“Did you gargle and just spit the water out? Preserve that bit of water too, if it’s not being consumed.”
That’s what people from Borichivari village believe in. It is among six stranded villages on the border of Gujarat and Maharashtra, which yearn for caressing. Google Maps could not do any better while locating this cluster of 99 houses, which fall under the Peth taluka of Nashik. While Bisleri bottles have become the norm elsewhere, the women in this village still have to walk for two kilometres to fetch water―from a well that doesn’t belong to them; it belongs to the neighbouring village of Kumbhale.
“Our village has three wells, but all of them dry up during January. After the video went viral, the panchayat hurriedly dumped two tankers of water at night into one of the wells,” says Bharti Gavit, a villager, while pulling a bucket from the well. She was referring to a video that went viral where women were seen climbing down the well. “The water got contaminated because of dead fish. Our whole day is spent thinking about how to get water,” she adds.
Every day, the journey to bring the sacred water hangs on the arms of women. Pots, barrels, buckets, and hordes of women from all the neighbouring villages jolt to fill an ounce more than others. Sadi Busaare, 62, tried to do the same, though a bit early—or what others jokingly say, “Nani thodi svaarthi ho gayi thi.” Many women used to sleep near the well earlier; that number went down. When Busaare went to quench her thirst at 12 AM, she slipped and broke her two teeth. Though the villagers often pinch each other and compete on what lengths others have gone to get water, the reality remains grave.
Paari Manbhav crouches by the edge of the pond in Mohachapada, the hem of her sari soaked in water. Her hands, which used to scrub clothes and carried the smell of soap, are now clenched in fear. The pond reflects the cracked sky above, as if mocking the other drought the village is going through. “No one wants to give their daughters to this village. Who will marry into thirst? But fortunately, my son is getting married. I am just afraid—what if?” asks Manbhav. The bride’s side was coming from Gujarat, baraatis dressed in silk and saffron, bringing with them songs, garlands and an entire mandap to finish what they started: a marriage ritual for their son. Manbhav has thought of it twice—once when her brother’s alliance was called off last year: no water, no wedding. Once, she caught her husband staring blankly at the dry handpump, whispering to no one, “Ye akhri umeed thi.”
“Akhri umeed” isn’t something this village has given up on. The entire village came together, each one bringing a single bucket of water—so that the guests could just lay a garland with dignity. “He’s not just her son, he’s the son of this soil,” someone whispered. The women of that household were given the day off, while the rest trudged through the steep terrain at 4 PM, over sharp rocks and slippery marshes to reach the distant well, each of them carried one extra pot—for Manbhav. This is an everyday routine, and girls are trained right from a young age.
“Mahamari mein bhi jaate hain… nahi jaayenge toh parivaar pyasa reh jaayega,” Savita Barda says softly, her voice a mix of shyness and surrender. “Thoda dard hota hai, par aur kya karein, bas shuru ke do din nahi jaate?”
This journey, this daily pilgrimage for water, doesn’t pause for fever, fatigue or fear. Every morning, before the sun begins to burn the earth, they step out; clutching their vessel like it is a part of her body. The path is familiar now, worn not just by footsteps, but by generations. The ache in her back, the swelling in her feet, the dizziness from skipped meals—none of it stops her. Because in this village, thirst is not an emergency. It’s a routine.
It’s not like no efforts have been made. Walls painted in blue and white of the Jal Jeevan Mission stand as hollow reminders. “The sarpanch and karmachari don’t even bother making excuses anymore. They simply say the funds aren’t being allocated,” say the villagers. Though the Jal Jeevan Mission started in 2019, it was implemented in this village only in 2023. But its presence faded almost as quickly as it appeared. The promise to supply tap water to every household became a distant dream.
All divisions of Maharashtra have reported dam water levels below 50 per cent: Konkan (44.37 per cent), Nagpur (37.55 per cent), Amravati (45.99 per cent), Marathwada (35.82 per cent), Nashik (40 per cent) and Pune—the lowest—at just 30 per cent. Cities across the state are now receiving water only once every 10 days or more. In Ausa (Latur), piped water is supplied once every 12 days; in Manmad (Nashik), once every 13 days; and even Pimpri-Chinchwad faces a six-day gap between supplies.
In areas under the Maharashtra Industrial Development Corporation (MIDC)—including Thane, Nashik, Pune, Kolhapur, Dhule, and Chhatrapati Sambhajinagar districts—residents receive water only twice a week.
Field data collected by the Water Supply Department and accessed by a news magazine reveals a worsening situation: In Nashik and Jalgaon districts, water is being supplied via tankers to 64 villages and 138 settlements (bastis). As of April 20, over 200 tankers have been deployed across Marathwada, with estimates suggesting that nearly 700 villages would need tanker supply by May 5. In the Konkan region, around 600 villages have already begun receiving water through tankers.
Mohan Kamdi, the sarpanch, has made little to no effort to address the crisis. The only semblance of relief is the tanker system that began 2-3 years ago. For Rs 60, one can get a 200-litre barrel of water—but most villagers can’t afford even that. As a result, many are forced to drop out of the queue and walk to wells in neighbouring villages. The pipeline has been dug three times, but each time the main source had no water. The first effort was led by local leader J. P. Gavit. The second attempt, two years ago, was undertaken by the Swadesh Foundation. The third was initiated by former sarpanch, Namdev Chaudhary.
“The sarpanch called us and said that nothing shown in the video was true,” Sadu Motiram Manbhav, 62, said. “How could he deny our reality—and that too in front of us? Who was he trying to convince?” He was speaking to the NGO representatives who had come to investigate in response to the viral social media video.
“Naar River flows on the border of Maharashtra. If a dam were constructed, things can be sorted. But no one is interested in the well-being of Adivasis,” Giridhar Manbhav, says a government teacher at Karanji. “The thing is, these people don’t know what their rights are and hence don’t revolt.”
The promise of dams has long become the casualty of time. Somnath Nakul, the vice-sarpanch of Kumbhale Grampanchayat, recalls that a survey for the construction of the Survehan Dam in Rajbari, Peth, was conducted nearly a decade ago. “But conceptualisation and execution are two different things,” he says.
On the ground, little has changed. The sarpanch stays distanced from the crisis, casually referring to it as ‘dharti ka dikkat’, as if blaming the land itself. But the issue is not with the earth; it’s with the neglect. The soil may crack and rust, but the skies do their part. This forest belt receives some of the heaviest rainfall in the region—enough to drown kachcha houses and flood pakka ones. Yet, the water is never harvested.
An initiative is now underway to address the deepening water crisis in Kumbhale. A zinc water tank is being installed to harvest rainwater—a small but hopeful intervention. “We had laid a pipeline earlier to monitor groundwater levels, but the water evaporates by March,” says Tushar Immamdar, an official from Swadesh Foundation. “Rainwater harvesting could be a viable alternative. The setup should take about six months to complete.”
“The major issue is that the village sits on a rocky terrain, which prevents water storage. A geologist accompanying us explained that the water table here cannot support any long-term solution. Therefore, an alternative approach to this crisis is not just necessary—it’s urgent,” says a senior director of Swadesh Foundation.
Such initiatives have yielded results in other Adivasi belts. Take the Hiware Bazar model in Ahmednagar district, for instance, where watershed management, combined with strong local leadership, turned a drought-stricken village into a water-secure one.
But in Kumbhale, the leadership is absent. It exists more as an outside force, trying to build on a space already cluttered with broken systems and apathy. What’s even more ironic is that under the Jal Jeevan Mission, Maharashtra was declared the top-performing state in water conservation in the first-ever Census of Water Bodies in 2023.
Ramu Dhodia stood outside the iron gate, his fingers tracing the rusted bars. His shirt clung to his thin frame, its fabric browned with dust. Behind him, the school stretched across a hectare of dry land, its building tired and sun-stained. The summer sun had done its job well, bleaching not just the graffiti on the walls, but the hope that once painted them. “Padhega India tabhi toh badhega India.” Inside, a sandy rectangle passed off as a playground. The single-storey building holds eight classrooms, all humming with heat. In the far-left corner, one room stood locked, the bold white letters on the door read: “Polling Booth.” A room that opens with a lot of promise. But Dhodia stood, puckered face: “My mother slipped at the well—what promise can you make now?”
After a woman tragically fell into a well last year, the administration responded with a promise—a Rs 8 crore plan under the Maharashtra Drinking Water Scheme to bring relief to the village. But hope dried up as quickly as the newly-dug well. There was no water, only silence. The project, like many before it, never moved forward. The Jal Jeevan Mission too stood on the brink of failure, nearly collapsing under the weight of the same drought. With wells turning into empty pits, the administration turned its gaze to a distant dam, deciding to lay a pipeline across kilometres of land.
But the villagers do not know whether to hope. “Maybe it will take another election to even make a fake promise,” Sadu Motiram Manbhav says as he rolled back on his khat to sleep. He has lost hope. “Life teaches you not to trust,” he yawns, while Dhodia sits beside him.
