Fire has arrived too early in the “Abode of Gods”—and it has not come alone.
Forest fires in Mount Abu are the cruel signature of peak summer, when months of relentless heat drain every drop of moisture from the land. But this year, summer has begun, and yet the forests of Achalgarh are already burning. That is not just unusual—it is alarming.
On 22 March, a fire broke out in the Achalgarh region. Before the embers could cool, the following evening—around 6 pm on the 23rd—three separate fires ignited almost simultaneously, burning well into the night until 2 am. One crept close to the Achalgarh temple, another rose behind the Safari cottages, and a third flared near Veer Baba.
Three fires. Three locations. One evening.
Coincidence feels like a straightforward answer—perhaps too easy.
They have offered familiar explanations. Carelessness—tourists and locals flicking away lit bidis and cigarettes into dry grass. Quiet resentment—whispers of deliberate fires in response to restrictions imposed by the Forest Department, Rajasthan, on wood collection.
But explanations, however convenient, do little to douse flames once they take hold.
Year after year, this cycle repeats itself. Fires break out, officials release statements, and the forest pays the price. Meanwhile, the larger questions remain suspended in the smoky air. Are preventive measures keeping pace with the changing climate? Are fire lines being maintained with urgency, or as a seasonal formality? And how prepared is the administration when multiple fires erupt at once?
Many already know that officials admit manpower is thin, equipment is stretched, and response capacity often reacts rather than anticipates. Despite frameworks laid out under national forest protection guidelines and disaster response protocols, the reality on the ground tells a different story—one where terrain outpaces teams and flames outrun planning.
Forest firefighting in Mount Abu is not just difficult—it is perilous. Steep slopes, unpredictable winds, and limited access turn every blaze into a gamble. And yet, the scale of preparedness seems unchanged, even as the frequency of fires rises.
What is being lost is not just forest cover, but an entire living system. The rare woodland flora turns to ash in hours. Nesting grounds vanish overnight. Birds scatter, animals flee, and some never make it out. For those who have spent years observing these forests—their rhythms, their quiet resilience—this destruction cuts deep.
Mount Abu’s forests are not vast to begin with. They are fragile, finite, and fragmented. And each fire leaves them weaker.
The troubling part is not just that fires are happening—but that they are happening earlier, more frequently, and with a disturbing sense of inevitability. This is no longer an occasional crisis; it is becoming a pattern. A failure to adapt. A failure to expect.
If this is how the season begins, it raises an uncomfortable question: are we witnessing isolated incidents—or the slow normalisation of ecological neglect?
One hopes these fires are not the opening chapter of a harsher summer. But hope alone will not hold the line.
At some point, responsibility must move beyond attribution—beyond blaming a stray cigarette or an unseen hand—and settle where it truly belongs: in sustained prevention, stronger enforcement, and a system that acts before the forest burns, not after.
Until then, the hills will continue to smoulder—quietly, repeatedly, and far too soon.
