In my book Conflicts of Interest, I described how we discovered the treasure of water management in the country. Let me explain this as we look at another scorching summer. Let me remind ourselves about this as it becomes clear that we must learn the science and art of catching every drop of rain, when and where it falls.
It was in the early 1990s. We were driving down a winding road, going to Bikaner. Anil Agarwal, environmentalist and then director of the Centre for Science and Environment (CSE), was at the wheel of his new Maruti 800 — red. Anil had just learnt to drive and the idea was that we would make our way by road to see the work of Shibu Patwa. Shibu was at that time working on protecting grazing lands in and around Bikaner. With us was another remarkable man, Anupam Mishra of the Gandhi Peace Foundation. It was dusty, I remember. What we could see as we drove on the single-lane road were small settlements and lots of Khejdi trees, which are used as food for animals and humans and so widely grown. But then suddenly there was something different on the ground. Anil stopped the car. He wanted to know what he was seeing.
It was in the shape of a flying saucer or an upside-down cup on a paved ground. We got off the car, walked over to the settlement, and asked. “What is this?” As is often the case, such stupid questions from city-dwellers get very patient replies from people.
“It is our water system. Our kundi.” It made no sense. They explained. “See, we pave the ground with lime and make it drain to the middle. Then when it rains, even a little, all the water is harvested and channelled into the well, which is covered so that there is no contamination.”
Anil and Anupam were so fascinated by this learning that they spent the next many years of their lives teaching Indians the value of the raindrop. I learnt with them.
Anil calculated that this structure of decentralised rain harvesting had huge potential. One hectare of land with just 100 millimetre (mm) of rain — that’s what deserts get on average — is capable of harvesting 1 million litres of water. Not small. A family of five would not need more than 10-15 litres a day for drinking and cooking. This roughly comes to 4,000-5,000 litres a year. One ha of land would harvest water to meet the needs of some 200-300 families.
Still later, another experience shaped my understanding of not just the potential of rainwater harvesting but indeed its connection with all of us. We were in Meghalaya — the beautiful state at the eastern end of India. Cherrapunji is the wettest place on Earth — at least that is what I was taught in school. There in a small government guesthouse we saw a big sign — “water is precious, please use it carefully”. Amazing. A place with some 14,000 mm of rain, enough to fill a high ceiling stadium, had a shortage of water!
Anil and I had just returned from Jaisalmer. Here we were tracking how the city, with as little as 50-100 mm of rain, had been a transit point for trading caravans from the west to the east. How it had built a flourishing civilisation and indeed a prosperous and stunning fort of yellow sandstone. The answer we found was in the way the city had planned its rainwater harvesting, from rooftops to tanks. All to build a water-secure future in spite of desperately adverse conditions.
We had also visited Jodhpur, where primate specialist and desert expert S M Mohnot had showed us the intricate system of water harvesting. Here was a massive fort, surrounded by hills of granite. All the water from the hills flowed to the first tank inside the fort; in case there was a siege or war, this was secure. The overflow of that tank, called Ranisar, went to the next, which was outside and available to all people. The rain was tapped through groundwater in scores of beautifully designed step wells across the city. This was not all. The groundwater was tapped in scores of beautifully carved step wells. And then rain was harvested on every roof, channelised and stored in underground tanks for use. The roof was kept clean so the water was drinkable. Sweet.
But by then the system had gone — we could see garbage had taken over the step wells; the catchment from where the rain was harvested was being heavily mined. Rainwater was increasingly trapped in big mining pits, not flowing into the tank. The system was breaking down.
I learnt important lessons. Water and culture go together. Water shortage is not about mere failure of rain. It is about the failure of society to live and share its water endowment. This is what we need to teach, again and again, so that we can live and indeed survive the coming water-insecure times.
The writer is at the Centre for Science and Environment
sunita@cseindia.org
Twitter: @sunitanar
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