“When rivers rise, we call it nature’s fury. But when governments sleep, dams burst, and warnings are ignored—we must call it what it truly is: a man-made disaster.
The 2025 floods in Punjab have been widely reported as the worst deluge in decades, with scenes of devastation beamed across the nation. Beneath the headlines of “nature’s fury” lies a more unsettling truth: this calamity was not an act of God or a mere climatic anomaly. It was the direct result of human errors, systemic neglect, administrative complacency, and political dysfunction. Dams and barrages were pushed beyond their limits, safety protocols were overlooked, maintenance schedules were deferred, and entire communities were left exposed by decisions made behind closed doors.
While heavy monsoon rains set the stage, the real damage was amplified by the sudden and uncoordinated release of massive volumes of water from key reservoirs.
The Bhakra Dam—regulated to a maximum of 1,680 feet—hovered perilously close to capacity at 1,671.9 feet on August 27, despite “controlled releases” of 43,800–48,000 cusecs.
Inflow outpaced draw-down, and announcements to open gates trickled out too few, too late.
At Pong Dam, inflows reached a record 9.68 billion cubic meters for July–August—surpassing even the infamous 1988 floods—yet outflows peaked at 110,000 cusecs in a crisis-driven bid to hope rainfall would ease rather than plan for the worst.
Ranjit Sagar Dam similarly reached near-danger levels at 526.67 meters (maximum 527.91 meters), with outflows touching and briefly exceeding 200,000 cusecs. Simultaneous heavy rainfall across all three catchments overwhelmed their design capacities, but the timing and scale of downstream releases were never matched by adequate warnings, local preparedness, or gradual ramping—heightening flash-flood risk and triggering a catastrophic chain reaction.
Nowhere was the man-made dimension starker than at the Madhopur Barrage on the Ravi. First constructed in the 19th century and rebuilt in 1959 to redirect water from Ranjit Sagar Dam, its 54 sluice gates were meant to modulate immense flows. Yet when water roared in at up to 221,000 cusecs, delayed and improper gate operation—likely owing to corroded mechanisms and deferred upkeep—proved disastrous. Two, then three sluices buckled under pressure, unleashing uncontrolled torrents into Pathankot and Gurdaspur. Helpless villagers watched as their homes, shops, and lifelines were swallowed whole, with rescue helicopters becoming the last hope for trapped families.
Despite clear early weather alerts, there was no flood-management protocol, no evacuation strategy, and no sense of accountability. This wasn’t just a failure of infrastructure—it was a failure of governance.
The human and economic toll has been staggering. Over 290,000 acres of paddy fields lay submerged; cotton, maize, and vegetable crops were lost at critical growth stages just before harvest. Livestock drowned or succumbed to disease amid fodder shortages. Even with promised compensation schemes and crop-insurance payouts,
farmers now face long delays and inadequate coverage—and for many, one ruined season means years trapped in debt. Hundreds of roads and bridges collapsed or washed away; electrical grids were downed for days; water-supply and sanitation networks were contaminated in dozens of towns and villages. Stagnant waters raised the risk of cholera, dysentery, and other waterborne diseases, as health officials struggled to distribute medicines and conduct cleanup operations amid impassable routes.
There must be accountability for this disaster. The people of Punjab deserve not only compensation but permanent safeguards against such suffering.
When systems meant to protect instead become instruments of destruction, it is not nature we must blame but ourselves. Punjab didn’t just flood—it was betrayed.
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