In a region already marked by history’s deep scars and fresh animosities, the latest escalation between India and Pakistan has pulled back the curtain on an old but overlooked dimension of conflict: water. While the airwaves and diplomatic corridors pulse with analyses of air skirmishes and defence doctrines, the real power struggle may well be happening beneath the surface—along the course of rivers that have long connected and sustained both nations. For decades, India has proudly presented itself as a military heavyweight, with the fourth-largest air force in the world. But the events of a recent four-day confrontation with Pakistan left this image deflated. What was once proclaimed with pride in public statements and TV studios now seems brittle when tested.
India’s military might, once a badge of honor, faltered under pressure, and the aftermath left not just strategic discomfort but a sense of narrative disintegration within its own media ecosystem. Indian television, long a cheerleader for jingoism and performative nationalism, has been conspicuously cautious since the encounter. The usual thunder of patriotic panels and primetime shouting matches has given way to uneasy silences. Some truths, it seems, are too raw to broadcast. But amid this quiet, a singular moment stood out—a television exchange where retired Indian General J.D. Bakshi found himself facing a blunt rebuke from Chinese analyst Victor Gao. Gao reminded viewers of the Brahmaputra River’s origins in Tibet and calmly warned that if India decided to tamper with Pakistan’s water supply or alters Indus River Treaty, China had its own levers. These weren’t words of bluster; they were a warning cloaked in cold logic.
That India is now being discussed not for its fighter jets or economic ambitions but for its potential to turn water into a weapon should set off alarm bells. On the surface, the flow of rivers may appear serene, but beneath lies the potential for both prosperity and destruction. India’s recent decision to block the flow of the Chenab River—at a moment when Pakistan desperately needed water for its Kharif crop season—was not just tactless. It was, to put it plainly, an act of ecological aggression. Over 54,000 cusecs of water were withheld on a single day, slashing downstream flows by more than half. And that wasn’t the only incident. Just days earlier, New Delhi curtailed 40 percent of the Neelum River’s flow via the Kishanganga Dam, causing further harm to Pakistan’s already fragile irrigation needs.
To understand the gravity of these actions, one must look to the Indus Waters Treaty of 1960—an agreement that has, against all odds, survived wars and political upheavals. It was lauded as a model of conflict resolution, proving that even hostile neighbors could find common ground when the stakes involved something as essential as water. But now, as India accelerates its dam-building spree and considers linking the Chenab to the Beas and Ravi systems, the spirit of the treaty is eroding. What once stood as a bulwark against water wars now appears outdated, vulnerable, and open to abuse. India’s strategy is not impulsive; it is calculated. By building dams upstream and controlling river flows, New Delhi is slowly constructing a hydro-political straitjacket for Pakistan.
The real danger is not only in withholding water—but also in the potential to suddenly release it. A surprise flood, timed with the monsoon or during a harvest season, could leave vast swathes of Pakistan submerged, its crops ruined, its economy crippled. In this light, India’s water projects begin to resemble tools of coercion, not development. Pakistan, in response, has little time for lament. Prime Minister Shehbaz Sharif has rightfully raised the issue in international forums. But diplomacy, however well-intentioned, is not a dam. While speeches and summits have their place, what Pakistan needs is a parallel track of urgent, practical action. That begins with accelerating the construction of its own dams and water reservoirs, particularly on tributaries like the Jhelum and Chenab. Not doing so risks leaving the country perpetually vulnerable to India’s upstream manoeuvers.
Climate change only worsens this urgency. The region is already seeing more erratic rainfall patterns, glacial melt, and prolonged droughts. Water that once flowed predictably is now subject to the chaos of a changing climate. Yet, in Pakistan, vast volumes still drain unused into the sea each year—resources wasted while upstream diversions rob the country of its share. It is an irony that borders on tragedy. There remains untapped potential in Pakistan’s upper regions—places where small and medium-sized dams could transform local agriculture and provide buffers against both floods and water scarcity. But this requires more than engineers and feasibility reports. It requires political courage, institutional coordination, and an unwavering focus on long-term resilience. The complacency that has allowed India to gain a head start must now be replaced with a seriousness worthy of the threat.
At its heart, this is not just a story of rivers or treaties. It is a story of survival. The ability to feed people, to sustain life, to uphold sovereignty—all hinge on securing and managing water. If nations treat rivers as extensions of their arsenals, then they will eventually force a region into confrontation not because of ideology or religion, but because of thirst. And thirst, unlike ideology, cannot be debated. It simply is. The international community, which has often championed climate diplomacy and cooperation, must not look away. What India is doing is not merely domestic water management—it is ecological brinkmanship with cross-border consequences. Pakistan must continue to raise the issue on global platforms, but the world, too, must speak with clarity. Denying water as a weapon of war should be as morally reprehensible as using chemical weapons or targeting civilians.
