“All the water from the sky flows to the sea. All the fruits of development flow to the builders,” Padma Bhushan Professor Madhav Gadgil said with a laugh after reading one of his own epigrams. Recipient of the United Nations Environment Programme’s (UNEP) ‘Champion of the Earth’ award and numerous other accolades, the optimistic octogenarian’s words reflect his deep empathy for Earth’s ecology. A year after the deadly landslides in Kerala’s Wayanad district, Prof. Gadgil spoke about what went wrong, and what must be done to protect the planet, and ourselves. Excerpts from an interview :
Averting natural calamities
The 2024 Meppadi landslide is a great tragedy, but sadly, it is not unexpected. Landslides are becoming increasingly common, not just in Wayanad but across the country. We now have solid data indicating that we are approaching a tipping point. A geologist friend of mine has carefully gathered data from the Western Ghats in Maharashtra and found that the number of landslides between 2010 and 2020 increased by 100 times. This includes small, medium, and large-scale events. Unfortunately, this trend is likely to continue, leading to even more frequent and severe disasters
The 2024 Meppadi floods disproportionately impacted the poorer sections of society. Tea estate labourers, in particular, have borne the brunt of these landslides. In contrast, the estate owners live safely in mansions on flat lands. Many of them even operate resorts with artificially created lakes for tourists, further straining the region’s fragile ecology. While the 2018 floods in Kerala affected both the poor and the affluent, the most recent disaster once again highlights how the poor are most at risk.
The increasing frequency of such natural calamities reinforces the validity of the recommendations we made (in the Western Ghats Ecology Expert Panel Report (WGEEP), 2011). Near the site of the 2024 landslide, there was the devastating Puthumala landslide in 2019. In our 2011 report, we classified the Western Ghats into zones of high, medium, and low ecological sensitivity. The areas mentioned fall within the highly sensitive category.
Our recommendations included strict restrictions — no new roads or building construction, no development on steep slopes, and a ban on rock quarrying, among others. Had these guidelines been followed, there was a reasonable (though not guaranteed) chance that such disasters could have been avoided. Sadly, given the ongoing ecological destruction in recent years, we must expect that a series of even more severe disasters is likely in the future.
Climate change and the poor
One of the most serious problems in India today is the growing disconnect between relatively well-off, better-educated urban citizens, and the economically vulnerable majority. Forest-dwellers, small landholders, fisherfolk, and slum residents often bear the brunt of ecological degradation far more than the privileged.
For example, fishing communities are directly affected by river-polluting industries driven by the interests of the wealthy and powerful. A case in point is Barsu village on the Konkan coast of Maharashtra, where a massive petrochemical complex has been proposed. While such projects are often justified in terms of national economic growth, they fail to account for the loss of natural capital, human capital, and social capital, focusing instead solely on manmade capital and GDP.
But GDP growth does not equate to the well-being of local communities. The fishing community, in this case, risks being completely displaced. Stripped of their traditional livelihoods, their only option may be to migrate to urban slums and take up low-paid, physically demanding jobs, often in construction, with long working hours and little job security.
Let me cite an example of how we treat labourers in this country. Just 45 days into the COVID-19 lockdown, migrant workers began trying to leave cities like Bengaluru. In response, the Chief Minister of Karnataka publicly stated that he had halted all trains to prevent labourers from leaving the city. This clearly showed how the marginalised are the first to be affected and often restricted as crises deepen.
Meanwhile, urban residents celebrate economic growth and foreign investment. But who truly cares about the fate of the marginalised? When it comes to natural calamities, extreme weather events, floods, or droughts, it is always the poor, especially farmers, who suffer the most. Nearly 60% of India’s population is still dependent on agriculture for livelihood. As climate change accelerates, we are likely to witness an even more unequal distribution of suffering, with the poorest bearing the heaviest burden.
Economic decisions not enough
Our report was empirically correct, not politically correct. As a scientist, I believe real life facts matter more than convenient narratives. Trained as an ecologist, with a thesis grounded in computer modelling, I speak with authority on these issues. I have also conducted extensive fieldwork across the Western Ghats, working closely with local communities in Maharashtra, Goa, Karnataka, Kerala, and Tamil Nadu.
The WGEEP report reflects what is truly happening in these regions, including the deeply rooted corruption within various levels of bureaucracy and political leadership. We presented these findings candidly, without dilution. Fortunately, we had the support of an unusual politician, Jairam Ramesh (of the Congress party), who, as the then Minister of Environment and Forests, backed our work wholeheartedly. His support stemmed from our long-standing association and his genuine concern for the environment. His roots lie in the Western Ghats of Karnataka.
The report included a wide range of recommendations, all of which were both appropriated and, in hindsight, absolutely necessary. What we witnessed was a model of development being imposed on people — mining operations and polluting industries were forced upon communities without their consent. At the same time, even conservation efforts were imposed in a top-down, authoritarian manner by a Forest Department that often acted in a tyrannical and anti-people way.
We provided concrete examples of such practices. For instance, in Chiplun (Maharashtra), the Vashishti river, part of the Western Ghats, is severely polluted by numerous industries. In this case, it is clear — industries are responsible for soiling the river and damaging local ecosystems. Similarly, a truthful report submitted by an honest Forest Range Officer regarding the Bhimashankar Wildlife Sanctuary was suppressed. The report had raised valid concerns about permitting windmill installations in the sanctuary. In contrast, senior officials in the Forest Department submitted a version full of blatant inaccuracies and false claims.
There was also an attempt to discredit the WGEEP report through the Kasturirangan Committee (led by the late former head of Indian Space Research Organisation, K. Kasturirangan), which diluted and distorted our recommendations. The committee made a particularly unacceptable statement questioning the inclusion of local communities in economic decisions. If a rock quarry above your village causes landslides and kills people, as it happened in Koottickal, Kerala, the affected people supposedly have no right to complain; that is an “economic decision”, they claimed. Such audacious and problematic statements were part of their report. I challenged this by writing an open letter to Mr. Kasturirangan in The Hindu, citing these points. However, neither he nor any committee member responded.
Include locals in decision-making
I will tell you the story of a person from Goa, and I have dedicated my latest book to him. Fr. Bismarque Dias opposed churches selling their properties to hotels and other vested interests. He was not happy with it and eventually left the church. He also protested against mining in Caurem village. At the time, I was a member of the Goa Golden Jubilee Development Council, tasked with understanding people’s concerns. He asked me whether I was one of those pretenders or genuinely in love with Mother Earth. I replied that it was up to him to judge. He believed most environmentalists were pretenders.
He invited me to stay with him in the beautiful island village of Shaka do Juhe, surrounded by the Mandovi river. The village was known for growing vegetables and still practised the original pre-British system of local self-governance for managing natural resources. In Konkani, this is called gaonkari. The Portuguese tried interfering, but realised it would reduce agricultural revenue, so they left it intact. Ironically, it was only after Goa’s integration into India that the government began dismantling it with great vigour. Yet, in Shaka do Juhe, it somehow survived. Fr. Bismarque was the head of the community.
At the centre of the island was a beautiful hill, an attractive spot for hotel development. A hotelier tried to acquire it, but Fr. Bismarque, as president of the Gaonkari Samiti, firmly resisted. One day, he went to swim in the waters of the Mandovi, where he was born, and went missing. His body was found 36 hours later, partially eaten by fish. His family, and the villagers, believe he was murdered. The government, however, claimed there was no evidence of foul play and listed the cause of death as “unknown”. The incident deeply affected me. At the time, he was actively protesting against manganese mining in the hills near the village.
The hillock was not only part of the villagers’ livelihood but also a sacred ground, home to Kashi Purush, their ancestral deity. This conflict unfolded after the Forest Rights Act was enacted in 2006. According to the Act, sacred sites, particularly those of tribal communities, must be left intact. The villagers of Caurem belong to the Scheduled Tribes and are legally recognised as such. By law, no mine should have been allowed on their hillock, especially given its impact on water bodies, agricultural practices, and overall ecological balance.
The mining operations severely disrupted village life. Truck traffic carrying mineral ore created constant noise and air pollution, which affected people’s health. The trucks passed dangerously close to homes and posed a serious challenge to the local school, exposing children to continuous noise and dust.
The villagers set up a Gram Sabha and unanimously formed the Caurem Village Cooperative Society. The cooperative opposed mining and demanded that if mining was absolutely necessary, the rights to operate it should rest with the local community to reduce its adverse impacts. The local people wanted a share in the profits while ensuring responsible, mindful mining. This was a model for involving local communities in the development process. However, the government refused to register the cooperative without providing any valid reason.
To this day, the people of Caurem remain determined. They continue to protest against illegal mining. The M.B. Shah Commission exposed a staggering ₹35,000 crore loss to the State due to illegal mining. This enormous amount explains why activists like Ravindra Velip are targeted and suppressed. Yet, the villagers never gave up. Their continued resistance stands as a powerful and positive example of grassroots courage against injustice.
The Forest Rights Act, 2006 grants several rights to local communities. But, despite being passed long ago, it remains deliberately unimplemented across much of the country. Communities have rights over non-timber forest produce, which often hold high value, like bamboo, various nuts, and gooseberries. Managing these requires quantitative estimates backed by science. Since literacy rates among rights-holders are low, scientific input becomes essential.
In the age of modern technology, economic disparities in society are continually worsening, and this is permitting economically powerful people to loot nature and suppress people. Nevertheless, the information disparities are very rapidly disappearing. That is a very positive sign. Maybe, eventually, this will make the common people realise their rights and laws in the democratic nation. This gives them an advantage if rights and laws are used properly, and hopefully they do so.
We strongly argued against imposing development or conservation decisions on people. Such decisions must include communities, even from the lowest level Gram Panchayats upward. We must take decisions in line with our Constitution.
Time to come together
I had visited Puthumala before and after the landslide. The Wayanad hills are no longer what they were. The leases for tea estates are not legally valid. British owners used all sorts of manipulations to get the lands in their names. These rights cannot withstand legal scrutiny today. The oppressed tea plantation labourers should take over the management of these estates, with support from competitive managerial groups. There must be a complete shift in how estates are managed. Currently, it only benefits the rich; the people must be involved in managing them.
Tea estates exist across India, including in the Nilgiris of Tamil Nadu and the Biligiriranga Hills of Karnataka. With modern communication tools, these communities can connect and raise common demands. This is not impossible. Language barriers are reducing with AI tools. Communication among workers should be strengthened. The Meppadi disaster victims alone cannot carry this.
It is painful to see the hills vanish. But I am an incorrigible optimist. In other parts of the world, change has happened. Switzerland had lost much of its forest cover by the 1960s. Then they woke up and revived it. Local communes — equivalent to panchayats — led the effort. All the forests you see now were restored through people’s participation. I believe that can happen here too.
(The writers are faculty at the Department of Media Studies, Christ University, Bengaluru.)
