In recent years, the Miyawaki forest has become one of the most visible symbols of urban greening in India. Across cities, vacant plots, school grounds, temple compounds, roadside buffers and institutional campuses are being transformed into dense patches of trees within a matter of months. Urban Local Bodies announce targets of thousands of “mini-forests”; Corporate social responsibility programmes celebrate them as quick climate solutions. In photographs, they appear miraculous: where there was once bare ground, there is suddenly a thick wall of green.
For cities grappling with rising heat, air pollution and shrinking open spaces, the appeal is understandable. The Miyawaki technique, developed by Japanese botanist Akira Miyawaki in the 1970s, promises to accelerate ecological succession by planting dense clusters of native saplings that can grow into a forest within two or three years. The method has travelled rapidly across India. Chennai announced plans for a thousand such forests. Hyderabad’s largest Miyawaki plantation covers nearly ten acres. Schools, prisons, factories and gated communities have all adopted the model.
But in Udaipur, a city shaped by lakes, rocky hill slopes and a semi-arid ecology, the enthusiasm for fast forests also raises an uncomfortable question: what happens when a generic idea of “green” is applied to a landscape that has always been more complex than a dense canopy of trees?
Udaipur is often imagined through its lakes and gardens, but its larger ecological character is defined by the surrounding Aravalli hills, seasonal streams, scrub vegetation, open slopes and scattered groves. It is a landscape of contrasts: monsoon-fed abundance followed by long dry months; rocky outcrops where grasses and shrubs survive with little water; valleys where native trees take root slowly over decades. Many of these ecosystems are neither barren nor incomplete. They are simply not forests in the way urban greening campaigns imagine forests.
The popularity of Miyawaki plantations rests on a powerful visual logic. Dense tree cover appears greener, cooler and more environmentally responsible than open ground. Yet ecologists and landscape practitioners have increasingly questioned whether these plantations always restore nature, or whether they sometimes replace one ecosystem with another.
In a widely discussed essay in The Hindu, N. Eapen notes that many urban Miyawaki projects begin without even the most basic ecological survey. Tree plantations are often introduced in places where trees may never have been the dominant ecological form. Grasslands, scrublands and arid landscapes are treated as “empty” or “degraded” simply because they do not resemble lush forests. The result is that native ecosystems are erased in the name of restoration.
This concern is particularly relevant in western India, where large parts of Rajasthan, Gujarat and Haryana consist of open natural ecosystems: landscapes with discontinuous tree cover, seasonal grasses, shrubs and wildflowers. These ecologies support birds, insects, reptiles and grazing animals adapted to openness and sunlight. Yet in many cities, such spaces are increasingly filled with tightly packed tree plantations.
Naturalist Pradip Krishen has been one of the sharpest critics of this tendency. He argues that forcing dense forests into arid landscapes is like creating “a room full of ice for a polar bear” – an environment that may look impressive but is fundamentally out of place. Similarly, T.R. Shankar Raman of the Nature Conservation Foundation has argued that ecological restoration should restore the ecosystem that originally existed, not replace it with an entirely different one.
The irony is that the original Miyawaki method was never intended to be a one-size-fits-all formula. As eco-restoration practitioner Somil Daga observes, Miyawaki emerged from a careful study of reciprocity and mutualism between species, but in India it has often been reduced to an industrial model of dense planting and easy replication. Akira Miyawaki developed his approach through years of research into the “potential native vegetation” of a place – the species, layers and ecological relationships that would naturally emerge there over time. The method required close study of local forests, soils, hydrology and species interactions. Dense planting was only one part of a much larger ecological process.
Shubhendu Sharma, who popularised Miyawaki forests in India through his organisation Afforestt, has repeatedly clarified this distinction. “If a jungle is not surveyed and replicated, then we are just doing a dense plantation, not creating a forest,” he wrote in response to growing misconceptions around the method. For Sharma, a true Miyawaki forest is not simply a collection of trees planted close together. It depends on careful identification of historically native species, the relationships between canopy and understory plants, and an understanding of how a local ecosystem functions.
In practice, however, many projects stop at the visible part of the method: high density, quick growth and dramatic before-and-after photographs.
A living landscape is not assembled like infrastructure
In Udaipur, this tendency is especially problematic because the city occupies a narrow ecological threshold. Unlike the Thar desert, South Rajasthan receives higher rainfall and contains a distinctive mix of species from both arid and wetter regions. The hills around the city support scrub forests, grasses, seasonal herbs and scattered native trees adapted to shallow soils and monsoon cycles. According to environmental practitioner Nandita Singhal, the species commonly associated with Rajasthan’s desert landscapes – khejri, roheda, acacia and sewan grass – are often mistakenly treated as universally “local” to the state, even though many are more characteristic of western Rajasthan than of Udaipur’s hills.
Instead, South Rajasthan has its own ecological vocabulary: mahua, sagvaan, khirni, rohan, beeja, jungle jalebi, karvi and a variety of seasonal grasses and water-loving plants, as pointed out by ecologist Dr Satish Sharma, drawing on decades of work in south Rajasthan, arguing that the region’s ecology cannot be understood through a generic “Rajasthan” palette alone. These species do not merely survive in the region; they belong to a web of relationships between soil, slope, water and wildlife. He, however, cautions against dismissing Miyawaki entirely: when applied with careful study of mutually supportive species, adequate spacing and long-term observation, he argues, the method can support ecological restoration.
Singhal points out that even when native species are used, the standard Miyawaki prescription of planting three to seven saplings per square metre can create problems. Dense plantations quickly reduce the amount of light reaching the ground. Grasses and shrubs disappear. Trees stretch upward in competition, producing weak, elongated growth. In tropical climates, such dense thickets can also become socially inaccessible and difficult to maintain. They may provide a visual impression of greenness, but not necessarily a meaningful public landscape.
This is not only an ecological question. It is also a question of what kind of urban nature cities choose to value.
Many of the most successful landscapes in Udaipur are not those that imitate forests, but those that work with the city’s existing ecology. Open hillsides, neighbourhood parks shaded by scattered trees, scrub-covered slopes around lakes, and seasonal commons all support forms of biodiversity while remaining accessible to people. They allow children to play, residents to walk, cattle to graze, and birds to nest. They are not empty spaces waiting to be “improved”; they are living systems with their own logic.
A related concern is water. The early years of a Miyawaki plantation demand significant irrigation, soil preparation and maintenance. Typical projects require deep digging, imported soil, vermicompost and regular watering for at least two or three years. Practitioners in Rajasthan estimate that even a relatively small plantation of 10 by 10 metres may cost between five and seven lakh rupees to establish. In a water-scarce region, such investments are not trivial.
The question is not whether trees need water. All vegetation does. The question is whether urban greening strategies are being designed with a realistic understanding of the city’s hydrology.
Recent global research on tree water uptake suggests that woody plants are highly opportunistic: they draw water from whichever soil layer contains the most moisture. In arid regions, tree roots can extend deep into the ground and begin to depend on groundwater as surface soils dry out. While this capacity helps trees survive drought, it also means that large-scale tree planting can place new pressure on already stressed water systems.
For Udaipur, where groundwater is limited and monsoon recharge is uneven, this issue cannot be ignored. Singhal argues that water and soil stewardship should not be treated as the same thing. Deeply amending soils to support intensive tree plantations may produce short-term growth, but it does not necessarily create long-term resilience. In many cases, slower strategies – planting grasses and shrubs first, stabilising soil, allowing microbes to recover, and gradually introducing trees – may create healthier landscapes with lower water demand.
Ironically, there are examples from Rajasthan itself that demonstrate what a more context-sensitive approach might look like.
A true Miyawaki forest depends on careful identification of historically native species
Outside Jodhpur, on an eighteen-acre saline and degraded site in the Marwar region, a team led by Gaurav Gurjar has experimented with a version of the Miyawaki method that is deeply rooted in local ecology. Before planting, the team studied old paintings, sacred groves, local literature and village knowledge to understand what species once existed in the region. They introduced not only native trees such as khejri, peelu, hingot and roheda, but also desert grasses like sewan and daman.
Importantly, the project did not begin with a fixed formula. Forty-four species were initially planted, then gradually reduced to twenty-five after observing which combinations survived salinity, drought and seasonal flooding. Water demand decreased over time; wildlife returned to the site. The project also created a seed bank, nursery and water-harvesting system.
The lesson from this experiment is not that Miyawaki “works” or “does not work”. Rather, it suggests that ecological restoration becomes meaningful only when it is adaptive, place-based and willing to accept that not all landscapes need to look lush and green.
This distinction matters because the language of urban greening often privileges speed over process. A dense plantation can be photographed and celebrated within a year. A scrubland restored slowly through grasses, shrubs and scattered trees may take much longer to be recognised as ecological success. Yet the second may ultimately be more resilient, less water-intensive and more faithful to the character of the place.
Several initiatives in and around Udaipur already point toward such an alternative.
The city’s “10 Lakh Vriksh” campaign has focused not only on planting large numbers of trees but on choosing species suited to local conditions and involving communities in long-term care. Parks and neighbourhood spaces have been redesigned using indigenous trees and shrubs that require less water and create more usable public landscapes. The programme has also supported learning and stewardship, especially among children, encouraging people to understand trees not as decorative objects but as part of a larger ecological system.
Similarly, the rewilding initiative Jungle by Dharohar, developed in partnership with the Urban Development Authority, is restoring more than a hundred acres of hillside through a layered strategy of grasses, soil-binding plants, shrubs and canopy trees. Rather than imposing a finished landscape from the start, the project allows ecological succession to unfold gradually. Walking trails and informal seating coexist with native vegetation, creating a public landscape that is both accessible and ecologically grounded.
Landscape projects such as Udaan Park and several industrial campuses in the region have also shown that native planting need not produce austere or inaccessible environments. By using medicinal plants, flowering shrubs, shade trees and recycled materials, these projects create landscapes that are socially inviting while remaining rooted in local ecology. In such places, “Indianness” does not appear as a stylistic theme. It emerges through a relationship with climate, materials, memory and care.
Perhaps this is the larger challenge facing Indian cities today. Urban greening has become increasingly dependent on templates: the same species lists, the same density, the same promise that a forest can be created in two years. But ecological restoration cannot be reduced to a replicable product. As Somil Daga argues, the real challenge is to stop treating plants as commodities used to “green” a site and instead understand them as living systems that require breathing space, reciprocity and time.
A living landscape is not assembled like infrastructure. It is negotiated over time between soil and water, plants and insects, people and place. It requires patience, observation and the willingness to let some spaces remain open.
In Udaipur, where the landscape has always depended on a delicate balance between water, rock and vegetation, the most meaningful form of greening may not be the fastest or the densest. It may be the one that asks a more difficult question: what belongs here? Only when cities begin from that question can restoration move beyond the performance of greenness and become an ecological act of care.
Indicative source references used in developing the article:
- N. Eapen, “They grow fast and easy, but do Miyawaki forests meet the fundamental principles of ecological restoration?”, The Hindu, 2022.
- Rashi Goel, “Experiments with native trees, seed bank to revive Rajasthan’s desert ecosystem”, Mongabay-India, 2022.
- “Shubhendu clears misconceptions about Miyawaki methodology”, Times of India, 2019.
- “Will the Real Miyawaki Please Stand Up?”, The Wire, 2023.
- Discussions with Nandita Singhal, Satish Sharma and Somil Daga.
- Christoph Bachofen et al., “Tree water uptake patterns across the globe”, New Phytologist, 2024.
- European Forest Institute, “What role do forests play in the water cycle?”, 2021.
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