to functional essentials like waste management and storm water infrastructure. Importantly, the public must be educated to see ecological preservation not as an optional luxury but as a matter of survival.
The Himalayan belt requires even greater sensitivity. Infrastructure must be built with ecological safeguards, not as concrete intrusions. Tourism must be regulated, not allowed to overrun fragile ecosystems. Afforestation and watershed management should be prioritized to restore the soil’s absorptive capacity. Development and ecology are not adversaries—they can coexist, but only when guided by foresight.
It is also time to recognize that disasters have political, economic, and ethical dimensions. When the streets of Jammu drown, the poor and middle-class households are the first victims, while the powerful retreat to safer havens. When landslides strike, it is those living in makeshift hillside homes who pay the price. The unequal burden of disasters is yet another reminder that our negligence is not neutral—it punishes the vulnerable disproportionately.
The image of Jammu’s flooded streets is, therefore, not merely about rainwater. It is a mirror held up to our times. It reflects the short-term thinking of policymakers, the negligence of civic bodies, the greed of builders, and the indifference of citizens. Mother Nature may have opened the skies, but we are the ones who stripped ourselves of shelter.
Unless a course correction is made, the story will repeat. The next downpour will once again paralyze the city. The next landslide in Himachal will claim more lives. The next cloudburst in Kashmir will trap another generation in flooded lanes. We can continue to blame nature, or we can confront our own folly.
In the end, the choice is ours. We can either persist in blaming the skies for what is essentially our own negligence, or we can finally accept responsibility and act. For if there is one truth that the recent rains in Jammu have reminded us of, it is this: nature’s fury is inevitable, but our disasters are not.
(Author is RK Columnist and can be reached at: [email protected])
