Editor,
Every monsoon reveals a different side of the city. Roads that seemed manageable a few weeks ago suddenly become difficult to navigate, drains overflow, water collects in unexpected places, and familiar routes become uncertain. Yet what the monsoon reveals is not merely a problem of drainage. It reveals something about how different people experience the same city. For some, rain is an inconvenience; for others, it is an obstacle. A person travelling in a car may worry about traffic and delays. A person on foot worries about where to place the next step. A flooded stretch of road, an overflowing drain, or a missing footpath means very different things depending on how one moves through the city.
This becomes particularly striking at a time when conversations around fitness and healthy living are everywhere. We are encouraged to walk more, move more, and take responsibility for our health. The advice is sound. Walking remains one of the simplest and most accessible forms of physical activity. But where exactly are people expected to walk? Not everyone has access to gyms, fitness centres, or private recreational spaces. For many people, walking is not a lifestyle choice; it is simply part of everyday life. Students walk to schools and coaching centres. Workers walk to offices, markets, and bus stops. Elderly citizens walk because it is often the only exercise available to them.
Yet every monsoon, walking becomes increasingly difficult. Across Itanagar and Naharlagun, pedestrians are often forced to step around stagnant water, balance along the edges of roads, or abandon their evening walks altogether. Water flowing from colonies frequently finds its way onto public roads, turning what should be an ordinary act of movement into a daily negotiation. The issue, however, goes beyond rainfall. Heavy rain is natural but the extent to which it disrupts everyday life is not.
Over the years, the region has witnessed rapid urban expansion. New buildings continue to emerge, commercial spaces continue to grow, and colonies continue to spread across the landscape. These are often celebrated as signs of development, and rightly so. However, the monsoon forces us to ask whether we are paying equal attention to the less visible foundations that make urban life possible. Development is often measured through what can be seen such as new buildings, wider roads, and expanding infrastructure. Yet everyday life depends just as much on what remains unseen: drainage systems, pedestrian access, public spaces, and the ability to move safely from one place to another.
At the same time, it would be too easy to view this solely as a failure of government. Cities are not shaped by public authorities alone. They are also shaped by the cumulative decisions of residents, builders, institutions, and communities. Across the region, new structures continue to emerge, but questions of drainage are often treated as somebody else’s responsibility. Water is diverted beyond compound walls, natural channels are obstructed, and runoff is pushed into shared spaces. The consequences, however, do not remain private. They eventually appear on public roads and in neighbourhoods beyond the site of construction. In this sense, waterlogging is not merely an infrastructural problem; it is also a question of civic responsibility. Development cannot be measured only by what we build. It must also be measured by how our actions affect the people around us.
The monsoon is not creating inequality; it is revealing inequalities that already exist.
It reveals who can move comfortably through the city and who cannot. It reveals who experiences the rain from behind a windshield and who must walk through ankle-deep water simply to reach work, school, or home. It reveals how the burden of inadequate infrastructure is often carried by those with the fewest alternatives. A city reveals its priorities through the experiences of its most ordinary citizens. The rain falls on everyone. The burden, however, is not carried equally.
Jarken Gadi
