Every season brings with it warnings that most of us have grown used to dismissing. We are told the heat will be unbearable, that the rains will come earlier than expected, that they will strike with unusual force. These warnings are repeated year after year, and yet, when the storm clouds finally burst, we act as if nature has betrayed us. The truth is that it is not the weather that surprises us, but our own refusal to take notice, to prepare, and to correct the mistakes that keep multiplying.
This summer has been no different. In the mountains and valleys, in our overcrowded cities and sprawling plains, the downpour has once again exposed how fragile our systems are. Politicians rush to the affected areas, cameras in tow, announcing relief packages and compensation, but the real questions of why we remain unprepared, why we repeat the same errors, and why we allow short-term convenience to overshadow long-term survival are never asked seriously. The conversation dissolves quickly into political point scoring and partisan bickering, while the larger crisis continues to grow.
It is worth remembering that barely three years ago, the floods of 2022 shook this country to its core. Villages disappeared under water, families were uprooted, livelihoods destroyed, and the scale of human suffering was unlike anything seen in decades. That disaster should have been enough to force a collective reckoning, not just within the government, but across society. Yet what followed was a flurry of pledges, conferences, and speeches about climate justice aimed at the international community. When the spotlight faded, the resolve did too. What remained intact was the same model of governance and development that had magnified the tragedy in the first place.
The neglect is visible everywhere. Forests that should have been protected are still being cut down. The glaciers that sustain our rivers are melting faster, while the protective cover of trees that could have softened the blow of heavy rains is vanishing. Hotels and markets continue to spring up on fragile riverbanks, despite knowing that one season’s flood can sweep them away. And every monsoon brings with it the familiar spectacle of roads submerged in urban centres where planning has always catered more to cars and concrete than to drainage or resilience. Even when the issue is discussed, the focus often remains misplaced. The absence of early warning systems or bureaucratic delays in procuring technology become the centre of debate, while the deeper questions of deforestation, encroachments, and reckless urban expansion receive only fleeting attention. This selective outrage is convenient, for it does not challenge the development mindset that equates construction with progress. Wider roads, taller plazas, and sprawling housing societies are celebrated as symbols of growth, even if they cut through farmland, block natural waterways, or replace orchards and forests. The destruction is invisible at first, but every flood and every storm reveals the price of these choices.
The rains come as they always do, carrying with them both life and loss. Each season leaves behind the same questions, not of nature’s wrath, but of our stubbornness to repeat mistakes. We build where rivers must flow, we cut down the forests that shield us, we mistake concrete for progress and silence for responsibility. Year after year, the waters remind us that what is taken from nature is eventually reclaimed. This silence from the leadership may suggest a pause, but pauses mean little without reflection.
Encroachments, in particular, have become a comfortable talking point. Leaders standing amidst debris often declare that buildings on riverbeds must be demolished, that hotels and shantytowns must not return. These pronouncements sound tough and decisive, but in practice they are selective. The poor man’s cart or the migrant’s hut is treated as an encroachment, while the elite housing society on prime agricultural land or the luxurious home built over a water channel is rarely questioned. Across the provinces, the story repeats itself each year as obstructed waterways reclaim their natural course, unleashing familiar scenes of destruction. Yet, the very real estate ventures that disrupt these flows continue to expand without interruption. This narrow and selective interpretation of encroachment ensures that the crisis endures, while the rhetoric of action serves only as a comforting illusion.
All of this is compounded by a silence around population. Every year, millions are added to our numbers, yet an honest conversation about what this means for land, water, forests, and cities rarely takes place. More people inevitably mean more houses, more roads, and greater pressure on fragile resources. The felling of trees, the narrowing of riverbeds, and the unchecked spread of housing colonies are all linked to this growing demand. But because the subject is politically delicate, culturally sensitive, and often seen through a religious lens, it is left untouched. Without acknowledging population growth as the force multiplying every crisis, we will continue to treat the symptoms while ignoring the root cause.
The rains come as they always do, carrying with them both life and loss. Each season leaves behind the same questions, not of nature’s wrath, but of our stubbornness to repeat mistakes. We build where rivers must flow, we cut down the forests that shield us, we mistake concrete for progress and silence for responsibility. Year after year, the waters remind us that what is taken from nature is eventually reclaimed. This silence from the leadership may suggest a pause, but pauses mean little without reflection. To truly honour the lives lost, we must learn what we have so far refused to learn: that prosperity cannot be carved out by erasing rivers or stripping mountains bare, that resilience lies not in compensation cheques but in foresight and restraint. The choice is before us still. We can remember, and change or forget, and drown again.
