The Aravalli Range is older than memory, older than myth. Formed in the Proterozoic Era, over 2 billion years ago, these hills were already ancient when the Himalayas were still unborn. Stretching in a gentle, serpentine curve from Gujarat through Rajasthan to Delhi, the Aravallis became the earliest spine upon which the Indian subcontinent learned to stand.
In the Vedic imagination, forests and hills were not obstacles but sanctuaries. The Aranyaka texts speak of the forest as a place of transition—from material life to understanding. Many scholars locate the journeys of early sages, during cycles of famine and drought (notably around 2000–1500 BCE, when the Indus–Saraswati system weakened), through the Aravalli belt. These hills became corridors of survival, guiding migrations eastward, sheltering hermitages, and sustaining life when rivers failed.
It is believed that sages and seekers moved along these ridges during prolonged dry spells, following seasonal water sources, rock pools, and forest cover. The Luni, Banas, and Sabarmati river systems, all born of the Aravallis, were once lifelines in an otherwise unforgiving landscape. Even the Mahabharata makes repeated references to forest crossings during exile—spaces not of despair, but of learning and endurance.
I have my own quiet history with these hills.
Standing atop Guru Shikhar in Mount Abu, at 1,722 meters, I felt something rare—an unspoken continuity. The air was cooler, but heavier with time. Below, the Dilwara Jain Temples (11th–13th century CE) sat in extraordinary humility, their marble breathing devotion rather than dominance. The choice of Mount Abu was no accident; it echoed an ancient understanding that elevation purifies thought.
Further north, the forts—Amer (16th century), Jaigarh (1726 CE), Nahargarh (1734 CE)—rise not against the Aravallis, but from them. Their ramparts follow the natural ridgelines, acknowledging that defense was strongest when aligned with nature. These hills shaped Jaipur’s history, not merely its skyline.
Yet today, this continuity is being fractured.
Under the banner of development, large-scale mining and excavation projects—sometimes justified through fragmented interpretations of court rulings—are puncturing the Aravalli body. What is often overlooked is that the Aravallis function as a connected ecological organism. Destroying one segment weakens the entire range, breaking wildlife corridors, disrupting aquifers, and accelerating desertification across northwestern India.
The Supreme Court of India, in multiple rulings since the early 2000s, has acknowledged the ecological sensitivity of the Aravallis. Yet enforcement remains uneven. When hills are reduced to isolated “projects” rather than seen as part of a continuous range, the damage becomes irreversible. A severed Aravalli cannot protect Delhi’s air, Rajasthan’s water, or Gujarat’s climate.
The commercial benefits of extracting marble, copper, zinc, or stone may be immediate. But civilizations do not collapse suddenly; they erode—much like these hills—one decision at a time.
The Aravalli Range must be recognized as a National Ecological and Cultural Heritage Corridor. Not frozen in time, but protected, restored, and thoughtfully developed. These hills regulate climate, recharge groundwater, host biodiversity, and hold stories that predate recorded history. They are not expendable landforms; they are living archives.
When sages once crossed these hills during famine, they trusted the Aravallis to sustain them.
The question before us is simpler, and far more uncomfortable:
Can the Aravallis trust us?
If we choose wisely, this ancient spine will continue to breathe, bind, and balance the land.
If we do not, history will remember that we were the first generation to break what time itself could not.
