But that quietness is exactly the problem.
The Aravallis are among the oldest mountain ranges on Earth. They have stood long enough to learn how to hold things together, sand, water, wind, and heat. And now, with a recent legal redefinition of what officially counts as an “Aravalli hill,” parts of this ancient system risk being slowly erased from protection.
Not with bulldozers all at once.
But inch by inch.
Paper by paper.
Unlike the Himalayas, the Aravallis don’t block storms or command the skyline. They work silently. Their job is unglamorous but vital, breaking desert winds, holding moisture, and keeping North India from tipping further into dryness.
When these hills are cut into smaller pieces, through quarrying, deforestation, or mining, the land doesn’t protest loudly. It just changes its behaviour.
The air becomes dustier.
The heat feels sharper.
The rain arrives, but not when you need it.
And slowly, people begin saying things like, “Summers weren’t always this bad,” or “Rains have become strange these days.”
They’re not wrong.
One of the Aravallis’ least appreciated roles is stopping the desert from walking eastward. The hills slow hot, dust-filled winds from Rajasthan before they reach Delhi, Haryana, and western Uttar Pradesh.
When the land is flattened, there’s nothing left to slow those winds down.
Dust travels farther. Skies turn hazy. Sunlight scatters differently. Heat gets trapped closer to the ground. This is why pre-monsoon months feel unbearable now, not just hot, but heavy and suffocating.
It’s not only about air quality. It’s about how the land and sky interact when natural barriers disappear.
Forests and rocky hills teach rain how to arrive gently.
Vegetation holds moisture in the air. Soil absorbs water slowly. Streams recharge underground reserves instead of rushing away. When hills are stripped bare, rain loses its patience.
It pours too fast.
It floods briefly.
Then it vanishes.
