The cracks beneath us: climate collapse in the W. Ghats

The iron gate to the memorial still stands. But beyond it, no village awaits.

What remains is a deserted school, next to which basalt stone steps rise into a hillside where 70 families once lived – in Malin village, nestled in Maharashtra’s Western Ghats. Now only the wind rustles through the trees around the memorial, where 151 lives were buried in a landslide on June 30, 2014.

Raghunath Zhanjare, 62, stands next to the monument inscribed with the names of all who died that day. “Janabai Dagadu Zhanjare,” he reads aloud, tracing the letters with his hand. “My mother.”

He pauses, lost in memory. Raghunath runs a small grocery shop in Ambegaon market and lives in the new Malin village constructed by the state government a few kilometres away from the original site. But in 2014, he used to live and work in Pune city.

“My brother described that day [to me],” says Raghunath. “It was around 7 a.m. My father had gone to the farm. He and my mother were at home, drinking tea. My brother worked in a school. She told him, ‘Eat something before you leave.’ He had just stepped outside the house when a slap of wet mud hit his back. He turned – and saw the hill collapsing. A roaring wave of muddy water, trees, everything. He ran for his life. What could he even do? My mother never stood a chance.”

Within seconds, Malin was gone. A November 2014 report by the Geological Survey of India (GSI) stated that, it was a ‘debris slide’, a rapid movement of loose soil and rock fragments triggered by intense rainfall on already unstable slopes. It had been worsened by human activity. Days of persistent rain had saturated the soil. With volcanic rock beneath it, the water had nowhere to drain – until the hillside gave way.

About 0.42 million square kilometres or 12.6 per cent of India’s land area (excluding snow covered area) is prone to landslides. Of this, 0.09 million square kilometres is in the Western Ghats and Konkan hills.

Almost 12 years later in 2026, a few kilometres away from Malin memorial, another village waits under the same shadow. Pasarwadi, home to 35 Mahadev Koli tribal families, clings to a steep slope in Pune’s Ambegaon taluka. “This hill scares me now,” says Fasabai Balchim, whom this reporter met in August 2025. She is standing beside a two-foot-deep fissure outside her brick-and-wood home. “This bheg [crack] appeared last August [in 2024]. The grass has grown around it.” Ground cracks are one of the earliest warning signs of a landslide indicating the instability of a slope.

Fasabai and her husband Manohar are farmers and seasonal agricultural labourers. Four generations of her family have lived in this house which has provided them warmth and protection. But the 37-year-old no longer feels that comfort. “My son is the fourth generation born and living here. It always felt safe. But now it’s difficult to say what might happen. Sagla dongar dhasaltoye jasa [It feels like the hill is waiting to collapse].”

She suspects the crack appeared during a road construction project downhill. The road being laid will connect Pasarwadi to Ambegaon market, making way for vehicles and quicker commutes. “They cleared trees and bushes to lay gravel,” she says. “Jameen ughadi padli na [The land was left bare].”

The rain, too, has changed. “I’ve lived here for 30 years but never seen rain like this before. It comes all at once – heavy, relentless. It reminds us of Malin every year.”

The danger is not imagined. As the climate warms, the atmosphere holds more moisture. “The amount of rainfall and time of rainfall has changed. Rain that once spread over three months now falls in only two weeks,” says Dr. Gurudas Nulkar, Director of the Centre for Sustainable Development at Gokhale Institute, Pune. He explains further that shifting rainfall patterns and unregulated construction are key drivers of the worsening landslide risk. (Read: In Thane, the rain has gone rogue)

Further down the slope of Pasarwadi, Fasabai’s neighbour Javji Balchim points to the large boulders lying behind homes, rising as tall as Javji’s knees and some even to his thigh. “These rocks came down just last year,” says the 80-year-old farmer. “Smaller rocks got stuck in the trees and these big stones came down. So far they haven’t crushed anyone’s house.”

The homes in Pasarwadi – light, mud-brick structures – look strikingly similar to the vulnerable houses that once stood in Malin. Even a decade later, families here appear to have no stronger infrastructure, relying on wooden fences now lining the hillside in a desperate attempt to stop falling stones.

“Earlier, it was not like this. But since road work started, the whole slope feels looser,” says Javji. “They keep digging and dumping soil. We’ve lived our whole lives here. Now we don’t even feel safe inside our homes.” Javji and his wife Yamunabai grow 2-3 quintals of rice on their less than one guntha (0.025 acres) farm. They support that income with agricultural labour and some money sent by their sons from Pune.

Yamunabai Balchim speaks softly. “Our children live in Pune now. They say they don’t want to return because of the cracks and fear. These two rooms [in the house] were built for them but now it’s just us, old and left behind.”

Pasarwadi isn’t alone. In nearby villages, similar cracks snake across the hillside, each one a warning sign unheeded. More villages in the district are officially marked ‘landslide prone’. How many exactly? Even government agencies don’t seem to agree with each other. The Pune District Disaster Management Plan for 2025–26 marks 23 villages as ‘landslide prone’, a figure far away from the 908 identified in Maharashtra’s Landslide Management Plan of 2024 (Working Draft). For people in these villages, the difference isn’t abstract – it decides who gets listed for monitoring, early warnings and rehabilitation.

In Panchale Khurd, some seven kilometres away from Pasarwadi, Sangeeta Laxman Mendhe and Indubai Balu Pote have similar concerns. When PARI visits them, they pause work on their farm to show us the troubling changes they have noticed. Families here cultivate small paddy terraces on slopes above their homes; below them, the hill often drops steeply toward the roads cutting through the valley. “This banyan tree used to stand firm,” says 32-year-old Sangeeta. “Now it has slipped downhill. Jimeen jiti vatate [The ground feels alive]. Like it’s moving under us.”

“It doesn’t feel safe to work here anymore,” adds Indubai quietly. “This land was steady all my life. Now it trembles after every downpour.”

The Landslide Atlas of India released in 2023 reports over 5,112 landslides recorded in Maharashtra up to 2021. Even in years after Malin, major disasters in the villages of Taliye (2021) and Irshalwadi (2023) have claimed the lives of 114 people. For the residents of the Ghats like Fasabai and Javji, there is a growing sense that the state has quietly stepped away.

Families in Pasarwadi, Panchale Khurd and neighbouring villages have been cultivating paddy and vegetables on the hillslopes for generations. The landslides threaten not just their homes but also livelihoods. Villagers say they’ve repeatedly told authorities about the worsening cracks but no officials have come for site inspections or for implementing preventive measures. “Relocation is going to happen. Just here, on the top of this hill,” Fasabai says hopefully.

Ambegaon tehsildar Sanjay Nagtilak confirmed to this reporter on a phone call that relocation has been proposed on top of the same hillside, the very slope that shows signs of cracking. “We’ve purchased land, prepared layouts, and are in the process of securing funds either through CSR contributions or Panchayat Samiti,” he said. “Once that’s done, rehabilitation will happen.”

This reporter also visited the Geological Survey of India’s (GSI) Pune office in August 2025. The GSI is the agency responsible for undertaking landslide investigation and planning mitigation measures. During the visit and in later mail and phone calls, this reporter raised queries about how the agency scientifically evaluates construction of roads and other infrastructure in vulnerable zones. And if Pasarwadi’s relocation is planned on top of a hill where cracks already exist, what methods were used to ensure its safety. The GSI’s response is awaited at the time of publishing.

A critical intervention that could help but is still unimplemented, is the placing of automated rain gauges along the Sahyadri crest line. “Manual gauges are of no use. We need real-time alerts. If it rains 150 mm at the top, the Collector’s office should be informed immediately. That gives you one or two hours to evacuate,” says Dr. Nulkar. “You can save more lives by that way.”

Automatic monitoring and early warning systems are invaluable in reducing disaster risks. “Climate change needs a systems approach. GSI, disaster management, irrigation, rural development must work together,” adds Nulkar. “You can’t work in the old ways anymore.”

Until that happens, the story of Pasarwadi and hundreds of villages like it will remain the same: cracks deepening, hills weakening, and voices fading beneath the weight of neglect.

“That day in 2014, we all heard the sound, like some huge bomb. We ran outside hearing it, wondered what had happened,” says Fasabai sounding hopeless. “I keep thinking about Malin. Bhegalalela dongar visruch det naay [The cracked hill won’t let us forget].”