Whenever I see the people of Assam rebuilding after the floods and the Brahmaputra river swell, my thoughts return to the Betwa and the ruins of my childhood home in 1983.
Whenever the monsoon rains become relentless, my mind travels back to 1983. I was twenty-seven years old then, working as a Senior Resident in Orthopaedics at Safdarjung Hospital, New Delhi. My native village, Said Nagar Kotra in Jalaun district of Bundelkhand, lies about a kilometre from the Betwa River. The river was part of my childhood. I learnt swimming in it and watched its waters rise. Drinking water was sometimes brought from the river in large drums on a bullock cart. During monsoon, we watched the water rise, returning repeatedly to see how rapidly it was increasing. We had seen floods before, but nothing prepared us for 1983.
I was not in my village when the flood struck. Communication was extremely limited; there were no mobile phones, internet or reliable telephones. I received news of the devastating flood. I could only wait. Nearly two weeks later, I reached my village. What I saw was almost unimaginable. Our double-storeyed mud house had collapsed and become a heap of mud. Much of the village suffered similar destruction. Crops were destroyed, grain stored for the entire year was lost and livestock were affected. People shared whatever little space remained, often living alongside their cattle. For my parents, the loss was painful; they had spent years building their home. It took nearly twenty years to rebuild, eventually replacing the mud structure with an RCC house.
That experience taught me something I have never forgotten: the poor suffer disproportionately from disasters. For a family with limited resources, losing a house, crops and livestock can erase decades of effort and push it deeper into poverty. That is why the floods in Assam during July 2026 have affected me personally. When I see submerged houses, displaced families and frightened children, I do not see strangers. I see memories of my own village. I know the difference between watching a flood and standing before the ruins of home.
Floods are not only environmental disasters; they are major public health emergencies. After the water recedes, contaminated drinking water and poor sanitation can lead to diarrhoeal diseases, typhoid, hepatitis and other infections. Stagnant water increases the risk of mosquito-borne diseases. Healthcare services may also be disrupted. Losing one's home also means losing security, privacy, possessions and memories; such wounds may remain long after the water disappears.
During the last year, I have travelled across almost the entire North-East, except Manipur and Sikkim. These journeys have shown me the region's extraordinary beauty and geological fragility. We often imagine mountains as solid rock, but much of the young Himalayan system consists of soil, gravel and weathered, relatively loose material. Heavy rainfall can erode such slopes. When roads and infrastructure are constructed by cutting deeply into mountains, particularly where slopes are left almost perpendicular, natural stability can be disturbed.
The consequences do not stop on the mountains. Soil, rocks and debris carried downhill eventually enter streams and rivers. The Brahmaputra is among the world's most sediment-laden major rivers, second only to China's Yellow River in sediment transported per unit drainage area. During the monsoon, its sediment discharge at Pandu in Assam has been estimated at about two million metric tonnes per day. As velocity decreases across the plains, sediment is deposited, altering channels and reducing space for floodwater. This enormous sediment load helps explain the Brahmaputra's constantly changing character.
A river needs room. If an area was part of a river's natural course decades or even a century ago, we should not assume that it can never return there. Rivers naturally change their paths. Water follows the path of least resistance. When we narrow a river's channel or occupy its floodplain through encroachment, the consequences may eventually be felt elsewhere. If the riverbed becomes narrower or shallower because of encroachment and sediment deposition, excess water has fewer places to go. Local encroachment can eventually create problems elsewhere.
This lesson applies across Assam and the Himalayan and North-Eastern states. Roads, bridges, hospitals, schools and industries are essential, but development must respect geography and ecology. Before construction, we must understand river history, land stability, drainage and ecological carrying capacity. Traditional communities have often understood this better than we do. In flood-prone areas of Assam, houses have traditionally been built on raised platforms or stilts, reflecting generations of experience. Yet even these adaptations can fail in extreme floods.
Climate change adds another dimension. Short-duration extreme rainfall can magnify floods and landslides. But climate change should not excuse poor planning, deforestation, hill cutting, drainage obstruction and encroachment. We may not prevent every flood, but we can reduce its cost through scientific planning, early warnings, protected wetlands and floodplains, resilient healthcare, safe water, emergency services and responsible infrastructure.
Whenever I see the people of Assam rebuilding after the floods, my thoughts return to the Betwa and the ruins of my childhood home in 1983. I remember my parents rebuilding their lives with courage. Floodwaters recede, roads are rebuilt and fields become green, but the memory remains. For me, the Betwa of 1983 and the Brahmaputra of 2026 are separated by forty-three years, but the human story is remarkably similar. The rivers, geography and generations are different—but the pain of losing a home remains the same.
That is why I do not merely sympathise with the people affected by the Assam floods. I empathise with them. My journey from the Betwa to the Brahmaputra has taught me that floods may be inevitable, but the scale of human suffering need not be. With scientific planning, ecological wisdom, responsible development and compassionate governance, we can learn to live with our rivers rather than fight against them.
Prof. Dr. B. K. S. Sanjay
Padma Shri Awardee; President, AIIMS Guwahati; Guinness World Record holder; Orthopaedic and Spine Surgeon