I was born and raised in Himachal Pradesh — the mountains were my playground, the rivers my companions, and the forests my shelter. I grew up in a world where nature wasn’t something distant or commercialized, but woven into the fabric of our daily lives. We splashed in crystal-clear streams, chased butterflies up rugged hills, and filled our lungs with the purest air imaginable. From a young age, we learned to tread lightly, to honor the land that cradled us like a mother. Those memories are etched in my soul, a reminder of what true harmony feels like.
But today, as I gaze upon the scarred landscapes of my homeland, my heart aches with a pain that's hard to put into words. The Himachal I knew is slipping away, battered and broken. Floods, cloudbursts, landslides — these aren't just headlines anymore; they're the relentless rhythm of our lives. And it's not some cruel twist of fate. It's a desperate plea from the earth itself. Why now, more than ever before? Why are our villages washing away, our families torn apart?
Just this July, torrential rains unleashed a nightmare across our state: 22 cloudbursts, 31 flash floods, and 17 landslides that blocked roads, buried homes, and claimed lives we can never replace. Barely weeks later, in early August, flash floods ravaged communities, sweeping away everything in their path and leaving hundreds missing or displaced. And now, as I write this in September 2025, the wounds are fresh again — heavy overnight rains in Mandi district triggered devastating landslides and floods, collapsing a house in Bragta village and killing three members of a single family, including perhaps a child who dreamed of climbing those same hills I once did. Imagine that: a home, a sanctuary, reduced to rubble in an instant. Fathers, mothers, children — gone. Their laughter silenced by the roar of unchecked waters. Doesn't that pierce your heart? These aren't statistics; they're our neighbors, our kin, our shared humanity crumbling under the weight of our neglect.
Is it because of the relentless push for infrastructure, carving highways into fragile slopes without a second thought? Rivers dammed and diverted, forests stripped bare for "progress"? We've watched as four-lane expressways snake through our valleys, tunnels bore into ancient mountains, and unchecked construction mushrooms along every ridge. Yes, these bring connectivity, tourism dollars, better schools, and hospitals to remote corners — blessings we all cherish. But at what soul-crushing cost? When a cloudburst hits, those very roads become death traps, funneling debris and water straight into villages. We've seen it time and again: vehicles swept away, pilgrims stranded, livelihoods erased. Nature isn't vengeful; it's responding to our hubris. Every gushing flood, every thundering landslide, every sudden cloudburst is a heartbroken cry: Enough. Please, stop before there's nothing left to save.
We proudly call Himachal Dev Bhoomi — the abode of the gods. As Himachalis, that pride runs deep in our veins. But are we honoring it? Or are we trading our sacred mountains for fleeting gains — bigger hotels, quicker profits, instant gratification? Are we so dazzled by the glow of development that we're blind to the shadows it casts? Picture your own childhood home swallowed by mud, your favorite trekking path erased forever, the rivers that quenched your thirst running dry and polluted. It hurts, doesn't it? That sting is the wake-up call we all need — not to despair, but to rise with fierce determination.
And who bears the blame? Not just the government, though they must enforce ironclad regulations, prioritize sustainable planning, and safeguard our forests and waterways. Not solely the politicians — from BJP, Congress, or any party — who parade grand promises during elections, only to deliver hollow gestures and photo-op inaugurations. We've endured enough of that betrayal. And no, it's not just the outsiders flocking in for selfies and stays. We, the people of Himachal, must own our part too. Every time we turn a blind eye to illegal encroachments, every vote cast without demanding accountability, every silence in the face of destruction — we're complicit.
The Supreme Court could step in, as it has before, but we can't pin our hopes on distant benches while our hills bleed. Action must come from us, now. Not after the next tragedy strikes, not when another family mourns in Mandi or Kullu. Now. If we falter, Himachal risks becoming a ghost of itself — flattened like Punjab or Haryana, its verdant soul paved over with concrete, its air choked with smog, its spirit crowded out by regret. Our children deserve better than barren wastelands; they deserve the magic we once knew.
Mark my words — this plea will echo online for years, a testament to what could have been prevented. But it doesn't have to end in ruin. Our rivers don't have to run red with silt, our forests don't have to fade into memory, our homes don't have to fall. We can choose differently. I urge every Himachali, every soul touched by these mountains: Feel this pain, let it fuel you. Wake up with the fire of guardians. Demand sustainable roads that hug the land gently, tourism that heals rather than harms, development that whispers respect to the gods of Dev Bhoomi.
We don't need to wait for leaders to lead — we are the change. Plant trees with your hands, raise your voice in village meetings, educate the young about the fragile balance we've upset. Hold politicians accountable, not with anger, but with unyielding resolve. Stand together, not as divided voters or fleeting visitors, but as stewards of this paradise.
Sudhar jao, Himachaliyo — mend your ways with love for the land that raised you. The mountains are calling, not in anger, but in hope. Listen. Act. Before the silence becomes eternal.
The time is now. Let's heal our home, one conscious step at a time.

By Chandan Sharma, 
Digital Media Head, Paigam-E-Jagat