It gave India its name. But things are not exactly great with the great Indus river. What was once the “Mother of Rivers”, today finds its delta withering, mangroves dying and sacred fish like Palla and blind dolphin vanishing.
Once Asia’s second-largest, the Indus Delta has shrunk drastically due to upstream diversions. The annual freshwater flow to the delta has plummeted from 150–180 million acre-feet (MAF) to often less than 10 MAF. Mangrove coverage has reduced to barely a fifth of its historical extent, while seawater intrusion poisons croplands and groundwater up to 80 km inland.
With India signalling unilateral disengagement from the Indus Waters Treaty (IWT) after the recent military conflict with Pakistan, tensions between the two neighbours have resurfaced around one of South Asia’s most important yet ecologically compromised river systems.
While Pakistan has vowed to uphold the treaty, the recent strain underscores a larger reality: both countries have paid a profound ecological price for treating rivers as commodities rather than living ecosystems.
The 1960 treaty, brokered by World Bank, divided the Indus basin between India and Pakistan, granting the eastern rivers (Ravi, Beas, Sutlej) to India and the western ones (Indus, Jhelum, Chenab) to Pakistan.
Hailed as a model of water diplomacy, the IWT not only partitioned rivers but institutionalised a mindset of hydraulic engineering at the cost of environmental sustainability. As both countries now grapple with climate change and water stress, the flaws of that approach have become unignorable.
Long before the treaty, the Indus — or Sindhu — shaped civilisations for over 4,500 years. Known as Sengge Chu in Tibet, Abaseen in Pashto, and Shendu in Chinese chronicles, it nourished the ancient cities of Mohenjo-daro and Harappa, supported empires from the Mauryas to the Mughals, and inspired Vedic hymns, Sufi poetry and pilgrimages.
Alexander the Great compared it to the Nile. Persia’s Darius I commissioned Scylax to navigate it in the 6th century BCE. Arab conquests under Muhammad bin Qasim relied on controlling the lower Indus. Mughal emperors recorded its richness, and British colonialists mapped its potential.
The Rig Veda hymns praised: “Sindhu in might surpasses all the streams that flow...”
Near Rohri, the river nurtures spiritual islands like the shrine of Khwaja Khizr, guardian of waters, and Sadhu Bela temple, founded in 1823. Legends abound: of dolphins circling the island in sacred procession; of Palla fish blushing red when they reach Khwaja Khizr.
Shah Abdul Latif Bhittai’s Shah Jo Risalo uses the river as metaphor and mirror — for longing, spiritual quest, and separation.
Despite this stature, modern nation-states subdued the Indus. Pakistan, with World Bank support post-IWT, built dams (Tarbela, Mangla), canals, and barrages (Guddu, Sukkur, Kotri). India pursued similar projects. Engineering success came with ecological collapse.
Farmers now rely on chemical fertilisers. Poor drainage and insufficient flushing cause waterlogging and salinisation.
Signed on September 19, 1960, the IWT gave India control over eastern rivers and provided Pakistan funding for replacement infrastructure through Indus Basin Development Fund. The Bank facilitated $900 million in funding, sparking dam construction in both countries.
Since then, the IWT has enabled continued lending: India received $130–140 billion and Pakistan $85–95 billion in Bank commitments by 2024. But the treaty viewed rivers as pipelines, not ecosystems. It lacked provision for environmental flows, delta rejuvenation, or groundwater sustainability.
Plans are afoot to divert more Indus water to Cholistan — a desert in Punjab, Pakistan — for corporate farming via six canals.
This mirrors past mistakes. Water diversion will deprive downstream Sindh and the delta. Irrigation in arid zones risks salinisation and water loss. Indigenous pastoral communities face displacement.
The ancient Hakra (Sarasvati) River once flowed through Cholistan but vanished. If nature abandoned the desert, can engineered canals truly sustain it?
With climate change, the treaty faces new challenges. Neither IWT nor its mechanisms anticipated melting glaciers, erratic monsoons or groundwater decline. Himalayan glacial melt now spikes flows unpredictably. Floods and droughts become more frequent. Both countries still follow outdated governance models.
Groundwater is collapsing. Both are among the world’s top extractors, and Indus Basin aquifers are depleting fast. The Ravi, once flowing through Lahore, is now a toxic drain; Yamuna and Ganga face similar crises.
Poor coordination and dam operations worsen floods, as seen in 2010 and 2022 in Pakistan.
Through vanishing deltas, displaced farmers, and dying fish, the Sindhu still roars — first heard in Vedic chants, echoed in Sindhi and Punjabi poetry, now resonating in climate-stressed communities.
To revive it, both countries must go beyond technocratic division. A reimagined treaty must:
Because a river doesn’t just carry water. It carries memory, identity, and survival.
If India and Pakistan are to find common ground, let it be the river that once sustained both. Let the Sindhu flow not just through channels of law and finance, but through shared ecological wisdom and cultural reverence. Only then can we unchain the Indus.
(The author is a Karachi-based climate and sustainability expert and founder of Clifton Urban Forest . Views are personal)
(Disclaimer: The opinions expressed in this column are that of the writer. The facts and opinions expressed here do not reflect the views of www.economictimes.com)
Once Asia’s second-largest, the Indus Delta has shrunk drastically due to upstream diversions. The annual freshwater flow to the delta has plummeted from 150–180 million acre-feet (MAF) to often less than 10 MAF. Mangrove coverage has reduced to barely a fifth of its historical extent, while seawater intrusion poisons croplands and groundwater up to 80 km inland.
With India signalling unilateral disengagement from the Indus Waters Treaty (IWT) after the recent military conflict with Pakistan, tensions between the two neighbours have resurfaced around one of South Asia’s most important yet ecologically compromised river systems.
While Pakistan has vowed to uphold the treaty, the recent strain underscores a larger reality: both countries have paid a profound ecological price for treating rivers as commodities rather than living ecosystems.
The 1960 treaty, brokered by World Bank, divided the Indus basin between India and Pakistan, granting the eastern rivers (Ravi, Beas, Sutlej) to India and the western ones (Indus, Jhelum, Chenab) to Pakistan.
Hailed as a model of water diplomacy, the IWT not only partitioned rivers but institutionalised a mindset of hydraulic engineering at the cost of environmental sustainability. As both countries now grapple with climate change and water stress, the flaws of that approach have become unignorable.
Long before the treaty, the Indus — or Sindhu — shaped civilisations for over 4,500 years. Known as Sengge Chu in Tibet, Abaseen in Pashto, and Shendu in Chinese chronicles, it nourished the ancient cities of Mohenjo-daro and Harappa, supported empires from the Mauryas to the Mughals, and inspired Vedic hymns, Sufi poetry and pilgrimages.
Alexander the Great compared it to the Nile. Persia’s Darius I commissioned Scylax to navigate it in the 6th century BCE. Arab conquests under Muhammad bin Qasim relied on controlling the lower Indus. Mughal emperors recorded its richness, and British colonialists mapped its potential.
The Rig Veda hymns praised: “Sindhu in might surpasses all the streams that flow...”
Near Rohri, the river nurtures spiritual islands like the shrine of Khwaja Khizr, guardian of waters, and Sadhu Bela temple, founded in 1823. Legends abound: of dolphins circling the island in sacred procession; of Palla fish blushing red when they reach Khwaja Khizr.
Shah Abdul Latif Bhittai’s Shah Jo Risalo uses the river as metaphor and mirror — for longing, spiritual quest, and separation.
Despite this stature, modern nation-states subdued the Indus. Pakistan, with World Bank support post-IWT, built dams (Tarbela, Mangla), canals, and barrages (Guddu, Sukkur, Kotri). India pursued similar projects. Engineering success came with ecological collapse.
- Freshwater flow decline: from 150–180 MAF to under 10 MAF.
- Silt starvation: 90% trapped behind dams.
- Mangrove decline: from 600,000 ha to 100,000–130,000.
- Fishery collapse: Marine habitats damaged.
- Sea intrusion: Salinity 80 km inland, displacing communities.
Farmers now rely on chemical fertilisers. Poor drainage and insufficient flushing cause waterlogging and salinisation.
Signed on September 19, 1960, the IWT gave India control over eastern rivers and provided Pakistan funding for replacement infrastructure through Indus Basin Development Fund. The Bank facilitated $900 million in funding, sparking dam construction in both countries.
Since then, the IWT has enabled continued lending: India received $130–140 billion and Pakistan $85–95 billion in Bank commitments by 2024. But the treaty viewed rivers as pipelines, not ecosystems. It lacked provision for environmental flows, delta rejuvenation, or groundwater sustainability.
Plans are afoot to divert more Indus water to Cholistan — a desert in Punjab, Pakistan — for corporate farming via six canals.
This mirrors past mistakes. Water diversion will deprive downstream Sindh and the delta. Irrigation in arid zones risks salinisation and water loss. Indigenous pastoral communities face displacement.
The ancient Hakra (Sarasvati) River once flowed through Cholistan but vanished. If nature abandoned the desert, can engineered canals truly sustain it?
With climate change, the treaty faces new challenges. Neither IWT nor its mechanisms anticipated melting glaciers, erratic monsoons or groundwater decline. Himalayan glacial melt now spikes flows unpredictably. Floods and droughts become more frequent. Both countries still follow outdated governance models.
Groundwater is collapsing. Both are among the world’s top extractors, and Indus Basin aquifers are depleting fast. The Ravi, once flowing through Lahore, is now a toxic drain; Yamuna and Ganga face similar crises.
Poor coordination and dam operations worsen floods, as seen in 2010 and 2022 in Pakistan.
Through vanishing deltas, displaced farmers, and dying fish, the Sindhu still roars — first heard in Vedic chants, echoed in Sindhi and Punjabi poetry, now resonating in climate-stressed communities.
To revive it, both countries must go beyond technocratic division. A reimagined treaty must:
- Prioritise ecological flows and delta protection
- Establish joint climate-resilient basin governance
- Incorporate community-led water stewardship
- Recognise rivers as living systems, not state-owned assets
Because a river doesn’t just carry water. It carries memory, identity, and survival.
If India and Pakistan are to find common ground, let it be the river that once sustained both. Let the Sindhu flow not just through channels of law and finance, but through shared ecological wisdom and cultural reverence. Only then can we unchain the Indus.
(The author is a Karachi-based climate and sustainability expert and founder of Clifton Urban Forest . Views are personal)
(Disclaimer: The opinions expressed in this column are that of the writer. The facts and opinions expressed here do not reflect the views of www.economictimes.com)
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