When the Mountains Come Tumbling Down

 

Continuing the journey into the mysterious Earth

For children and curious minds of all ages

Yogendra Deva

 

“Aaba, will geology be on your mind when you’re doing the Char Dham pilgrimage?”

Aaba looked up. “Not consciously,” he said. “But after fifty years in the field, the ground has developed a habit of poking its nose into my affairs.”

Mihir smiled. “The temples will have competition, then.”

“Not at all,” Aaba said. “The temples lead. The ground gets noticed… and waits its turn.”

He paused.

“Take Kedarnath, for instance,” he continued. “The moment I land there, the Mandakini will almost certainly remind me of 2013—when it dropped all inhibitions and came down the valley like Lord Shiva in Tandava.”

Mihir blinked. “Tandava?”

Aaba nodded. “Yes—the kind of dance one prefers to only hear about.”

“Oh,” Mihir said. “You mean the infamous floods?”

Aaba looked at him. “How do you remember that? You had barely arrived.”

Mihir shrugged. “One doesn’t need to visit the Moon to know about it.”

Aaba smiled. “Well said, young man.”

He paused, then continued.

“Yes—a flood, but not just that. A debris flow—water, mud, boulders… everything moving together, and very fast.”

“And that just… happens?” Mihir asked.

“Rarely just like that,” Aaba said. “It needs a recipe.”

“Recipe?”

“Kedarnath,” Aaba continued, “was one such recipe. Intense rain, a glacial lake in a hurry, plenty of loose material, and a narrow valley that did not believe in moderation.”

“And then?” Mihir asked.

“Then,” Aaba said, “the river stopped behaving like a river. It became a carrier—of water, debris, boulders… everything the mountain chose to offer.”

He paused.

“It came down with such force that entire stretches were wiped out. Buildings, pathways, anything in its way… simply removed. Thousands of lives were lost. Not because the river was angry—but because everything aligned at once.”

Mihir’s expression changed.

“And that was a one-off?”

Aaba shook his head. “The Himalaya doesn’t believe in one-offs.”

“Take the Rishiganga Flood,” he continued. “Different trigger, same idea.”

“The glacier one?” Mihir asked.

“Yes,” Aaba said. “A sudden release high up—ice, rock, debris—and the river below had no choice. It carried everything forward. Hydropower structures in the valley were struck before anyone had time to understand what was coming.”

He paused again.

“It was fast. Very fast. The kind of event where the mountain moves first… and explanations arrive later.”

Mihir was listening more carefully now.

“And more recently,” Aaba added, “near Dharali. A cloudburst-fed debris flow.”

“Same story?” Mihir asked.

“Same idea,” Aaba said. “Different valley.”

He paused.

“This time, it was not just a river misbehaving. Slopes gave way, debris gathered, and within minutes, parts of the settlement were overwhelmed. Homes that had stood quietly for years found themselves in the path of something that had no intention of stopping.”

Mihir’s face tightened. “That bad?”

Aaba nodded. “Fast enough that it felt sudden. Familiar enough that it should not have.”

He looked ahead, as if tracing the path in his mind.

“Water finds material. The valley provides the path. Gravity does not negotiate.”

Mihir was quiet for a moment.

“These are not accidents?” he said slowly.

“Not entirely,” Aaba replied. “They are processes. The Himalaya is quite consistent that way.”

He added, almost as an afterthought,

“We are the ones who occasionally act surprised.”

“And we still build there,” he said.

“With enthusiasm,” Aaba said. “Closer to rivers. On slopes still making up their minds. With structures that assume the mountain will cooperate.”

“And it doesn’t?”

“It does,” Aaba said. “Perfectly. Just not according to our expectations.”

“And your ‘recipe’…”

“…is simply conditions coming together,” Aaba said. “Water, material, slope, and space. When they align, the result is swift.”

“And avoidable?”

Aaba considered that. “Understandable,” Aaba said. “Which is a good beginning.”

He leaned forward. “Aren’t these floods and debris flows the only problem?”

“Not even close,” Aaba said. “Sometimes the mountain does not wait for water.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Aaba said, “it simply comes down.”

“The whole mountain?”

“Not the entire mountain,” Aaba said. “Just enough to ruin your day,” Aaba said. “The Himalaya is generous, but not that generous.”

“You’ve heard of landslides,” Aaba continued.

“Yes,” he said cautiously. “Those things that block roads and delay holidays.”

“Those,” Aaba said, “are the polite ones.”

He looked at me carefully. “There are impolite ones too?”

“Oh yes,” Aaba said. “Some arrive without notice, bring half a hillside along, and do not concern themselves with schedules, traffic, or human plans.”

“Examples?”

“Take Malpa,” I said. “A quiet night. A village at rest. And then—without ceremony—the slope above decided it had had enough.”

He was silent.

“It buried almost everything in its path,” Aaba said quietly. “No warning worth the name. Just gravity doing what it does best.”

“And this happens often?”

“More often than we would like,” Aaba said. “Different scales, different triggers—rain, earthquakes, weathering… sometimes just time.”

He shook his head slowly. “Then what do we do?”

“Ah,” Aaba said, “now we come to the part where engineers try to justify their salaries.”

“We do not stop the mountain,” Aaba said. “That would be ambitious, even by our standards. We try to work with it.”

“Meaning?”

“Most trouble begins when water starts wandering,” Aaba said. “So we guide it—drains, channels, ways to keep it moving without mischief.”

“Water with ideas sounds dangerous.”

“It is. Water with initiative is seldom good news.”

“And the slopes?”

“We persuade them,” Aaba said. “Retaining walls, rock bolts, shotcrete… gentle reminders to stay where they are.”

“Polite negotiation with gravity?”

“Exactly. Civilised negotiations with uncivilised gravity.”

“And when persuasion fails?”

“We step aside,” Aaba said. “And avoid building there. A surprisingly effective technology.”

“That sounds like wisdom.”

“It is,” I said. “Which is why it is not always followed.”

“And rivers?”

“We give them space,” Aaba said. “Not always happily, but necessarily.”

“That sounds obvious.”

“It always does,” Aaba said, “after the event.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes,” I said. “We watch.”

“Watch?”

“Rainfall, slopes, river levels. Early warning systems. The mountain rarely acts without hints—someone just has to notice.”

“It’s not about controlling nature?”

“No,” Aaba said. “It’s about understanding it well enough to stay out of trouble.”

Aaba paused.

“And even then,” Aaba added, “we don’t always get it right.”

He tilted his head. “This is all Himalaya. Do other mountains behave like this too?”

“Oh yes,” Aaba said. “Anything standing tall is prone to coming down.”

“Whether it is the Himalaya or the Nilgiris…”

“…the ground still expects to be understood,” Aaba said.

He looked at me again.

“And you are going there,” he said slowly, “to relax?”

“Aaba is going there,” he said grandly, “to appreciate.”

“Appreciate what?”

“The temples,” Aaba said.
“The landscape.”
“And occasionally… the honesty of the ground.”

He shook his head, but he was smiling.

“You are impossible, Aaba,” he said. “For once, just relax and do your pilgrimage. The mountains will survive without your commentary.”

“Perhaps,” Aaba said.

“But Aaba suspects,” he added, picking up his bag, “they will continue speaking anyway.”

“And you will continue listening,” he said.

“That,” I said, “is the problem.”

I stepped out, still smiling.

The pilgrimage would, no doubt, be peaceful. The temples would stand where they always have. The rivers would flow—as they often do—calm, composed, almost polite.

But I knew better.

Because in the Himalaya, nothing is ever entirely still. Slopes adjust. Rivers remember. Valleys wait.

And once in a while, when everything comes together—water, rock, gravity, and time—

the mountains come tumbling down.