The river speaks, listen: Fear of the darya

Living along the banks of Sutlej, and banking on community

Sukhdev Sidhu

Updated At : 05:33 AM Aug 31, 2025 IST

Tribune photo: Malkiat Singh

This was in the early Sixties. My village, Udhowal, was a backward area of Nakodar tehsil (Punjab). I was a student at the local primary school. A newly qualified teacher had recently joined us, hailing from Mehatpur, a village that seemed like a city to us. She was in her early twenties. Initially, a family member would drop her off, but later she started walking to school. Unlike today, we addressed female teachers as “Bhehanjee” and male teachers as “Bhaji”.

July and August marked the monsoon season. One day, dark clouds gathered, and thunder rolled across the sky, signalling imminent heavy rain. In those days, rainfall was intense. We were thrilled, hoping we’d be sent home early.

Bhehanjee conferred with her fellow teachers and decided to leave before the rain began. My classmate, Piara, and I were tasked with escorting her home. We were merely seven or eight years old — students of third grade, at best. A teacher’s order was sacrosanct, so we followed it.

Bhehanjee led the way. She was dressed in white pyjamas, a colourful jumper, and a matching chunni — just like the famous actress Vyjayanthimala. As it started drizzling, it dampened her clothes. She seemed to shrink slightly, stiffened from the cold. While she was fully aware of her surroundings, we were oblivious to anything beyond our responsibilities.

The rain eventually stopped. Summoning whatever courage I had, I decided to head back to the village alone. Piara had quietly slipped away, abandoning me. Later, I learnt that his aunt lived in this village. He did not wish to take me with him.

By the time school ended, all the students had gone home, except us. Piara and I were the only sons of our families. Our families were frantic. No one at school had informed them that we were sent away. My family went to Mehatpur in the pouring rain but couldn’t find us.

I reached Ramuwal, a village in the exact middle of Mehatpur and my village. I was trembling with fear — the ‘Buddha Darya’ had swollen, overflowing with terrifying sounds. There was no life in sight. The water kept rising. When we passed it earlier, it was bone-dry, but now, murky, reddish water filled the area. I couldn’t go back to Mehatpur. My fear of water overwhelmed me.

I would mark the water level, watching it rise quickly. I sat, then stood again, only to find the water rising higher. Finally, I gave up. I started crying and feeling feverish. My sobs grew louder, and dark thoughts flooded my mind.

By some miraculous luck, I spotted Puran Singh from my village. He noticed my anxiety. He kept reassuring me that I wasn’t alone. When we reached the middle of the stream, the water rose to my neck. I thought I would drown. But Puran, calm as ever, encouraged me: “Don’t be afraid. I’m with you.” In that moment, he was like an angel.

The ‘Buddha Darya’ had flooded a few times before. It wasn’t actually a river, but a small stream connected to the Sutlej river near the villages of Adraman and Lohgarh. When the Sutlej swelled beyond its limits, it overflowed, often bursting through the weakest points. This was one such weak point. The local zamindars often took advantage of the situation, using bullock carts to ferry people across the floodwaters for a fee.

Today, it’s almost impossible to identify where the ‘Buddha Darya’ used to flow. The land has been levelled, and fields have overtaken what was once a place of fear and danger.

Puran Singh took me home. As soon as I saw my family, I burst into tears. My grandmother immediately embraced me. My mother hurriedly changed my wet clothes.

The next morning, my Taya went to confront the teachers, warning them not to send me anywhere again. I didn’t return to school for three days due to fever, and was haunted by unsettling dreams. When I did go back, my teacher scolded me harshly: “You’re not dead, why all the fuss?” Even now, I find little comfort in the memory.

A decade later, a similar flooding occurred. Our neighbouring village, Baloki, broadcast a warning about the overflow of the Sutlej. In panic, our village organised a team to build makeshift embankments. We could hear the deafening sounds of water and collapsing structures. Fortunately, by dawn, the water began to recede.

Flooding is a near-regular occurrence for the communities residing along Sutlej’s banks. In many respects, it is nature’s harsh response to environmental degradation. As a result of repeated administrative shortcomings, farmers have often resorted to making their own preparations, howsoever inadequate. At times, it appears to be a contest between the destructive force of the floods and the resilience of the people. They recover, rebuild, until the cycle gets repeated.

— The writer is a Punjabi author

The river speaks, listen: Fear of the darya

Sukhdev Sidhu

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