For 142 years, the Burman family built Dabur by respecting nature. Today, Vice Chairman Saket Burman asks: why are 204 of 238 Indian cities still choking on toxic air despite years of promises? His answer cuts through the noise: not effort, but accountability. Between 2019-24, industrial pollution control received just 0.61% of funds, even as evidence pointed to its urgency. That’s why he co-founded the Zero Prize, linking rewards to verified results, not rhetoric. His message is stark: nature doesn’t constrain growth; it underpins it. And we can’t keep poisoning the very thing that heals us.

The 2026 FIFA World Cup kicked off across three countries, but its carbon footprint is already raising red flags. Analysts warn it could generate a staggering nine million tonnes of emissions—nearly double the tournament average. Meanwhile, industries from southern Europe to the globe are grappling with intensifying water stress. Amid this, SBTi unveiled its Net-Zero Standard 2.0, moving beyond a one-size-fits-all approach to corporate climate action. And in a bid to tackle construction’s massive emissions, Volvo CE and Hitachi Energy are teaming up to deploy electric equipment. This week made one thing clear: sustainability is no longer a side note—it’s the main event.

India’s energy future may be decided not in boardrooms or policy halls, but in maternity wards. Wood Mackenzie’s analysis reveals a startling truth: global birth rates are falling faster than predicted, with China’s population already shrinking. By 2060, under a low-birth scenario, the world could have 700 million fewer people than expected, reshaping everything from energy demand to critical mineral supply chains. While electricity demand will double thanks to AI and electrification, shrinking workforces could accelerate automation, paradoxically boosting demand for copper and lithium.

For decades, we’ve lived by a simple, destructive formula: take, make, waste. But as resources shrink and supply chains tremble, that linear path is becoming an expensive dead end. The circular economy offers a radical rethinking, where waste isn’t an endpoint but a raw material for something new. It’s about designing products that never become trash, keeping materials in endless loops. From fashion to electronics, pioneers are proving that regeneration and profitability can coexist. The question isn’t whether we can afford to change, it’s whether we can afford not to.

Indore is running out of water. Residents are protesting dry taps, yet the city is greenlighting an 80 MW AI data centre that will guzzle what little remains. Years of unchecked expansion and concrete have turned the city into a barrier, preventing rainwater from recharging aquifers. Over half of the government’s 6,500 borewells are now dry. And still, the city builds, prioritising digital dreams over the most basic human need. The same blueprint is being implemented across many Indian cities. Are these the smart cities we aspire for?

For centuries, Bengaluru’s 500-year-old Rajakaluve network quietly managed both floods and droughts. Then it vanished beneath concrete and neglect, becoming an open sewer carrying 130 million litres of untreated sewage daily. But one stretch, the K100, is now being restored into a thriving public corridor. Desilting, sewage treatment, and walkways have replaced stench with shade and sparrows. It’s a powerful reminder that our cities already had the answers—we just forgot where we buried them.

For decades, we’ve chased hardware like solar panels, wind turbines while forgetting the software: our own minds. India’s classrooms still treat climate change as a chapter to be memorized, not a crisis to be solved. Students learn definitions, not how to decarbonize a supply chain or design a circular economy. But imagine an economics student computing carbon taxes, an engineer mastering lifecycle analysis, a historian tracing civilisations undone by resource mismanagement. That’s the shift we need, from theory to practice, from bystanders to participants. Because climate literacy isn’t just education. It’s the most powerful, decentralised carbon reduction engine we have.

Every Friday evening, while offices emptied and people headed home to unwind, IRS officer Dr. P. Sudhakar Naik was boarding an overnight bus from Mumbai to drought-hit Narayankhed in Telangana, a 600-kilometre journey. He wasn’t asked to go. There was no official directive. He just believed someone had to act. For seven weekends, he worked alongside villagers, building simple soak pits and stone bunds that cost just ₹2 lakh. Slowly, doubt gave way to trust. And every Monday, he was back at his desk, as if it had been an ordinary weekend, except that rainwater once lost was now recharging the land, bringing hope back to farming families.

Planting a million trees is an activity. Measuring how many survive after three years, that’s the real impact. Yet India’s sustainability efforts often confuse the two. The Comptroller and Auditor General found that in Odisha, corporate-funded plantations had a survival rate of just 7.5%. Saplings were counted, but few were standing. Across sectors, projects are evaluated on intentions, not verified outcomes. India’s innovation ecosystem is vibrant, and verification tools are more accessible than ever. The question is no longer “What are we doing?” but “What difference are we actually making?”.

Two thousand guests, two days of celebration, and not a single plastic plate in sight. This wedding proves that grand Indian weddings don’t have to come with a mountain of waste. From digital invites to banana-leaf meals that kept nearly 20,000 plastic disposables out of landfills, every choice was deliberate. Even kitchen scraps found a second life through composting, while décor skipped thermocol for natural flowers. It’s a beautiful reminder that tradition and sustainability can walk hand in hand, and that the most memorable celebrations leave behind only joy, not waste.