I wasn't going to write this. I've drafted it three times and deleted it twice, because every time I start, I end up back at the same place — standing outside Kaksh Villa, ten months ago, watching water do in six hours what we spent three years building.
But then the news from Nepal came in.
A glacial lake outburst flood — GLOF, as the scientists call it — tore through parts of Nepal recently, and the images are the kind that stay with you. A wall of water, mud, and rock, moving at a speed that leaves no time to think, only to run. Villages gone. Roads gone. Lives gone.
I read the reports the way I imagine a lot of you did — with a knot in my stomach that had nothing to do with sympathy from a distance. It had everything to do with recognition.
Dehradun sits in the same larger geography as these glacial systems — the Himalayan watershed, the same monsoon patterns, the same fragile hillsides that hold rivers we've built our lives around. What happens upstream, geologically and climatically, doesn't stay upstream. Warmer temperatures are destabilizing glacial lakes across the Himalayan belt, and even without a glacier burst on our doorstep, we've already seen what unchecked hill-water can do to us directly.
We saw it last year.
I don't usually talk about this publicly, and I'm going to try to say it plainly rather than dramatically, because the plain version is bad enough.
Kaksh Villa was, for us, more than a property. It was the villa near Sahastradhara that we were proudest of — the one where we hosted anniversaries, quiet family retreats, people who wanted to disconnect from the city and just breathe near the hills. We built it with a lot of care. Every stone path, every window facing the right way to catch the morning light — I remember choosing most of it myself.
Last year's flash floods hit Sahastradhara Road and Rajpur with a ferocity that even people who've lived here their whole lives said they hadn't seen before. The water didn't rise gradually and give us a chance to react sensibly. It came fast, carrying debris, uprooted trees, and force I genuinely didn't think a stream that size was capable of holding.
By the time we could safely get to the property, Kaksh Villa was unrecognizable. The lower level was gutted. Furniture we had sourced from artisans over months was gone or ruined beyond repair. The garden we'd nurtured for two years had become a debris field. I stood there — and I'm not ashamed to say this — and I didn't know whether to be angry, or heartbroken, or just numb.
What stayed with me longest wasn't the financial loss, though that was significant. It was the feeling of helplessness. Of realizing that no amount of good intention or hard work protects you if you don't also respect what nature is capable of, and prepare for it accordingly.
We've since rebuilt — carefully, and with flood mitigation built into the design this time, not as an afterthought. But I carry that day with me, and it's exactly why I can't stay quiet while watching Nepal's tragedy unfold and knowing how thin the line is between "that happened to them" and "that could happen to us again."
Dehradun has grown fast. New construction on hill slopes, encroachment near natural drainage channels, deforestation for development, and unplanned expansion around areas like Sahastradhara and Rajpur have all quietly increased our exposure. The natural water channels that used to absorb and redirect heavy rainfall have been built over or narrowed. Add to that our proximity to the outer Himalayan ranges, unpredictable cloudbursts, and an increasingly erratic monsoon pattern, and the risk isn't hypothetical — it's structural.
We are, geographically, downstream of a lot of instability. That's not fear-mongering. That's just the map.
I'm not a disaster management expert. But I've lived through enough of this now to know what matters when the water starts rising.
Build a real emergency kit — not a mental note, an actual bag, packed and ready:
Know your evacuation routes before you need them. Don't wait for the night the water's already at your doorstep to figure out which road is higher ground.
Follow official weather alerts religiously, not word-of-mouth. Bookmark and actually check:
Never cross flooded roads — on foot or in a vehicle. Six inches of fast-moving water can knock you off your feet. Two feet can carry away a car. I've seen the videos. Please don't test it.
Sandbag vulnerable entry points in your home if you're in a low-lying or riverside area, well before the monsoon peaks, not during.
Move vehicles to higher ground the moment heavy rain warnings are issued. We lost more than one vehicle at Kaksh Villa simply because we didn't move fast enough.
Save emergency numbers where you can actually find them in a crisis — printed, not just in your phone (phones die, signal drops):
Get proper insurance, and actually read the flood/water-damage clauses. I learned this one the hard way. Don't assume you're covered. Ask specifically.
If you run a business here — a homestay, a café, a shop, anything — please take this seriously as a continuity issue, not just a safety one.
We didn't have a proper continuity plan for Kaksh Villa. We do now, for every property we run.
This is the part I think about most. In the chaos after the floods last year, it was neighbors who showed up for each other before any official help arrived. Please, before the next warning comes:
I won't pretend losing Kaksh Villa didn't hurt, or that rebuilding was easy. It wasn't. But we rebuilt smarter, with drainage and elevation and materials chosen with respect for what the hills can do when they decide to remind us who's in charge.
I'm writing this not because I have all the answers, but because Nepal's tragedy is a warning I don't want any of us in Dehradun to hear and then forget by next week. We live in a beautiful, fragile place. Loving it means preparing for it, not just admiring it.
Please, take the next monsoon season seriously. Pack the kit. Know the routes. Check on your neighbors.
We can rebuild villas. Let's try harder to not lose more than that.
— Vaibhav
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