CRACKS IN NATIONAL LIFELINE
The Jammu-Srinagar National Highway (NH-44), once hailed as a marvel of modern engineering and a promise of seamless all-weather connectivity between the Kashmir Valley and the rest of India, has now come to symbolize a deep and recurring crisis in infrastructure planning and execution. Despite the expenditure of thousands of crores and the deployment of advanced technology, the highway continues to collapse under the weight of rain, landslides, and misjudgements, raising uncomfortable questions about what we are missing in our pursuit of development.
There is little doubt about the strategic, economic, and social importance of NH-44. It is the singular surface link that not only sustains commerce and tourism in Kashmir but also underpins military logistics in a region with complex security dynamics. Yet, every year, and sometimes after every spell of rain, images of broken roads, stranded vehicles, and distraught passengers re-emerge like an annual ritual. The narrative has become predictable. A landslide in Panthal, a collapse in Seri, a road sinking in Cafeteria Morh—names that have now etched themselves in public memory, not for their scenic beauty, but for their alarming fragility. This is not a failure of nature. This is a failure of planning. The fundamental problem with NH-44’s construction and repeated reconstruction lies in an inadequate understanding and acknowledgment of the geography it traverses. The highway cuts through one of the most geologically unstable and ecologically sensitive zones in the Himalayas. Massive hill-cutting, vertical slope expansion, and aggressive tunneling without comprehensive geotechnical studies have systematically disturbed the delicate balance of this terrain. Consultants hired for the project in its early phases ignored this very reality, offering designs that were not only short-sighted but dangerously ambitious. Predictably, the consequences followed. The government made earnest efforts to improve the process by bringing in fresh consultants and updating the Detailed Project Reports (DPRs). However, despite these positive steps, the actual implementation still fell short of expectations, as practical challenges and adjustments continued to affect progress. Tunnels collapsed midway, canopy structures failed, and slope protection measures such as rock bolting and netting were washed away within months. The Ramban-Banihal stretch, in particular, has become a case study in how not to build roads in the mountains. One must ask: Are we truly learning from our past mistakes, or simply repeating them with newer tools and bigger budgets? The problem is systemic. It is not just about a flawed DPR or an incompetent contractor. It is about a culture of development that places concrete before ecology, speed before safety, and ambition before assessment. We measure success in kilometers built, not in stability achieved. We penalize faulty contractors but seldom reflect on why their faults were not prevented in the first place. We talk of all-weather highways, yet ignore that “all-weather” in the Himalayas is a concept that cannot be borrowed from the plains. Meanwhile, commuters bear the cost—quite literally and tragically. The lives lost, the goods damaged, the tourism disrupted, and the psychological stress endured by travelers are stories seldom told in full. Thousands remain stranded during blockades, livelihoods are interrupted, and emergency services are delayed. The idea of connectivity turns bitter when its very medium becomes a hazard. The solution does not lie in building more aggressively but in building more intelligently. NH-44 does not need more cement; it needs more science. Future DPRs must be rooted in multi-seasonal geological studies, climate impact assessments, and genuine local consultations. Engineers must work alongside ecologists, and decision-makers must be willing to listen to what the mountains are trying to tell us—through every slip, every crack, and every landslide.
As we reflect on the repeated collapses of NH-44, let us not make it another story of outrage that fades with time. Let it be a moment of collective introspection. In the end, the strength of our infrastructure will not be judged by the height of our flyovers or the length of our tunnels, but by their ability to endure time, weather, and nature with grace and responsibility. NH-44 was meant to connect, not to collapse. If we wish to honour its purpose, we must first learn to build with the land, not against it. Let NH-44’s troubled history become our teacher: that sustainable connectivity requires blending modern engineering with traditional wisdom and technological innovation with ecological sensitivity. When we build not just for today’s ribbon-cutting ceremony but for our grandchildren’s journeys, only then will this lifeline truly fulfill its promise.
