Environmental crises are no longer distant warnings—they are unfolding in real time as we witness today across the world. K G Sharma's essay poignantly describes the global scale of environmental collapse and invites us to confront not just the science of climate change, but the moral imperative to act—before survival itself becomes a luxury.
A World on Fire, A Future at Risk
K. G. Sharma
The planet is groaning under the weight of our neglect. In August 2025, Kashmir was battered by floods that swept away homes and lives, while Himachal Pradesh and Uttarakhand were paralysed by landslides and cloudbursts. Southern India, meanwhile, endured record-breaking heatwaves in February—months ahead of the usual summer peak — with temperatures soaring past 40°C and crops wilting before harvest. These events are not anomalies. They are part of a global pattern of escalating climate disruption.
Across continents, the signs are unmistakable. Japan recorded one of its worst heatwaves in history this summer, with temperatures breaching 41°C and hospitals overwhelmed by heatstroke patients. In the United States, wildfires tore through California and Oregon, consuming thousands of acres and forcing mass evacuations. Europe fared no better—Greece and Italy faced back-to-back infernos, while Spain saw its rivers run dry. Landslides in Ethiopia, Colombia, and the Philippines buried entire communities, and volcanic eruptions in Indonesia and Iceland reminded us that even the Earth’s core is restless.
And then the ground gave way. On July 30, 2025, a colossal magnitude 8.8 megathrust earthquake tore through the seabed off Russia’s Kamchatka Peninsula, near the Kuril Islands—marking the most powerful quake recorded globally since the 2011 Tōhoku disaster. The tremor unleashed a towering tsunami, with localized surges reaching up to 19 meters, and violent shaking rippled across Kamchatka and Sakhalin, toppling infrastructure and terrifying communities. Just days later, a magnitude 5.2 aftershock rattled the northern Kuril Islands, with tremors felt as far as Severo-Kurilsk. These seismic convulsions, erupting along the volatile Pacific Ring of Fire, are chilling reminders that climate collapse is not confined to rising temperatures—it is a full-spectrum destabilisation, touching tectonic plates, water cycles, and ecosystems alike.
Elsewhere, the earth cracked open again. In Afghanistan, a powerful earthquake flattened villages, killing hundreds and leaving thousands homeless. The devastation was swift and merciless, compounding the region’s vulnerability to drought and displacement. These are not isolated tragedies—they are part of a planet in revolt, where the boundaries between natural disaster and human negligence are disappearing by the day.
In India, the climate toll is staggering. According to the Centre for Science and Environment, the country experienced extreme weather on most days in 2024. Over 3,200 lives were lost, 3.2 million hectares of crops destroyed, and nearly 236,000 homes damaged. The economic cost is mounting, with projections suggesting climate change could shrink India’s national income substantially by 2100. Yet, despite the urgency, the response remains tepid.
The institutional readiness to confront climate collapse remains alarmingly thin. The country’s central climate planning unit—the Climate Change Division under the Ministry of Environment, Forest and Climate Change—is tasked with coordinating national strategies, implementing the National Action Plan on Climate Change, and representing India in global climate negotiations. Yet, despite this enormous mandate, the division reportedly operates with just six full-time staff. Six people—for a nation of 1.4 billion—tasked with addressing some of the world’s most extreme weather events. It’s a staggering mismatch between the scale of the crisis and the capacity to respond.
This skeletal staffing reflects a deeper problem: climate governance in India is still treated as a peripheral concern, not a core priority. While adaptation needs are soaring—India requires over $1 trillion by 2030 to build resilient infrastructure—actual spending remains a fraction of that. Current public expenditure on adaptation is estimated to be less than 6% of GDP, leaving millions exposed to floods, droughts, and heatwaves with little institutional support.
India’s energy strategy reflects a troubling paradox. The country has reached nearly 47% non-fossil capacity in electricity and aims to hit 50% by 2030. Yet, it also plans to add over 80 gigawatts of new coal power by 2032. Environmentalists warn this dual-track approach undermines progress. Expanding coal while promoting solar is like trying to mop up a flood with one hand and turning on the tap with the other.
Environmental regulation is equally compromised. Forest and wildlife clearances for infrastructure projects are often granted without rigorous scrutiny. Impact assessments are rushed or superficial. Projects threatening rivers, biodiversity corridors, and tribal lands are routinely approved. The state appears more interested in fast-tracking approvals than protecting ecosystems.
The human cost is impossible to ignore. Farmers in Maharashtra and Telangana face alternating cycles of flood and drought. Fisherfolk in Kerala lose homes to coastal erosion. In Kashmir, pilgrims were trapped in landslides, and schools were shuttered for weeks. These are not just stories about climate—they’re stories about survival, displacement, disease, and despair.
Globally, fossil fuel subsidies continue to rise, even as governments pledge net-zero targets. Loopholes in carbon trading allow polluters to buy their way out of responsibility. And stronger climate agreements are often blocked by nations protecting industrial interests. India’s recent launch of a green credit programme and carbon market has drawn mixed reactions. While the government touts it as a step toward sustainability, experts warn that without strict enforcement and transparency, these initiatives risk becoming mere instruments of greenwashing.
Citizens are increasingly stepping in where governments falter. In the Netherlands, youth activists forced the government to adopt stronger emission targets. In India, civil society groups are challenging environmental rollbacks in court, demanding protection of forests, rivers, and indigenous rights. But many argue that litigation should not be the primary tool for climate justice. “We shouldn’t have to go to court to demand clean air or safe water,” says one activist. “It’s the government’s duty to protect its people.”
As COP30 approaches, the stakes are higher than ever. Over 80% of countries have yet to submit updated national plans to cut emissions—including some of the world’s largest polluters. Experts warn that every season lost is a chance at survival squandered. The floods have already come. The heat is already here. Earthquakes, wildfires, and volcanoes are no longer rare—they’re the new normal.
This is no longer a crisis of climate alone—it is a crisis of conscience. Every delay, every diluted policy, every ignored warning is a choice. And in that choice lies the difference between survival and surrender. The planet has sounded the alarm. The question now is not whether we can act, but whether we will. Because history will not remember the excuses—it will remember those who stood up when it mattered most.
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The author is a freelance journalist and retired officer from the Indian Information Service.
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