As the climate crisis tightens its grip on South Asia, the Indus Waters Treaty (IWT) is increasingly showing its cracks. Signed in 1960 under World Bank supervision, the treaty carved up the Indus river system between India and Pakistan—allocating the three eastern rivers (Ravi, Beas, and Sutlej) to India, and the three western ones (Indus, Jhelum, and Chenab) to Pakistan. For decades, this agreement was held up as a model of hydro-diplomacy. But now, with India pushing for a treaty review while simultaneously suspending its cooperative obligations and Pakistan bearing the brunt of ecological fallout, it may be time to call out the farce for what it has become.
India has long been nudging Pakistan to sit down for a treaty revision, ostensibly to modernise water-sharing arrangements in line with current and future challenges. But instead of working through established channels, India has begun tearing up the treaty's spirit by unilaterally cutting off coordination and fast-tracking upstream infrastructure. At the same time, it continues to discharge four polluted drains—carrying heavy metals, untreated sewage, and industrial waste—into Pakistan through the very eastern rivers it was granted exclusive control over. This toxic inflow, largely falling into the Sutlej and Ravi, not only contaminates Pakistan’s water supply but seeps into its food chain, contributing to widespread environmental degradation and public health crises.
The sheer scale of ecological damage amounts to what many rightly call an ecocide—carried out under the legal cover of a half-century-old treaty that was never designed to cope with the toxic geopolitics and environmental emergencies of the 21st century. What began as a mechanism to avoid war has now evolved into a tool for transboundary neglect.
Pakistan, in the meantime, continues to stick with a treaty that has gradually eroded its water security. The country diverts over 90% of its freshwater to irrigation via canals, but more than 60% of that is lost in transit due to inefficient infrastructure, seepage, and evaporation. This inefficiency has not only robbed the Indus Delta of life—reducing its annual freshwater intake from 146 million acre-feet (MAF) to less than 8 MAF—but also disrupted the natural recharge of aquifers and floodplains. As a result, floodplains dry out, the desert expands, and the once-thriving delta ecosystem is now collapsing under saltwater intrusion, biodiversity loss, and agricultural decline.
The Indus, after all, belongs not just to governments or ministries, but to the millions who live along its banks, pray for its rains, and coax life from its soil
Moreover, the ecological imbalance has led to rural distress. Farmers, reliant on consistent water flows, are forced to cut back on cultivation or abandon lands altogether. As yields fall, food prices climb, malnutrition spreads, and joblessness grips agrarian regions. The canal-fed system, once seen as a lifeline, has turned into a slow-moving disaster. It has also locked Pakistan into a low-value, water-intensive crop cycle. Wheat, rice, sugarcane, and cotton dominate the fields—not because they’re ecologically viable, but because institutional inertia and subsidy regimes leave little room for diversification.
What makes the situation even more tragic is that the agriculture propped up by this system is failing to pay off. The majority of cash crops grown are of such poor quality that they are rejected by foreign buyers and end up dumped into the domestic market. While meant to boost foreign exchange reserves, these exports bring in little revenue. In many cases, the rejected produce finds its way back into local consumption, undermining public health. Meanwhile, the rivers are used as open drains for municipal, industrial, and agrochemical waste, further polluting the soil and the food chain. The promise of food security has been turned on its head—feeding people with contaminated produce while undermining the very ecological base that sustains farming.
India’s stance reveals a glaring contradiction: while it publicly advocates for renegotiation, it continues to act unilaterally and ignore the ecological and humanitarian fallout downstream. It’s talking up cooperation while tearing down trust. Given this duplicity, why should Pakistan hold on to a treaty that has long ceased to serve its interests or safeguard its environment?
India’s recent move to suspend the Indus Waters Treaty altogether—announced unilaterally and linked to a militant attack in Kashmir—marks a dangerous escalation. This decision not only politicises a shared ecological resource but also violates the treaty’s core principle of being apolitical and resilient during conflict. Pakistan, now preparing legal action at multiple international forums including the World Bank, the ICJ, and the UNSC, rightly views this act as a breach of international law and potentially the Vienna Convention. If India can walk away from its obligations under the treaty at will, what legitimacy does the framework have left?
Instead of clinging to an outdated document, Pakistan should step up and call for a complete overhaul—or even annulment—of the IWT. The argument isn’t just legal; it’s moral and environmental. Any future agreement must be grounded in shared river basin management, ecological preservation, and climate resilience. It must plug into regional cooperation frameworks that allow for data sharing, early disaster response, joint glacial monitoring, and smart irrigation technologies. Without such reorientation, both countries will continue to slide down a path of mutual destruction.
Imagine the possibilities if India and Pakistan collaborated instead of clashing. Together, they could roll out drought-resilient agriculture, invest in desalination and clean water tech, and set up early warning systems for floods and glacial melt. They could build up joint monitoring stations, exchange real-time hydrological data, and pool resources to adapt to shifting monsoons and melting Himalayan glaciers. Such cooperation could also pave the way for ecological restoration projects—reviving wetlands, stabilising riverbanks, and protecting biodiversity corridors that stretch across borders.
The Indus, after all, belongs not just to governments or ministries, but to the millions who live along its banks, pray for its rains, and coax life from its soil. It belongs to those who watch the skies in June, hoping for a good monsoon. To those who walk miles for clean water. To communities who have lived in harmony with the river for generations and now find themselves cut off from its flow.
The choice is clear: either we hold onto a broken treaty and watch our rivers—and futures—dry up, or we rewrite the rules before it’s too late. It’s time to stop brushing aside the crisis and start standing up for the river that feeds us all.