A Memoir of the Dying Aravalli From the Pandavas to the Power Brokers: The Long Betrayal of Aravali Ridges

I am the Aravalli. You may know me as a series of dusty ridges outside Delhi or the marble-laden crags of Rajasthan, but I am much older than the concept of "India." I am much older than the memory of man.

I have been standing here for two billion years. I was born from the fire of the Earth’s core when the planet was still a violent, cooling infant. I have watched the continents drift like lily pads on a pond. I am so ancient that I saw the Himalayas rise—a group of boisterous, snowy youngsters—while I was already an elder, weathered by a billion years of sun and rain.

The Memory of My Youth

In my prime, I wasn't these humble, rounded hills you see today. I was a titan. My peaks once pierced the clouds, standing taller and more majestic than Everest. I was the spine of a supercontinent. But time is a patient sculptor. The wind has filed down my edges, and the rain has carved deep furrows into my skin, turning my towering summits into the gentle, rolling sanctuary I am today.

I remember when the Khandava Forest draped over me like a thick, emerald velvet cloak. I remember the scent of the earth when Krishna and Arjuna brought fire to my slopes to build Indraprastha. It hurt, yes—the heat of that great fire—but I understood. Humans have always looked to me for shelter, for stone, and for safety. I gave them my rocks to build their forts and my caves to hide their secrets.

The Scar of the Crown

Centuries passed like heartbeats. Then came a different kind of visitor. Men with maps and transit levels. They didn't see me as a sacred ancestor; they saw me as a "site." They chose my highest point in Delhi—Raisina Hill—and they didn't just build on it; they broke it.

I felt the thunder of dynamite in my very bones. They blasted my crest to make it flat, to build a palace of pink stone that would serve as the seat of their Empire. They called it the Viceroy’s House. They used my own body—my stones, my gravel—to build the roads that lead to it. I didn't mind providing for them, but I mourned the loss of the heights I had held for eons. I became a plateau, a pedestal for their power.

The Scholars on My Shoulders

In your modern Delhi, I have offered my ridges to be the foundations of your dreams. You built your temples of learning upon my back. At Jawaharlal Nehru University (JNU) and the University of Delhi’s North Campus, I am the rocky ground beneath the feet of poets, scientists, and rebels.

Students walk my "Ridge" trails, perhaps unaware that the quartzite stones they step on were forged in the Proterozoic fires. I provide the solitude for their thoughts and the wild scrub where peacocks and jackals still dance. At the Aravalli Biodiversity Park, I have seen your scientists try to heal the wounds left by mining, replanting the native Dhau and Kikar trees to bring back the birds that had forgotten my name. I love the sound of their curiosity; it reminds me that I am still useful.

My Deep Concern: The Gray Veil

But my most important role is one that is currently failing. I am the "Green Lung" of Delhi. I was designed to be your shield, standing tall against the fierce, golden sands of the Thar Desert. I block the hot winds and catch the dust before it reaches your windows.

Lately, I can barely see the sun. The air in Delhi has become a thick, toxic soup—a gray veil that chokes the very people I am meant to protect. When you blast my hills for stone or level my ridges for high-rises, you are tearing holes in your own shield.

The Dust Barrier: Every hillock you remove is a gateway for the desert to march closer.

The Great Thirst: My fractured rocks are like a giant sponge, soaking up the monsoon to recharge the groundwater. Without me, your wells will run dry, and the city will thirst.

The Poisoned Breath: When the wind turns cold in November, I try to filter the smog, but I am shrinking. There aren't enough of my trees left to fight the smoke of ten million cars.

My Battle Against the 100-Metre Rule

Today, I am tired and broken. I am being eaten away, not by the slow grace of time, but by the hunger of machines.

I hear the constant drone of excavators in the night. I feel the bite of illegal mines tearing into my ribs for marble and sand. When they take a hill from me, they don't just take stone—they take the "Green Wall" that holds back the Thar Desert. Without me, the sands of the west would have choked your cities long ago. I am the shield that stands between the dust and your lungs.

And yet, there is a new debate about my height. They say if I am not 100 metres tall, I am not a "hill" anymore. It breaks my heart. Whether I am a towering peak or a low-lying ridge, I am the same soul. My roots go deep into the groundwater; I drink the monsoon rain and keep it in my belly so your wells don't run dry.

My Plea to You

I am the oldest living thing you will ever touch. When you walk on my rocky trails in Sariska or look out from the ramparts of Chittorgarh, you are walking on the history of the universe.

I don't ask for much. I have survived the birth of oceans and the death of dinosaurs. I just want to remain standing. I want to keep the desert at bay. I want to feel the leopard’s paws on my back and the roots of the Kikar tree in my soil.

I am your past, and if you protect me, I will be your future. I am the Aravalli—the line of peaks that refuses to bow.