"High spirits in the House of Udta Jhoomta Punjab"

Raju Korti
The latest stir inside the Punjab Legislative Assembly had less to do with legislative heft and more with olfactory speculation. The Opposition, led by the Indian National Congress, claimed that Punjab Chief Minister Bhagwant Mann addressed the House “drunk”, turning what should have been a sober exchange into a heady controversy. Mann, never one to shy away from theatrics, found himself at the centre of a debate where the proof, as they say, was not in the pudding but allegedly in the breath. The Assembly, usually echoing with policy arguments, briefly resembled a courtroom of whispers, winks, and raised eyebrows.

Mann (Wikipedia grab)

Yet, in a political culture that often thrives on exaggeration, the episode also revealed the Opposition’s flair for dramatic timing and the ruling side’s studied nonchalance. If governance is serious business, Punjab’s politicians reminded us that it is also, occasionally, comic theatre. Whether the charge holds water or evaporates like a fleeting scent, the incident has already added another anecdote to Mann’s colourful public persona, where the line between satire and statesmanship is, at times, delightfully blurred.

Thereafter, as a reminder of how enduring some impressions can be, I had written this on a blog on Mann on January 19, 2022: One must hand it to the propensity of the Aam Aadmi Party in choosing candidates that do full justice to the party's label. Going by that yardstick, its CM's face in Punjab, Bhagwant Singh Mann has to be the 'Aamest" of them all. I am presuming readers have caught on to the superlative degree. Mann's credentials are such that any journalist will give his right hand to write the man's colourful profile.

The 48-year-old MP from Punjab's Sangrur the same place from where the signatory to the historic Punjab accord, Akali Dal President late Harchand Singh Longowal hailed; has been making waves with videos that show him inebriated in the jostling crowds. Even as he is seen talking, his face flushed red, he is being held in place by supportive partymen.

There is a considerable outrage in certain quarters of Punjab that an "alcoholic" is being projected as CM's face. That too in a state that has already acquired notoriety for rampant drug abuse. Now we all know that an "alcoholic" is a sober version of the cruder "drunkard". But Sardar Bhagwant Mann dismisses all such ungenerous talk and is least bothered about the dubious reputation that precedes him.

The man has made it to the record books by arriving in the parliament drunk. It is a measure of his popularity that he still is a crowd puller with the theatrics that he used so effectively as contestant of a Laughter Show, incidentally hosted by another Sardar, Navjot Singh Sidhu. The comedy forum was fine but in the august House he clearly looked like a square peg in a round hole, if you forgive my penchant for some cheap pun. Bhagwant Singh Mann has earned the sobriquet "Pegwant Singh Mann" not for nothing.

I have no idea what is Mann's preferred brand and whether he goes for the country-made stuff or the imported one, but in 2019, Mann had reportedly promised not to touch alcohol again. Apparently, he reneged on that. Confronted by some snouty journalists about getting back to his drinking habits, Mann had a classic reply that would do any pulp film-maker proud: "At least I don't drink people's blood." Taking his justification forward, he also retorted that "no one is perfect. Look at the Congress CM. He sits with his Pakistani women friends and says cheers.

"You can't, of course, hold it against Mann for his indulgence. That may not have to do anything with his skills as a politician. I know many politicians who enjoy a drink. I particularly recall one 75-year-old politician from Maharashtra (now no more) who could down a full bottle of Scotch and still stand ramrod straight and speak minus the lisp that comes with it. Comparatively, Mann might be still learning to hold his glass.

To be even more fair to Mann, he has a number of cassettes even before the advent of digital and video era, and has hosted several satirical shows. The reason why AAP leadership dithered long before naming him as the CM face was because of its inability to find an alternative. The party, I suspect, was sort of pushed to an expedient corner with Mann winning elections consecutively in 2014 and 2019. Besides, Mann emerged as the majority choice in a phone-in poll conducted by the party.

As an aside it would be pertinent to recall the first two lines of a song tuned a few years back by one of the greatest composers of this century, Himesh Reshammiya. It is for you to decide whether the lines are chivalrous or uncharitable about the Punjabis. The lines say that after sunset, it is risky to toast the Punjabis with a glass in their hand as they tend to veer out of control. The lines run thus:
ओ ना पिलाना पंजाबियो को नाप तोल के
सूर्य अस्त, पंजाबी मस्त.

Mann calls himself a social drinker that many assert gives drinking an elite status. I am hoping that he does become the chief minister without giving up on any of the traits that make him so uncommonly common. It is worth the fun. AAP's pride will be people's envy.

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The unquiet prospect of a refugee tide into Bangladesh!

Raju Korti
I find myself looking at the unfolding West Bengal assembly elections with a sense of déjà vu, layered with unease. Elections in India are often intense, but this one feels distinctly more turbulent, almost existential. For Mamata Banerjee and her Trinamool Congress, the stakes are nothing short of political survival. For the Bharatiya Janata Party, it is an opportunity to breach what has long been a formidable bastion. Exit polls, as always, speak in discordant voices, yet there is a perceptible suggestion of a churn, even a possible upheaval.

The exodus after 1971 war (file grab)

What concerns me is not merely who forms the government in Kolkata, but the chain reaction such a verdict could set off beyond India’s borders. For decades, West Bengal has been both a destination and a transit point for migrants from Bangladesh. Estimates have varied widely, often coloured by political interpretation, but even conservative assessments suggest that several million undocumented Bangladeshi migrants reside in the state. Some figures place this number between 3 million and 10 million, though precise data remains elusive due to the very nature of undocumented migration.

If a new political dispensation were to pursue a stringent policy of identification and deportation, the implications would be immediate and profound. A reverse migration of even a fraction of these numbers would place extraordinary pressure on Bangladesh, particularly Dhaka. This is a country already grappling with economic headwinds, currency stress, and periodic political unrest. Its population density is among the highest in the world, exceeding 1,200 people per square kilometre. Urban centres are stretched, infrastructure is fragile, and employment generation struggles to keep pace with demographic realities.

To suddenly absorb a large influx of returnees, many of whom may have lived in India for years or even decades, would not merely be an administrative challenge. It would be a humanitarian, economic, and political test of considerable magnitude. Housing, employment, healthcare, and social integration would all come under strain. The spectre of informal settlements expanding around Dhaka and other cities is not difficult to imagine. Nor is the potential for social friction, particularly if returnees are perceived as outsiders in their own country.

At moments like this, history offers both perspective and caution. In 1971, during the Bangladesh Liberation War, India received an estimated 10 million refugees fleeing violence in what was then East Pakistan. States like West Bengal, Assam, and Tripura bore the brunt of this influx. India, despite its own economic limitations at the time, opened its borders and treated these refugees as guests. Camps were set up, international assistance was mobilised, and an enormous humanitarian effort was undertaken. The strain was immense, but it was managed with a combination of political will and societal resilience.

The parallel is not exact, but it is instructive. Then, India was the recipient of a refugee tide driven by conflict. Today, Bangladesh could potentially face an inward surge driven by policy enforcement across the border. The difference lies in preparedness and context. India in 1971 had the moral clarity of a humanitarian crisis unfolding next door. Bangladesh today would be dealing with a more complex situation involving identity, legality, and economic capacity.

Yet, it would be simplistic to assume that such a scenario is inevitable. Deportation at this scale is not merely a political decision. It requires legal processes, bilateral coordination, and verification mechanisms that are often painstakingly slow. Questions of documentation, proof of origin, and human rights obligations complicate any mass exercise. Even if the political intent is strong, the administrative execution is likely to be gradual and contested.

There is also the alternative scenario. If the Trinamool Congress retains power, the status quo may largely persist. Migration, both legal and undocumented, would continue to be managed in the ambiguous space it has occupied for years. Demographic shifts would remain a subject of political debate rather than immediate policy action. For Bangladesh, this would mean avoiding a sudden shock, though the underlying issues of cross-border movement would remain unresolved.

Between these two possibilities lies a spectrum of outcomes, each carrying its own implications. What is clear to me is that migration in this region cannot be viewed through a narrow electoral lens. It is deeply entwined with history, geography, economics, and human aspiration. Any abrupt attempt to redraw these patterns risks triggering consequences that extend far beyond the immediate political moment.

As I reflect on this, I am struck by the irony of borders that once opened to receive millions in a time of crisis potentially becoming conduits of return under very different circumstances. The subcontinent has lived through the upheavals of partition, war, and displacement. It has also demonstrated an ability to absorb and adapt. The question now is whether that collective memory will guide a measured approach, or whether the pressures of contemporary politics will push the region into another phase of uncertainty.The answer, perhaps, will not emerge from the ballot boxes alone. It will depend on how responsibly power is exercised once the votes are counted.

नात्यांचा नवा हिशेब: मी उपरा, म्हणूनच अनाम

राजू कोर्ती 
माझ्या स्मरणात अजूनही एक धूसर दुपार ताजी आहे. साधारण १९८३ चा काळ असावा. एका जुन्या, शांत लायब्ररीत मी वारंवार पाहत असलेले एक पुस्तक.‘उपरा’. लक्ष्मण माने यांचे ते आत्मकथन, जणू एखाद्या वेदनेचा दस्तऐवज. एक दिवस मी ते हातात घेतले आणि वाचत गेलो. पानोपानी उलगडत गेलेली जातिभेदाची निर्दयी वास्तवता, अपमानाची चिरफाड, आणि समाजाच्या कडवट नजरा. हे सर्व मनाला चटका लावून गेले. ‘उपरा’ म्हणजे केवळ बाहेरचा नाही, तर आपल्या जगात असूनही न स्वीकारलेला, अनोळखी, अनाहूत, अनाम.

तेव्हा मला वाटले होते की हा ‘उपरेपणा’ हा जातीचा, गरिबीचा आणि सामाजिक अन्यायाचा परिणाम आहे. पण आयुष्याच्या पुढच्या वळणांवर मला जाणवले. उपरेपणाची कारणे इतकी सरळ, इतकी एकरेषीय नसतात. काळ बदलतो, संदर्भ बदलतात, पण ‘उपरा’ हा शब्द मात्र त्याच अर्थाने चिकटून राहतो. फक्त त्याची कारणे बदलतात.

आज मी मागे वळून पाहतो, तेव्हा लक्षात येते की उपरा  हा केवळ जातीनं ठरत नाही; तो समाजाच्या बदलत्या ‘अल्गोरिदम’नं ठरतो. एकेकाळी नात्यांचे गणित धर्म, जात, भाषा, संस्कार यावर मांडले जात असे. पण आजचे समीकरण वेगळे आहे. पैसा, प्रतिष्ठा, रूप, पद, सत्ता, आणि प्रभाव. ज्याच्याकडे हे आहे, तो ‘आपला’; ज्याच्याकडे नाही, तो ‘उपरा’.माझ्या आयुष्यातील सर्वात कडवट जाणीव हीच.

मी सवर्ण असूनही (त्याचा अभिमान बाळगावा की लाज वाटावी हे तुम्ही ठरवा) आज उपरा आहे. कधी काळी माझ्याकडे साधनसंपत्ती होती, ओळखी होत्या, माझ्या भोवती माणसांची गर्दी होती. लोक तळहातावर घेऊन फिरवायचे. पण ज्या क्षणी या सर्व गोष्टी निसटल्या, त्या क्षणी नातीही विरघळून गेली. आज माझ्याकडे ना पैसा आहे, ना पद, ना रूप, ना प्रभाव. आणि म्हणूनच, आज मी कुणाचाच नाही.

सॅम्युएल हंटिंग्टनने ‘क्लॅश ऑफ सिव्हिलायझेशन्स’मध्ये जगातील संघर्षांची कारणे धर्म आणि संस्कृतीत शोधली. पण माझ्या छोट्याशा जगातला संघर्ष वेगळाच आहे. येथे सभ्यता नाही, तर स्थिती  बोचते . तुझ्याकडे काय आहे, आणि माझ्याकडे काय नाही, यावर नाती तुटतात, जुळतात, आणि मोडतात. आजचा माणूस विचारांच्या नव्हे, तर वस्तूंच्या आकर्षणाने जोडला जातो.

माणूस जन्मत: उपरा नसतो. त्याला उपरा बनवले जाते. हळूहळू, नजरेआड, शब्दांविना. आणि एकदा का तो या चौकटीत बसला, की त्याचे अस्तित्व नगण्य होते. अपमान हा त्याचा दैनंदिन अन्न बनतो, आणि एकाकीपणा त्याचा श्वास.

माझ्या उमेदीच्या काळात मी अनेकांना आधार दिला. तनाने, मनाने, धनाने. आई-वडील गेले आणि डोक्यावरचे अखेरचे छत्र हरपले. जीवाभावाचे दोन्ही भाऊ काळाच्या पडद्याआड गेले. आयुष्याचा आधार असलेली मोठी बहीणही निघून गेली. इतक्यावर नियती थांबली नाही; मोठ्या भावाचा उमलत्या वयातला मुलगाही हातातून निसटला. प्रत्येक आघात गिळून टाकत राहिलो -- शब्दांविना, आवाजाविना. पण या सगळ्या हानीनंतर जे उरले, ते एक खोल, न बोलता येणारे पोकळीचे जग… आणि त्यात वाढत गेलेले उपरेपण, जे हळूहळू मला नैराश्याच्या अथांग गर्तेकडे ढकलत गेले. पण आज जेव्हा मला आधाराची गरज आहे, तेव्हा माझ्या दारात येणारे पाऊलसुद्धा थांबत नाही. रस्त्यावरचे कुत्रेही कदाचित क्षणभर थांबतील; माणसं मात्र नाही.

हे सगळं लिहिण्यामागे माझा उद्देश केवळ उद्वेग व्यक्त करणे नाही. ही एक नोंद आहे. त्या उपऱ्यांची, जे समाजाच्या काठावर जगतात. जे दररोज जगतात, पण कुणाच्याच स्मरणात नसतात. ज्यांचे आयुष्य एक प्रतीक्षा बनून राहते. शेवटाच्या, मुक्तीच्या.पण मुक्ती इतकी सहज मिळत नाही. ज्याच्या वाट्याला जे आले आहे, ते भोगल्याशिवाय त्याची सुटका होत नाही. म्हणूनच उपरे जगतात किड्यांसारखे. आणि मरतातही तितक्याच शांत, तितक्याच दुर्लक्षित पद्धतीने.

The rising fury of a Super El Nino and reading its signals!

Raju Korti
I have been reading a great deal about the so-called impending Super El Niño, but most of what passes for explanation is either vague or overly general. The climate physics curiosity in me has therefore been stirred into a more careful, almost personal inquiry. When one looks beyond headlines and into the mechanics of ocean-atmosphere coupling, the unease begins to acquire shape.

(Pic representational)

In simple terms, El Niño is the periodic warming of surface waters in the central and eastern Pacific due to weakening trade winds, while La Niña is its cooler counterpart marked by strengthened winds and enhanced upwelling. These oscillations, though distant, act as a planetary thermostat. When that thermostat malfunctions at scale, the consequences ripple across continents.

What distinguishes a Super El Niño is not merely its occurrence, but its intensity. When temperature anomalies cross the two-degree threshold, the system ceases to behave like a cycle and begins to resemble a disruption. Climate models are increasingly converging on the possibility that such an event is not only likely but may already be stirring. Enough hints are visible even across India. The extreme heat in central and eastern regions is not an isolated aberration but a symptom of a larger rearrangement of atmospheric energy.

Globally, a Super El Niño would redraw the climate map. The Pacific warming injects enormous heat into the atmosphere, which then struggles to dissipate because of elevated greenhouse gas concentrations. This creates a stacking effect where each major event lifts the baseline temperature further. By the latter half of this decade, we may not be speaking of anomalies but of a new normal. Floods in some regions, droughts in others, intensified wildfires, and erratic storm tracks are all part of this redistribution of heat.

For India and its neighbourhood, the implications are both immediate and uneven. The south-west monsoon, which is delicately tied to temperature gradients between land and ocean, is likely to weaken or become erratic. The India Meteorological Department has already indicated the possibility of below-normal rainfall in parts of the country, while Skymet Weather has flagged the risk of spatial and temporal unevenness.

The geography of impact will not be uniform. Northwest and central India could see prolonged dry spells and heatwaves, with temperatures rising by 1 to 2 degrees Celsius above seasonal norms. Eastern India, already showing early heat spikes, may experience oppressive humidity combined with heat, pushing wet-bulb temperatures to dangerous thresholds. Southern peninsular India might witness short bursts of intense rainfall interspersed with dry intervals, while the Himalayan belt could face accelerated glacial melt and erratic precipitation, raising the risk of flash floods.

Neighbouring regions mirror this instability. Pakistan and Afghanistan may face severe drought conditions, while Bangladesh could oscillate between heat stress and sudden flooding. The Indian Ocean itself may warm further, feeding cyclonic activity in the Arabian Sea and Bay of Bengal with greater intensity.

The quantum of destruction, if one must attempt to quantify it, lies not merely in isolated disasters but in systemic stress. Agricultural output could decline due to erratic rainfall and heat stress. Urban centres may face power surges due to cooling demand, alongside water shortages. Forest fire incidents could increase in central India. Public health systems will be tested by heat-related illnesses. The economy absorbs these shocks in ways that are often invisible at first but cumulative over time.

Can such a phenomenon be controlled? The honest answer from a climate physics standpoint is no, at least not in the immediate sense. El Niño is a natural oscillation. What we can control, however, is the background state on which it operates. Reducing greenhouse gas emissions, improving land use practices, and building adaptive infrastructure can moderate the amplification. Without that, each El Niño arrives not as a visitor but as an accelerant.

The more I read and observe, the more it seems that the Super El Niño is not a distant probability but an unfolding reality. Extreme temperatures and climate fluctuations are no longer projections confined to models. They are increasingly becoming lived experiences. The signals are already here, scattered across heat maps and rainfall charts, waiting to be read with clarity rather than comfort.

The Asha they did not remember!

Raju Korti
Each time a colossus of the music firmament passes on, I find myself recoiling, not so much at the loss, but at the hurried sanctimony that follows, the facile tributes that parade familiarity without intimacy. And in the case of Asha Bhosle, it was almost as if an entire generation chose amnesia over acknowledgement, reducing an eight-decade symphony into a handful of oft-repeated refrains, when for some of us, her voice was not an accessory to memory but its very texture, its breath and pulse. To add insult to injury, songs were casually misattributed to the wrong films, the wrong composers, even the wrong years, all delivered with an air of easy authority, as though accuracy were optional and no one would know enough, or care enough, to question or protest.

I remember how, long before the marketplace discovered her versatility, she had already etched her genius in quieter, deeper grooves, especially with the mercurial O. P. Nayyar, where one could travel from Beimaan balma maan bhi jaa (1956), Chhota sa baalma (1958), Chham chham ghungru bole (1958), Puchho na hame hum unke liye (1960), Raaton ko chori chori (1965) to the intoxicating cluster of Har tukde mere dil ka, Main shayad tumhare, Yehi wo jaga hai and Muhabbat cheez hai kya (1966), a journey that was less about songs and more about an evolving aesthetic where rhythm flirted with rebellion and melody refused domestication, and yet how conveniently this chapter is footnoted, if at all, as though the arc from Aasman to Kismat was a mere prelude rather than the very foundation of her flight.

Then came the understated alchemy with S. D. Burman, where her voice seemed to acquire an inwardness, a reflective cadence, beginning with Chhayi kaari badariya (1953), moving through Humne kisi pe dore (1956), Dhalti jaaye chunariya (1957), Aan milo more piya (1958), Koi aaya dhadkan kehti hai, Kuch din pehle, Chanda re chanda re (1958), Kaali ghata chhaye mora (1959), Nazar laagi Raja, Dil laga ke, Sach hue sapne tere (1960), and culminating in the haunting austerity of Ab ke baras bhej and O panchhi pyaare (1963), where she was no longer merely singing but inhabiting silences between notes.

With Ravi, she became the voice of quiet devotion and emotional transparency, giving us Dil ki kahani rang laayi hai (1960), Raat raat bhar jaag jaag kar (1961), Halki halki sard hawa (1962), Aaj ye meri zindagi (1963), and the immortal Tora man darpan kehlaye (1965), songs that did not clamour for attention but settled into the conscience like an unspoken prayer.

Even with composers often relegated to the margins of popular recall, she found a way to dignify their compositions, whether it was C. Ramchandra with Aa dil se dil mila le and Dil lagaakar hum ye, or N. Dutta, where one encountered a remarkable spread from Aji tum aur hum (1955), Pyar khul ke nain milaye (1955), Kismat hai agar tumhare saath (1956), Chhup chhup ke dil ki dhadkan (1957), Tang aa chuke hai kashmakashe (1958), Dekhi teri duniya (1959), to Naina kyun bhar aaye and Main jab bhi akeli hoti hoon (1961), and Aap ki baate aap ki kasme (1962), each rendered with a seriousness that belied their so-called “secondary” status.

She could just as effortlessly align with the grand orchestral sweep of Shankar–Jaikishan in Chamke bijuriya garje megh (1953), Mud mud ke na dekh (1955), Saawan ban gaye nain (1961), or the lyrical finesse of Salil Chowdhury in Thandi thandi saawan ki (1956) and Bagh me kali khili (1965), and even in the briefest of associations with Babul, Khayyam, or Hemant Kumar, she left behind imprints like Baithe hain rehguzar par (1959), Do boonde saawan ki (1958), Humse hoti mohabbat jo (1965), Yeh mehfil sitaron ki (1956), Meri baat rahi mere man me and Saaqiya aaj mujhe that continue to whisper long after louder songs have faded.

I often feel the tragedy is not that we forgot these songs, but that we forgot how to listen, how to locate artistry beyond the obvious, how to recognise that before the cabarets, the chartbusters and the late rediscoveries, there existed a young, fiercely committed artiste who negotiated her place note by note, phrase by phrase. Perhaps my indignation also stems from a deeply personal space, for in those songs lies a part of my own growing up, my own apprenticeship in feeling, and if I insist on recalling this Asha, it is not to correct anyone, but to rescue something within myself from the encroaching shallowness of collective memory.

So when the next facile tribute rolls out and someone casually hums Chura liya hai tumne as though that alone defines her, I will quietly retreat into my own archive where Kaali ghata chhaye mora still gathers clouds, Tora man darpan kehlaye still reflects a searching soul, and Ab ke baras bhej still aches with distance, and I will remind myself that legends are not diminished by our forgetfulness, only our listening is.

PS: I have purposely chosen this B&W image to accentuate my point.

How about outsourcing Hormuz Toll Naka to India?

Raju Korti
The day I heard the rumour that ships might have to pay a toll to pass through the Strait of Hormuz, my first thought was very simple. Finally, the world has caught up with India.

(Pic is purely imaginary)

For years we have perfected the science of the Toll Naka. Every few kilometres a booth appears like a philosophical reminder that no ride in life is truly free. Roads, bridges and sometimes even a suspiciously short flyover come with their own toll plaza. Naturally, I imagined that somewhere between Iran and Oman a similar Naka must be under construction.

Picture the scene: A large yellow board reads: “Welcome to Hormuz Toll Plaza. Please keep FASTag active.” In the middle of the sea, enormous oil tankers line up like trucks outside a Maharashtra highway toll gate during Diwali traffic. A gigantic Iranian officer waves a fluorescent baton and signals ships to slow down.

“Next vessel please. Cargo type?” “Crude oil.” “Very good. Commercial category. Please pay.”At this point the captain nervously checks whether his ship has Fastag linked to the right bank account. If not, the poor fellow must do what every Indian driver does at toll plazas. Frantically search for network to complete an online payment.

Of course there will be different lanes. One for FASTag enabled vessels. One for cash payment for nostalgic countries that still believe in physical currency. And the slowest lane of all called “Exact change only.”

I can also imagine the controversies. Some shipping companies will complain that the toll charges are too high. Others will argue that they already paid at the previous international checkpoint. A few clever captains will attempt to slip through the emergency lane pretending they are ambulances of the sea.

Television debates will erupt immediately. So called experts will shout hoarse about maritime sovereignty. Economists will calculate the cost per barrel of oil. Retired admirals will discuss whether the Toll Naka should be manned by the navy, the coast guard or a private contractor who previously managed highways near Ahmedabad.

Meanwhile the real masters of the system will quietly appear. Not diplomats. Not naval officers. Indian toll plaza managers. Within weeks the entire operation will run with clockwork efficiency. Digital receipts. Online payments. SMS alerts. And of course, a polite but firm announcement over loudspeakers.

“Dear global shipping community, kindly maintain lane discipline and keep your Fastag active. Failure to comply will result in double toll charges.

”The Indian government has clarified that no such Toll Naka exists at Hormuz. But if the world ever decides to install one, I have an humble suggestion. Please invite India to design it. After all, nobody understands toll economics better than us.

While the government clarifies that no such toll exists at Hormuz, somewhere in India our own Nitin Gadkari might be chuckling to himself at the sheer globalisation of the Toll Naka idea.

Can Maharashtra's rivers be saved from pollution?

Raju Korti
Rivers have sustained human civilisation for centuries. They provide drinking water, support agriculture, recharge groundwater and sustain ecosystems. In India they also carry deep cultural and spiritual significance. Yet many rivers today resemble drains rather than lifelines. Maharashtra’s decision to establish the Maharashtra State River Rejuvenation Authority appears to be an attempt to reverse this decline.

Mithi: Sight for sore eyes

The state cabinet recently approved the creation of this authority to oversee rejuvenation work on 54 polluted river stretches, the highest number recorded in any Indian state according to the Central Pollution Control Board’s 2025 report. The rivers include the Mithi, Kalu, Mula, Mula-Mutha, Mutha, Bhima, Pawana, Nag, Chandrabhaga and Panchganga.

These rivers represent both ecological and cultural heritage. Many such as the Bhima, Chandrabhaga and Panchganga hold sacred importance for millions of devotees. The Mithi river in Mumbai is an exception. Union Minister Nitin Gadkari once dismissed it as a mere “nullah”, reflecting the tragic condition to which it has been reduced.

The Maharashtra State River Rejuvenation Authority will function as the apex decision-making body and nodal agency for river restoration in the state. Chaired by the Chief Minister, it brings together ministers from environment, finance, urban development, water resources, industry and rural development.

In theory this structure solves a major administrative problem. River pollution involves many departments. Sewage management is handled by urban bodies. Industrial pollution falls under the pollution control board. Encroachments involve revenue authorities. Flood control is linked to water resources departments. Until now these agencies have worked in isolation. The new authority aims to coordinate them.

It will prepare river basin management plans, decide priority phases for rejuvenation, integrate existing schemes, and recommend policies on sewage treatment, industrial effluent control and riverbank demarcation. It will also address practical obstacles such as land acquisition, encroachments, power supply and project contracts.

A state executive committee and a dedicated secretariat will assist the authority. Environmental organisations such as the Bombay Natural History Society and the Mangrove Cell are expected to contribute technical inputs.

The state plans to raise about Rs 2,000 crore for river rejuvenation through the Pollution Control Board. The government itself will contribute Rs 100 crore, while 10 percent of revenue from minor mineral excavation will be diverted annually to the authority. Additional funding will be sought through corporate social responsibility contributions and blended finance. Whether this allocation is adequate remains debatable.

Cleaning polluted rivers is extremely expensive. Sewage treatment plants, interceptor drains, riverfront protection works and monitoring systems require large investments and continuous maintenance. In a state with 54 polluted stretches, Rs 2,000 crore could spread thin unless carefully prioritised. The key challenge is not only capital investment but also long-term operational costs. Treatment plants often fail because local bodies lack funds or technical capacity to maintain them.

The problems affecting Maharashtra’s rivers are neither mysterious nor recent. The causes are well documented. Untreated sewage is the largest contributor. Rapid urbanisation has overwhelmed municipal infrastructure. Many cities discharge partially treated or completely untreated sewage into rivers.

Industrial effluents add another layer of pollution. Chemical units, textile industries, sugar mills and small-scale factories often release contaminated wastewater. Solid waste dumping further degrades river health. Plastics, construction debris and household garbage frequently end up in river channels. Encroachments and urban construction narrow natural riverbeds and destroy floodplains. This reduces the river’s ability to cleanse itself and increases flooding risks. Agricultural runoff containing fertilisers and pesticides also contributes to declining water quality.

Few rivers illustrate the governance failures better than Mumbai’s Mithi river. Once a natural tidal river connecting Powai and Vihar lakes to Mahim creek, the Mithi gradually turned into a dumping channel for sewage and industrial waste. After the devastating 2005 Mumbai floods, the government launched an ambitious river cleaning and widening programme. Over the years, hundreds of crores of rupees were spent on desilting, embankment construction and beautification. Yet the river continues to remain choked with sludge and garbage.

Investigations and audits exposed irregularities in contracts and allegations of inflated bills in desilting operations. The project became synonymous with what many critics describe as the Mithi river desilting scam. For Mumbaikars the river still stands as a visible reminder of administrative failure. This history raises an uncomfortable question. If one river could not be restored despite years of attention and funding, can dozens of others be revived effectively?

India’s experience with the Clean Ganga campaign provides further caution. The Ganga Action Plan launched in 1985 and the later Namami Gange programme initiated in 2014 have together consumed billions of rupees and more than three decades of policy effort. Some improvements have been reported in certain stretches, but pollution levels remain stubbornly high in several cities including Varanasi.

Experts attribute the limited success to fragmented governance, weak enforcement against polluters, and poor maintenance of treatment infrastructure. The lesson is simple. River cleaning cannot succeed through announcements alone.

The new authority does address one important problem. It attempts to bring multiple departments under a single institutional framework. This could improve coordination and accountability. However, success will depend on three factors.

First, strict enforcement of pollution norms. Industries and municipalities must face penalties for illegal discharge. Second, functional sewage treatment systems. Building plants is not enough. They must operate efficiently every day. Third, protection of riverbanks and floodplains. Encroachments and construction near rivers must be prevented. Without these steps, rejuvenation efforts risk becoming symbolic exercises.

Governments alone cannot restore rivers. Citizens, industries, local bodies and environmental groups all have a role. Cities must manage waste responsibly. Industries must adopt cleaner technologies. Farmers must reduce chemical runoff. Citizens must stop dumping garbage into water bodies. Most importantly, rivers must be treated as living ecological systems, not as drainage channels.

If Maharashtra’s new authority can enforce this shift in thinking, it may succeed where many earlier efforts have faltered. If it becomes another bureaucratic layer without strong enforcement, the state’s rivers will continue their slow decline.

The stakes are high. Rivers are not merely water channels. They are the arteries of human life, carrying ecological, economic and cultural meaning across generations. Protecting them is not just an environmental task. It is a civilisational responsibility.