Governing by Definition Is Failing the Aravallis

Thursday, February 05, 2026

The Aravalli Range is not disappearing because India lacks environmental laws or judicial oversight. They are disappearing because our systems of governance rely too heavily on definitions—and too little on ecological understanding.

In recent conversations, planners and landscape practitioners have tried to address this gap by advancing the idea of landscape as infrastructure. It is a strategic framing—one that speaks the language of governance. Hills regulate water, forests moderate climate, and open systems reduce risk; therefore, they deserve the same seriousness as roads, drains, and utilities. I promoted this position while chairing discussions at the IFLA Asia Pacific Region Conference in Mumbai, hoping to influence decision-making.

Landscape-as-infrastructure opens the door, but it does not change the room. Governance still asks whether a landscape fits a definition, not whether it performs an ecological function. Protection still flows from classification rather than from contribution. What does not qualify is treated as negotiable.

This dependence on definition is deeply embedded in how institutions operate. Modern governance is comfortable dealing with bounded, measurable units—plots, parcels, zones, jurisdictions. Landscapes, however, do not function that way. The Aravallis work because of continuity: of rock, soil, vegetation, slope, and seasonal water movement. Groundwater recharge, heat moderation, biodiversity movement, and dust control depend on gradients that ignore municipal limits and revenue records.

When governance fragments these systems through rigid definitions, it undermines the very processes that sustain the region.

The ethical concern here is practical, not philosophical. When courts and planning authorities privilege definitional certainty over ecological judgment, responsibility becomes narrowly scoped. If a hill does not meet a height criterion, its degradation becomes permissible. If a forest is not officially notified, its loss becomes administratively invisible. The absence of a definition begins to function as consent.

Climate change makes this approach increasingly untenable. As rainfall patterns become erratic and heat intensifies, the Aravallis’ role as a regional life-support system becomes more critical. Yet regulatory frameworks remain static—designed for certainty rather than resilience, for parcels rather than processes. Decisions can be legally defensible and ecologically disastrous at the same time.

This is where the limits of landscape-as-infrastructure become clear. Infrastructure can be specified, optimised, depreciated, and replaced. Landscapes cannot. They demand continuity, long time horizons, and shared responsibility across jurisdictions. Governing them effectively requires moving beyond rigid thresholds towards process-based judgment—watersheds instead of wards, cumulative impact instead of isolated permissions, ecological function instead of categorical fit.

The Aravalli question, therefore, is not simply about conservation. It is about how we govern space itself. Are our institutions willing to engage with landscapes as dynamic, interconnected systems? Or will we continue to rely on definitions that offer procedural comfort while eroding ecological resilience?

If governance continues to mistake boundaries for understanding, the Aravallis will not be the last landscape to pay the price. The law may remain orderly—but the ground beneath it will not.