Influencers Risk Damaging Priceless Petroglyphs Of Usgalimal
By Gajanan Khergamker
The stillness of Usgalimal’s riverbed is deceptive. Beneath its tranquil surface lies a tumultuous reality — one that screams through the silence carved in stone. As legal luminaries gathered barely a few hundred feet away under the Lawyers On Wheels banner to discuss the very mechanisms that ought to protect India’s rich cultural heritage, the irony lingered in the air: The subjects of their advocacy lay battered, unguarded and perilously exposed — the petroglyphs of Usgalimal, timeless witnesses to a civilisation long gone, being ground beneath the collective ignorance of a modern, careless footfall.
There is an eerie contradiction in the way history preserves its voice — not through loud proclamations but quiet impressions on a laterite canvas, aged and resilient. The monsoon of ’93 did what no formal archaeological effort had: it unveiled an ancient story, water cutting through the soil to reveal etchings that predate even imagination. These were no idle scratches. They were deliberate, ritualistic, informed by celestial rhythms and tribal instincts — a communion of man and rock, narrative and tool.
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| The influx of influencers making a beeline for Usgalimal to shoot its petroglyphs must be controlled before they damage the national property permanently |
The carvings — bulls mid-motion, peacocks poised in pride, serpents slithering in arrested time — are not museum pieces behind velvet ropes. They are open to the elements, and worse, open to a public increasingly guided by the lens of a phone rather than the depth of cultural appreciation.
A dancer etched in stone tells a story far more resonant than any trending reel, yet her silhouette is now fading under the weight of casual sneakers and a misinformed thirst for the aesthetic. The carvings, in their very design, defy impermanence. That they now teeter on the brink of erasure is a collective indictment of modernity’s hollow pursuits.
Globally, there is a markedly different script being followed. From the protected escarpments of Tassili n’Ajjer to the barrier-ringed beauty of Alta in Norway, heritage is cradled, not merely catalogued. There are elevated platforms, designated pathways, stringent laws and above all, an unambiguous sense of reverence.
Contrast this with the reality at Usgalimal, where signage erected by the Archaeological Survey of India stands as a mere bureaucratic relic — more suggestive of a tourist picnic than a protected zone of prehistoric import. That a heritage site of such magnitude can be casually grouped with unauthorized religious structures speaks volumes — of administrative apathy and a striking absence of cultural literacy at policymaking levels.
The Usgalimal petroglyphs are protected by law — at least on paper. The Ancient Monuments and Archaeological Sites and Remains Act of 1958 might as well be scripture if it cannot be enforced where it matters. If petroglyphs in Canada can be protected by a matrix of community involvement, concealed site locations and restricted access, if Scotland can inscribe them into its legal codex of Scheduled Monuments, why does India — a cradle of civilisation — fail to implement even the most rudimentary safeguarding?
The digital age has wrought many wonders, but it has also ushered in a devastating kind of superficiality. The Instagram-fueled tourism that plagues Usgalimal brings not just photographers but desecrators. In seeking the perfect selfie, many forget that they are standing atop relics of irreplaceable value. Drones hover overhead, feet scuff ancient markings, and the line between admiration and vandalism blurs with every swipe and share. Where other nations prohibit touch, we allow stomping. Where others educate, we merely inform. And where others act, we wait until damage is irreversible.
The Lawyers On Wheels workshop did not merely diagnose the malaise. It framed a possibility — that the law could be realigned to meet the moment. From adopting global best practices to adapting them within India’s unique legal and cultural frameworks, the ideas tabled carried the potential to transform apathy into action. The role of the community — often seen as passive bystanders — was recast as that of stakeholder-custodians. If local lore kept the carvings alive for generations, it is local stewardship that must now be empowered to keep them from vanishing.
The silence of Usgalimal is not benign. It is accusatory. It is the silence of a civilisation demanding recognition, not from scholars in climate-controlled institutions, but from the people whose soil it shares. And until we learn to tread softly on the shoulders of history, until the law walks not just on wheels but into the minds of the masses, that silence will grow louder — until it becomes deafening. The petroglyphs do not need our charity; they demand our respect, our vigilance, and most of all, our action.
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| Nearby, Curdi's structures are peppered with graffiti from social media handles turning them into visual monsters |
There is an eerie contradiction in the way history preserves its voice — not through loud proclamations but quiet impressions on a laterite canvas, aged and resilient. The monsoon of ’93 did what no formal archaeological effort had: it unveiled an ancient story, water cutting through the soil to reveal etchings that predate even imagination. These were no idle scratches. They were deliberate, ritualistic, informed by celestial rhythms and tribal instincts — a communion of man and rock, narrative and tool. And yet, what took millennia to weather into visibility is now at the mercy of a few seconds of inattentive trampling. What kind of generation stands at the brink of erasing in moments what their ancestors immortalised through painstaking craft and meaning?
The carvings — bulls mid-motion, peacocks poised in pride, serpents slithering in arrested time — are not museum pieces behind velvet ropes. They are open to the elements, and worse, open to a public increasingly guided by the lens of a phone rather than the depth of cultural appreciation. A dancer etched in stone tells a story far more resonant than any trending reel, yet her silhouette is now fading under the weight of casual sneakers and a misinformed thirst for the aesthetic. The carvings, in their very design, defy impermanence. That they now teeter on the brink of erasure is a collective indictment of modernity’s hollow pursuits.
Globally, there is a markedly different script being followed. From the protected escarpments of Tassili n’Ajjer to the barrier-ringed beauty of Alta in Norway, heritage is cradled, not merely catalogued. There are elevated platforms, designated pathways, stringent laws and above all, an unambiguous sense of reverence. Contrast this with the reality at Usgalimal, where signage erected by the Archaeological Survey of India stands as a mere bureaucratic relic — more suggestive of a tourist picnic than a protected zone of prehistoric import. That a heritage site of such magnitude can be casually grouped with unauthorized religious structures speaks volumes — of administrative apathy and a striking absence of cultural literacy at policymaking levels.
(Usgalimal awaits urgent intervention from the State, following publication of this report, and advocacy by solicitors and lawyers attending the Lawyers On Wheels programme held in May 2025. It stands as a testament to DraftCraft International’s commitment to empowering communities through legal advocacy, offering a pathway to restore the zone’s natural beauty and social harmony)
