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By:

Sagari Gupta

24 March 2026 at 7:46:04 pm

The Cost of Staying Vulnerable

Nepal’s $5 billion reconstruction bill exposes a wider economic failure: when governments repeatedly restore vulnerable assets instead of investing in resilience, natural hazards become recurring fiscal shocks. Nepal needs $4 billion to $5 billion to rebuild after floods triggered by a glacier collapse killed more than 600 people in Nepal and Tibet on August 26. That bill equals nearly a tenth of the country’s economy. The bigger question is what this bill represents. $5 billion is the cost...

The Cost of Staying Vulnerable

Nepal’s $5 billion reconstruction bill exposes a wider economic failure: when governments repeatedly restore vulnerable assets instead of investing in resilience, natural hazards become recurring fiscal shocks. Nepal needs $4 billion to $5 billion to rebuild after floods triggered by a glacier collapse killed more than 600 people in Nepal and Tibet on August 26. That bill equals nearly a tenth of the country’s economy. The bigger question is what this bill represents. $5 billion is the cost of replacing assets that already existed and were expected to generate value for years - roads that connected markets, bridges that carried trade, power stations that supported industry and homes that held household wealth. Nepal will spend billions restoring what it already had, rather than investing that money in what comes next. The scale of the economic damage depends on where people live, what gets built there, how rivers are managed, whether warning systems reach households and whether people have enough savings to survive an interruption in income. Assam offers the clearest lesson in this respect. Floods this year killed at least 99 people and displaced hundreds of thousands. Researchers from India, Sweden, the Netherlands, the UK and the US examined the rainfall data and found that it remained within historical norms. The floods intensified because of rapid urbanisation, deforestation, degraded wetlands and poor drainage, rather than because of a stronger monsoon. Then again, two districts can receive the same rainfall and still end up with very different losses. One may have functioning drainage, early-warning systems and insurance, while the other has none of these protections. For the second, a flood becomes an economic shock rather than simply a weather event. A farmer does not read a government estimate of aggregate losses. He or she loses a crop, still owes an agricultural loan and may go without income for weeks. A shopkeeper loses inventory, while a daily-wage worker loses earnings because there is no work. A family may have to sell a buffalo to buy food, and a child may miss school. Misleading Picture The GDP can also give a misleading picture of recovery. When a bridge collapses, rebuilding it creates construction activity as the government hires workers and purchases cement and steel, while public spending rises and GDP records that activity as growth. But the country, in fact, has spent money replacing an asset it already had. Nepal shows the scale of this trap. Its 2015 earthquake required an estimated $9 billion in reconstruction, close to half the country’s GDP at the time, according to Nepal’s Post Disaster Recovery Framework. Eleven years later, the country faces another multi-billion-dollar rebuild. A country that repeatedly reconstructs the same assets never accumulates new ones. The insurance gap shows who ultimately pays. Munich Re estimates that natural disasters caused close to $112 billion in economic losses worldwide in the first half of 2026, of which only $44 billion was insured, leaving a gap of 60 percent. Those uninsured losses simply move from one balance sheet to another. A wealthy household may lose a home but still have insurance, savings and access to credit with which to rebuild. A low-income family that loses the same physical asset may also lose its main store of wealth. The same flood therefore produces very different outcomes depending on income, making disaster risk a distributional issue as much as an environmental one. In India’s case, the problem is ‘disaster repetition.’ Assam already knows that it floods every monsoon, and that is the uncomfortable part policymakers continue to sidestep after every disaster season. The state spends heavily every year repairing the same roads, while agricultural income disappears at scale after each flood and households repeatedly borrow to recover. Public money therefore goes towards restoring assets that remain exposed to the same risks instead of redesigning them. A road that repeatedly washes away is a public-investment problem, not only a disaster-response problem. An embankment that repeatedly fails is a planning problem, while a household that falls into debt after every flood is a social-protection problem. Case for Prevention Prevention needs a stronger political case because adaptation still competes for a small share of development budgets. Nepal’s reconstruction bill, worth close to a tenth of its economy, makes that allocation harder to defend. Adaptation is infrastructure investment and fiscal planning but it is also poverty prevention. A bridge that does not collapse creates no headline, while a flood avoided through better drainage earns no minister political credit. That imbalance pushes governments towards visible responses over invisible prevention, even when prevention costs less. Not every disaster can be traced to climate change. The World Weather Attribution study on Assam rules it out directly for that event. The stronger, less comfortable conclusion is that physical hazards are colliding with development decisions: more people and more valuable assets are living in exposed areas, infrastructure is becoming more expensive and interconnected, poor households have limited savings and little insurance, and governments operate with finite fiscal space. The real cost of a disaster lies in the present and future ravages to the economy - the crop never harvested, the wages never earned, the unpaid loans and the public project that gets rebuilt instead of the next one getting built. The real test of policy is not how quickly a government announces relief but whether the same community has to again bear the brunt of the next flood. A disaster becomes a policy failure when governments keep paying for the same vulnerability instead of changing it. (The writer is an independent public policy researcher. Views personal.)

Bharat’s Jetson Cities, Light-years Away from Nature

Updated: Jan 20, 2025

Jetson Cities

One thing is for certain: our Bharatiya cities, the big metros and towns, are fast becoming like the ‘Jetson’ cities. For those who are unaware of Jetson cities, these were first shown in the famous Hanna-Barbera cartoon series, the Jetsons, set in the 2100s, where cities are air-tight glass globules tethered to the ground, and the only way to get in and out are the flying cars. Yes, we, the city-dwellers, aspire to tall skyscrapers, spectacular bridges, world-class tunnels, swooshing metro trains, and we are building Jetson-like flying cars. A few HD drone images here and there, during the day and at night and around twilight, and we are content that our cities have become the cynosure of our own eyes. We want our cities to be brightly lit, with neon signs, laser shows, and large billboard videos. We would then fulfil our inner desire to have a city on par with Tokyo, New York, and Shanghai.


Our buildings, designed for the next 30 years, are well air-conditioned, shielding occupants from a soupy dust bowl of brown smog, soot, particulate matter, and fine dust. It is said that most new home buyers invest at least 10% of their property’s price in enhancing the interiors, soundproofing their homes, using air purifiers and conditioners, and disconnecting from the outside world for that much-needed solace. Indeed, large builders promote their projects as close to nature amidst tranquillity. However, there is always another builder eager to get one plot of land ahead of yours to enjoy that nature. To be truthful, access to nature now comes at a premium - even the skies.


Let’s assume the working-age population is occupied in the leisure of our Jetson cities, but how many of their young school and college-going kids have seen the long arm of the Milky Way galaxy from their cities? How many have witnessed a comet zooming by? How many know about endemic plants with medicinal properties? When did they last see a chirping house sparrow? How many know that the nearest sewage drain was once a freshwater stream? When did they last find their suburban beach prettier than the resort beaches of Maldives?


The intent to ask these questions is simple: Bharat is currently at a crossroads. Pundits are enthusiastic about a cultural renaissance on the horizon. Corporate leaders, on the other hand, want us to invest hundreds of hours each week to pay our dues to the growth of the national GDP. But no one asks, if a cultural renaissance is to occur, who will generate the new understandings and insights of nature that arise typically during such a period of human advancement? No one is actually asking, for whom are we building the nation if there is no time for children, or worse, if there is no time or intent to have children. In the process of growing rich, we are about to become old. By 2047, 65% of the population under the age of 35 will grow beyond 35 all at once, and we’d have an enormous population in advanced ages with a tapering young population, a graph that looks like a banyan tree. Unfortunately, that young population will have no access to the knowledge that nature has to offer, neither flora and fauna nor the seas and the skies.


Our urbane lifestyles need tempering. Such tempering can occur only if we ensure the revival of natural sciences during this period of cultural renaissance and nation-building. Let’s not rely solely on the educational system. With Indian Knowledge Systems, constructive changes are underway, and academic curricula are poised to improve for the greater good. However, true knowledge arises only when parents and grandparents introduce children to nature. Genuine understanding also develops from extracurricular activities in schools and colleges that encourage kids to observe, journal, and act on their discoveries. On the positive side, our country’s forest cover is increasing, as announced by the government. However, efforts must be made to ensure that every school or college, whether in Mumbai, Vijayawada, Gorakhpur, Ratlam, Thrissur, Bhuj, Faridabad, Imphal, Manali, Cuttack, or Ajmer, guarantees that their students are well aware of the endemic nature of their surroundings and are regularly observing and recording data on whatever interests them. Let kids observe rivers and understand the volume of water that flows through them. Let children learn about the decline of house sparrows in their cities and what steps should be taken to revive their populations. Let them study the bees in their nearby groves and recognise the vital role these bees play in nature.


Of course, you need to learn AI, robotics, fintech, the next generation of management courses, and all the engineering bells and whistles. However, we must not leave the next generation with inadequate comprehension and skills for understanding nature. We must ensure that nature conservation is not merely lip service or a tool for politicised green activists. This can be achieved if natural sciences are given the respect they deserve at the school, undergraduate, and postgraduate levels.


Indeed, I am a plebeian, and you might feel that you, too, could write a rant about the plight of our urban lives. Urban development and municipal experts have many solutions to propose, but few are willing to take action. However, that is not the issue I wish to highlight. I aim to illustrate a much larger concern—that Indian city dwellers are disoriented and devoid of nature, lacking a guiding star to lead them toward a brighter future. Our cities of Mumbai, Delhi, Bengaluru, Ahmedabad, Kolkata, and Chennai have taken on characteristics reminiscent of Jetson-like cities. We show little regard for the Nagar Devata, Gram Devata, and Van Devata, who have protected the cities, towns, and forests that once surrounded us. We wait for formal governance to clean up our beaches, rivers, and ponds without making sufficient efforts to prevent pollution in the first place.


For those striving to grasp spirituality not through the Puranas and Aadi-Granth but through new-age podcasts, I recommend watching Vinay Varanasi’s podcast on Bhagavan Vishnu’s Dashavatar. If it is clear that Bhagavan Vishnu does not tolerate disregard for Bhudevi or Mother Earth, why do we, the devotees of Bhagavan Vishnu, continue to pollute our Mother Earth—her air, soil, waters, and sounds? Or have we taken Elon Musk's words at face value, assuming our next destination is Mars after destroying Earth, only to ruin Mars later, even worse than its current clinically sterile state? If that is the case, then bear with me when I say this: these Jetson cities stand on precarious pillars of ego, victimhood, apathy, and consumerism, waiting to be toppled either by the true harbingers of order or by false prophets. Therefore, teach the next generations to observe nature, appreciate our coexistence with other species, and venerate the forces of nature. By doing so, we humans will be good, at least for the next thousand years. If not, prepare for a bleak future by the end of this century.


(The author is a Space and Emerging Technology Fellow at the Centre for Security, Strategy and Technology, Observer Research Foundation, Mumbai. Views personal.)

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