Vikramaditya Shrivastava
A City I Thought I Knew
I arrived in Dehradun as a resident in 2012, drawn by its quiet charm, forested trails and the promise of Himalayan serenity. Back then, the city still carried echoes of Ruskin Bond’s prose—gentle rains, whispering pines and winters that brought snowfall to Mussoorie like clockwork. One could walk without weaving through traffic, hear birdsong without the hum of construction, and feel the seasons shift with grace rather than disruption.
But the transformation has been staggering. What was once a valley of rhythm and restraint now pulses with commercial ambition, vehicular chaos and a troubling disregard for its ecological fragility. The skyline has risen, but the soul feels diminished. The shift is not merely infrastructural—it is emotional. The Dehradun I knew is being overwritten by a version that prioritises expansion over equilibrium, visibility over vitality.
Even the act of walking—a daily ritual I once cherished—feels different now. The air is heavier, the roads less kind, and the silence harder to find. The city’s rhythm has been replaced by a relentless tempo of construction, congestion and consumption. And beneath it all, a quiet anxiety: that the valley is losing its memory.
Urbanisation and Climate Anxiety
Dehradun’s evolution into a capital city and educational hub has brought undeniable benefits—better connectivity, economic growth and institutional presence. Yet, the pace and pattern of urbanisation have outstripped the region’s carrying capacity. Located in a seismic zone and designated as an eco-sensitive area, the city’s rapid expansion has come at a steep cost: deforestation, soil erosion and a surge in unregulated construction.
The warming microclimate of the valley has altered precipitation patterns. Winters arrive late, summers stretch longer and rainfall has grown erratic. Once known for its salubrious climate, Dehradun now faces water shortages in peak summer months—an irony, given its proximity to Himalayan river systems. In April 2025, neighbourhoods like Doon Vihar and Indira Nagar were forced to rely on private tankers as the city’s supply dropped to 170 million litres per day—well below its daily requirement of 200 million litres. The crisis isn’t just technical; it’s symptomatic of a city growing faster than its infrastructure can sustain.
The proliferation of air conditioners, both commercial and personal, is telling. From government offices to roadside clinics, from gated colonies to modest apartments, the rush to cool indoor spaces reflects not just rising temperatures but a deeper unease: the city’s climate is no longer predictable, nor kind. What was once a hill station in spirit now feels like a furnace in motion.
Tourism and the Erosion of Identity
Tourism, too, has reshaped the city’s emotional landscape. Cafés and boutique resorts have replaced bookstores and bakeries. The charm that once defined Dehradun is now commodified—packaged for weekend getaways and social media reels. The rise of “social media tourism” has accelerated this erosion. Hidden waterfalls and riverbanks, once sacred and secluded, are now flooded with weekend visitors chasing viral content. Sites like Shikhar Falls and Basaghat near the Tons River are littered with snack wrappers and liquor bottles, contaminating water sources that feed the city. Even the Rispana, once a proud tributary, now struggles under the weight of this performative tourism.
Local residents, once proud stewards of the city’s rhythm, now often retreat indoors on weekends, avoiding the congestion and commotion. Even the city’s main attraction—its once-breezy, bustling Rajpur Road—now struggles under the weight of unchecked commercialisation. The road has grown narrower with time, flanked by an ever-expanding line of shops, eateries and signage, while parking has become a daily ordeal. What was once a promenade of leisure and local flavour now feels like a corridor of gridlock. This isn’t a lament for nostalgia alone. It’s a call to recognise that cities are more than infrastructure—they are emotional ecosystems. When planning ignores rhythm, memory and meaning, it builds spaces that are efficient but soulless.
Reclaiming the Valley’s Rhythm
Dehradun is not beyond redemption. But it must pause, reflect and recalibrate. Urban policy must evolve to honour ecological thresholds, seismic risks and cultural continuity. Zoning regulations, green buffers and community-led planning are not luxuries—they are necessities.
The proposed 26-kilometre elevated expressway between Dehradun and Mussoorie, approved despite environmental warnings, threatens to triple vehicular influx while displacing over 250 families and felling nearly 17,000 trees. Ropeways and rail expansions offer gentler alternatives, but require political will and ecological foresight. The city’s future cannot be built on speed alone—it must be shaped by sensitivity.
Programmes like IMPRI’s Urban Policy and City Planning Fellowship offer a vital space to rethink development not as conquest, but as care. Cities must be planned not only with data, but with empathy. We need planners who listen—not just to consultants and contractors, but to rivers, forests and residents. We need policies that honour silence as much as signal.
As someone who walks daily, I’ve felt this shift in my bones. The city’s emotional architecture is changing. The birdsong is rarer, the trees fewer, and the sense of belonging more fragile. Yet, I believe Dehradun can still choose differently. It can choose vision over vanity, rhythm over rush.
As Ruskin Bond once wrote, “It is always the quiet ones who change the world.” Perhaps it’s time for Dehradun to listen again—to its forests, its rivers and its people.
About the Author
Vikramaditya Shrivastava is a Master’s candidate in International Relations, Security & Strategy at O.P. Jindal Global University.
Acknowledgment: This article was posted by Urvashi Singhal, Research Intern at IMPRI.
Disclaimer: All views expressed in the article belong to the author and not necessarily to the organisation.
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