IN living memory, i.e. after Partition, the Sutlej has seen two major peaks — one in 1955 and the other in 1988. An unassuming, gentle stream for most of its life, the once-mighty river of yore has never been quite the same since its waters were apportioned to India under the Indus Waters Treaty.

But this year’s massive flood, caused by record rains in its catchment areas, has awakened this sleeping giant; the longest of the Indus’ five tributaries and — in conjunction with its twin Beas — a powerhouse of a river.

Much like the Nile of antiquity, whose floods the Egyptians sought to tame with offerings to the river gods, the Sutlej would also swell with regularity during the months of September and October, bringing soil and sediment to fertilise the breadbasket of Punjab during the fallow period.

Ashfaque Ahmad, a local activist, tells me that in the past, the river’s peaks had never interfered with crop schedules, since the floods come in the lean period, when most of the agricultural fields along its route lay vacant.

This time around, though, the river swelled much earlier, in July, to date bringing eight million acre feet (MAF) of water to the unprotected lower regions of Punjab.

The worst, however, has not yet passed and meteorologists are predicting more precipitation and more water may be on the way, an irrigation official tells Dawn.

The Sutlej-Beas duo has so far spelt disaster for eight districts — Kasur, Okara, Pakpattan, Vehari, Lodhran, Multan, Bahawalnagar and Bahawalpur, and even weeks after the water first crossed its banks, the inflows from Sutlej’s routes are still at well over 100,000 cusecs.

In the past, one spike would enter Pakistan, inundating areas along the river banks and then recede by the time it reached Panjnad. But an exceptional spike, followed by massive inflows for over a month and half — such as the one being witnessed now — is a totally new phenomenon, according to the irrigation official.

“This is the first time that an exceptionally high spike has touched Panjnad Barrage — some ten-day travel time from where the water enters Pakistan — and situation is still not normal at Ganda Singh Wala,” he says.

It all started in the first week of July, when India warned Pakistan that its dams on the Ravi, Beas and Sutlej had been filled to capacity and any additional rainwater would be released downstream. The deluge came on July 10 in the shape of 100,000 cusecs — a high-flood — that was sufficient to break the banks of the river’s narrowed-down passage and inundate its adjoining areas. For the next month, as rains and releases from dams continued, the river flowed high enough that these areas remained flooded, but the water didn’t threaten more land.

All that changed in the third week of August, when inflows spiked to 278,000 cusecs, categorised as a ‘very high flood’. This turned an area of around 15km on either side of the river into a perpetual pool, traveling through the province. Although this exceptional spike receded in three days, the river has been flowing at well above 100,000 cusecs and refuses to vacate the vast swathes of flooded land.

Currently, the 500km between Ganda Singh Wala and Panjnad Barrage resembles a huge waterway, devoid of humans, crops and livestock.

No loss of life, human or livestock has been reported so far, possibly due to the timely action by authorities in raising the alarm and moving people and animals to safety. However, the true scale of the suffering presents itself as one travels through these flooded areas.

During my travels, I spot a group of displaced people sitting on the Noora Rath dyke, waiting for a food handout. Kaley Khan, who lives in a nearby village that is now inundated, tells me that they rise and sleep with the sun. There is nothing to do here, no facilities to bathe or wash clothes.

“In this state of nothingness, my extended family and I keep staring back at our village, waiting for the day we can go back to our normal lives,” he says, trying to hold back tears.

“We were never very well off, but we were not beggars either. We lived a respectable and dignified life until around 50 days ago. Now, we have been reduced to waiting for the state or individuals to provide us with charity, even for our meals. Most times, we have to skip meals as well,” says Muhammad Yar Khan Joya, another relocated villager.

“I have no idea how much infrastructure this flood has affected, but it has certainly broken us from the inside,” he says, his voice filling with despair.

“Imagine a life where one has to beg, even to use the toilet. People from nearby villages were initially forthcoming, but it has been more than seven weeks and their patience has, understandably, worn thin,” he says, adding: “This safety is killing us”.

Part of the blame for this falls on the shoulders of those who have populated the natural waterway, building homes and infrastructure in the river’s path and forcing it out of its natural banks.

“We had almost forgotten this giant flowed through our area because of its gentle behaviour. The last time it swelled to such a catastrophic level (in 1988), I was still a youngster,” says Muhammad Ramzan, who lives along the Ravi in Lahore.

Before that, the previous major flooding event occurred in the mid-1950s. These long periods of calm lulled the people into a false sense of security, who built structures on the river bed during the intervening years and are now crying when the river has burst its banks. “No one thought to put a stop to this construction in the last 75 years,” Ramazan says, lamenting how today, they are merely reaping the fruit of our own follies.

Published in Dawn, August 31st, 2023