Driving Down Abu Road
Driving down Abu Road with Harry and Mohan, I stopped to take a photograph—Plummy cloaked in deep green, the dying sun casting its last glow across the hills. After the monsoon, Mount Abu seemed to have come back to life. The forests shimmered. A sense of freshness permeated the air. For a fleeting moment, the hill station looked invincible.
But appearances in Abu are often deceptive.
Year after year, the same old fear of water lies hidden beneath the beauty.
The monsoons have retreated. The fruiting trees are preparing for the dry months ahead. The wildlife of the sanctuary—birds, langurs, bears, leopards, and countless smaller creatures—must now endure the long wait for the next rains. Nature adapts. Nature survives somehow.
The question is: Will we?
After the rains come reality
By the end of September, the monsoon fades away, leaving behind only the occasional October shower. The streams weaken. The soil hardens. The green begins to dull. And almost immediately, the conversations begin again—water cuts, restrictions, shortages, uncertainty.
The authorities now say the domestic water supply may resume soon, though under restrictions. Once every three days, perhaps. Maybe once every four if conditions worsen.
And so the annual ritual continues.
Every year, Mount Abu celebrates the monsoon as though the crisis has passed. Every year, tourists flood the hills, hotels overflow, garbage piles up, construction continues unchecked, and officials speak about development. Then summer arrives, and the panic begins all over again.
The Failure Nobody Wants to Admit
The truth is uncomfortable, but we must say it plainly.
Much of Abu’s water crisis is not natural—it is man-made.
Reservoirs leak while repair work drags behind schedule. Water infrastructure remains outdated and neglected. Proposals for new dams, rainwater harvesting, desisting projects, and long-term conservation disappear into files and meetings, never reaching reality.
Meanwhile, the population is rising. Tourist pressure grows heavier every year. Water consumption increases. Yet serious planning remains absent.
The citizens of Abu have warned about this for years. They have written letters, raised concerns, suggested solutions, and pleaded for action. Yet, far too often, our actions have been reactive rather than proactive, offering short-term remedies instead of enduring resolutions.
As I watched the sun disappear behind Plummy that evening, one thought kept returning to me:
Will Mount Abu once again enter summer unprepared?
Nakki Lake is not a dustbin
And I have to mention something else.
Please stop treating Nakki Lake like a dumping ground.
Plastic bottles, food waste, litter, and unchecked tourist carelessness are slowly choking one of Abu’s most important lifelines. People pose for photographs beside the very water they help to pollute. Authorities speak of tourism, yet cannot enforce even basic civic discipline around the lake.
Nakki is not a postcard attraction for weekend visitors.
It is survival.
When the hills dry out and the reservoirs shrink, Nakki becomes critical to Mount Abu’s existence. Polluting it is not just irresponsible—it is an act of collective self-destruction.
The Green Will Not Last Forever
Today, the hills are green. The forests still breathe with life. The mornings remain cool and forgiving.
But anyone who truly knows Mount Abu understands how quickly this changes.
The summer sun is coming. The forests will dry. Water levels will fall. Wild animals will struggle. Fire risks will rise. And once again, Abu will be left asking the same desperate questions it should have answered years ago.
The monsoon has given us another chance.
The real question is whether we will waste this one too.
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