By Dipak Kurmi
In the span of less than two weeks, the Jammu region became a theatre of devastation where swollen rivers, collapsing hillsides, and panicked pilgrims bore witness to the Himalayan crisis that India has long ignored. Flash floods and landslides, occurring within just twelve days, claimed nearly 140 lives—most of them pilgrims—while leaving many others missing, displaced, or mourning amidst the debris of religious journeys turned into funerals.
The images that emerged from August’s twin tragedies—the sudden wall of mud and boulders that buried worshippers near the Machail Mata temple in Kishtwar, and the torrential rains that engulfed routes to the Vaishno Devi shrine in Reasi—were more than nature’s fury. They were the clearest manifestation yet of how fragile development, poor planning, and climate vulnerability have converged to make the Himalayas a perilous home for millions, and an even deadlier passage for pilgrims.
On August 14, hundreds of devotees from Jammu region had gathered at a community kitchen in Chosoti, the last motorable village before the Machail Mata shrine. Their spiritual climb was halted in a matter of minutes, when a cloudburst triggered a flash flood that brought with it a roaring cascade of slush and boulders. Dozens were trapped instantly, while the lucky few scrambled to higher ground. As many as 65 bodies have since been recovered from that disaster, though many more remain missing—swallowed by rivers that carried them downstream like nameless sacrifices.
Barely twelve days later, on August 26, another calamity struck. A landslide near Ardhkuwari, on the heavily trodden Vaishno Devi route, buried 34 more lives under collapsing rock and earth. Pilgrims who had come seeking blessings found themselves confronting mortality. Families waiting at home received news not of safe returns, but of vanished loved ones whose journeys ended midway to the shrine.
These tragedies were not isolated accidents of weather, experts insist, but predictable consequences of a fragile mountain ecosystem pushed beyond its limits by unregulated construction, mass tourism, and climate change.
Science of a Disaster
The India Meteorological Department (IMD) confirmed that Jammu witnessed a rare interaction between western disturbances and monsoon currents from the Bay of Bengal, producing unusually heavy rainfall. Sonam Lotus, a senior scientist at IMD Leh, explained that in Kishtwar, this intense rainfall in mountainous terrain acted like a trigger—causing torrents of water to channel into catchment areas, where they accelerated into flash floods. The frequency of such floods, he warned, is increasing across the Himalayas.
But while meteorology explains the rain, it cannot alone explain the rising body count. What transforms rain into mass death, Lotus emphasized, is construction in floodplains and hillsides where houses and roads are built without regard for natural drainage patterns. “Whenever there is heavy rainfall in mountain areas, flash floods are bound to follow,” he observed, adding that unless people remain vigilant and authorities enforce land-use restrictions, disaster will become the new normal.
Indeed, early warnings were issued before the August events, but the lack of immediate ground action proved fatal. The Shri Mata Vaishno Devi Shrine Board (SMVDSB) had prior alerts, yet the administration failed to prevent the pilgrim rush or provide safe evacuation. A three-member inquiry panel has since been set up by J\&K Lt. Governor Manoj Sinha, who also chairs the shrine board, but critics argue that this reactive approach comes too late for the dead.
Lessons Buried Under Debris
Past studies had already highlighted the danger zones. A topographical survey of 24 slide-prone locations near the Vaishno Devi shrine was conducted by IIT-Kanpur, while IIT-Roorkee carried out geological assessments. The National Institute of Rock Mechanics (NIRM) had identified 24 vulnerable pathways as early as 2010. Yet year after year, shrine authorities and government planners allowed the expansion of roads, hotels, and parking lots to cater to the ever-rising tide of pilgrims.
Dr. Yudhbir Singh, Associate Professor at the University of Jammu’s Department of Geology, has little doubt about the link. “These are not random events,” he observed. “They are a direct consequence of a dangerous cocktail—natural processes intensified by human recklessness.” His assessment resonates with a growing body of climate research that shows the Himalayas warming at nearly twice the global average, increasing the risk of glacial lake outbursts, cloudbursts, and flash floods.
Even Jammu city, far from the steep pilgrimage routes, felt the fury of swollen rivers. At least two bridges on the vital Jammu-Pathankot highway were washed away. Another bridge on the Tawi River cracked under the onrush of water, while floodwaters breached homes after crossing the danger mark.
The Himalayan Warning
The disasters in Jammu are not unique. Himachal Pradesh, Uttarakhand, and J\&K are all facing the cascading risks of climate volatility combined with development pressures. Chief Minister Omar Abdullah has already called for expert consultations to frame risk mitigation strategies. Yet environmentalists argue that the political class remains captive to short-term economic interests.
Aman Ohri, founder of NGO Climate Front, has been outspoken in blaming man-made causes. “The crisis is not just climate-induced—it is man-made,” he said. Pointing to the Tawi riverfront beautification project, he warned that sinking a barrage fifty meters deep was folly in such a volatile river. “The areas that suffered damage in Jammu were closest to this barrage. Pilgrimage paths and city projects are being built without climate-resilient design, without carrying capacity studies, and without respect for fragile geologies.”
Ohri’s frustration echoes that of many scientists who stress that disasters are as much a product of bad governance as they are of rain. Smart drainage, landslide mapping, and ecological zoning are known solutions. Yet political will remains weak, as administrators focus on showcasing pilgrim facilities and beautification projects to court religious and electoral dividends. “Pilgrimages are being commercialised for profit,” Ohri said bluntly. “The administration cannot carry the climate burden alone. All stakeholders—from shrine boards to construction companies—are equally responsible.”
Pilgrimage, Profit, and Peril
The cultural weight of shrines like Vaishno Devi and Machail Mata is undeniable. Every year, lakhs of devotees ascend treacherous mountain paths to pay homage, and their faith sustains an economy of hoteliers, transporters, and traders. But this sacred economy has been allowed to grow unchecked, with little regard for the environment it inhabits. Roads are blasted through hillsides with dynamite, drainage channels are blocked by haphazard construction, and forests are stripped to make way for facilities. Each new project promises convenience, but each also chips away at the ecological shield that once moderated rainfall and prevented landslides.
In the process, pilgrimage has transformed from a sacred act into a high-risk venture. Unlike in the past, when journeys were arduous but in tune with nature’s rhythm, today’s pilgrim routes are engineered for speed, mass access, and consumption. The irony is bitter: the very development meant to ease access to divinity has made the pathways more dangerous than ever.
A Climate Future Written in Mud
The August disasters should serve as a wake-up call. The Himalayas, geologically young and seismically active, are not forgiving to human hubris. Every unplanned road, every poorly designed barrage, every tree cut for a new hotel, pushes the region closer to collapse. With climate change accelerating extreme rainfall events, the margin for error is shrinking fast.
Yet amid the grief, opportunities for reform still exist. Scientists call for climate-resilient infrastructure, for drainage systems that mimic natural water flow, for carrying-capacity studies to limit pilgrim numbers, and for strict enforcement of ecological zoning laws. Local communities must also be integrated into disaster planning, since they remain the first responders when tragedy strikes.
But for now, the debris of August remains a haunting reminder of how India treats its mountains—not as living ecosystems with limits, but as playgrounds for political symbolism and economic profit.
The price of fragile development is no longer hidden in research papers or committee reports. It is written in the faces of grieving families, in the bridges swept away, and in the pilgrims who never returned home. Unless governance finds the courage to prioritise sustainability over spectacle, the Himalayas will continue to bury both faith and folly under their shifting slopes.
(the writer can be reached at dipakkurmiglpltd@gmail.com)
