Blood and Water: The Indus River Basin in Modern History

Blood and Water

The publisher gratefully acknowledges the generous support of the Asian Studies Endowment Fund of the University of California Press Foundation.

Blood and Water

The Indus River Basin in Modern History

David Gilmartin

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA PRESS

University of California Press, one of the most distinguished university presses in the United States, enriches lives around the world by advancing scholarship in the humanities, social sciences, and natural sciences. Its activities are supported by the UC Press Foundation and by philanthropic contributions from individuals and institutions. For more information, visit www.ucpress.edu.

University of California Press

Oakland, California

© 2015 by The Regents of the University of California

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

    Gilmartin, David, 1949– author.

    Blood and water : the Indus River Basin in modern history / David Gilmartin.

        pages cm

    Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 978-0-520-28529-3 (cloth)

ISBN 978-0-520-96083-1 (ebook)

    1. Irrigation—Indus River Valley—History.    2. Irrigation—Political aspects—Indus River Valley.    3. Agriculture and state—Indus River Valley.    4. Indus River Region—History.    5. Indus River Valley—Environmental conditions.    I. Title.

    HD1741.I42I534    2015

    333.91’62095491—dc23

2014047155

Manufactured in the United States of America

24  23  22  21  20  19  18  17  16  15

10  9  8  7  6  5  4  3  2  1

In keeping with a commitment to support environmentally responsible and sustainable printing practices, UC Press has printed this book on Natures Natural, a fiber that contains 30% post-consumer waste and meets the minimum requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48–1992 (R 1997) (Permanence of Paper).

For Sandy

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Maps

1 INTRODUCTION: COMMUNITY AND ENVIRONMENT

Debating the Politics of Nature’s Transformation

The Setting: The Indus Basin

2 IRRIGATION AND THE BALOCH FRONTIER

Water, Pastoralism, and Baloch Identity

British Irrigation and the Myth of the Baloch Frontier

Empire, Irrigation, and Tribal Identity

3 COMMUNITY ON THE WASTE: THE VILLAGE AND THE COLONIAL PROPERTY ORDER

Property, Individual, and Community

Community on the Waste: Commons, Aridity, Pastoralism

A Local Habitation and a Name: Territory and Taxation

4 STATUTE AND CUSTOM IN WATER LAW

Statute and Individual Productivity

The Dilemmas of Custom in Water Management

Water Lords

5 SCIENCE, THE STATE, AND THE ENVIRONMENT

Engineers and Water Control

Wastelands, Canals, and State Power

Visions of Environment/Visions of Community

6 THE RIVER BASIN AND PARTITION

A System of Many Parts

Nationalism, Water, and the Partition of the Indus Basin

7 THE INDUS WATERS TREATY AND ITS AFTERLIVES

The River Basin Idea and Provincial Politics

Statecraft and Local Community in an Evolving System

Notes

Bibliography

Index

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Adequately acknowledging the help that I have received on this project is an impossible task. Scholarship is inherently an interactive enterprise, with ideas shaped in innumerable conversations (both in person and in print). But beyond that, it is particularly difficult because this is a book with a long history and multiple lives. A good part of the research was done many years back (and appeared in a number of published articles). Then I set the project aside while pursuing other avenues of research. In the past several years I have returned to the project, adding parts to it, bringing the research up to date, and reformulating it into (I hope) a coherent book. But having presented differing aspects of the work in different forms at many scholarly workshops and conferences, and having gotten significant feedback from scholars and friends at many stages, it is difficult to give anywhere near adequate acknowledgment to the many people who have helped me along the way.

I have received critical support for the research and writing of this book from a number of granting agencies. Support for research in India and Pakistan, respectively, has been supported by the American Institute of Indian Studies and by Fulbright. The American Institute for Pakistan Studies has helped to fund my return to Pakistan to present work at conferences and workshops there. While writing the book, I have been fortunate to have fellowships from the National Endowment for the Humanities, the Woodrow Wilson Center, the National Humanities Center, and the Stanford Humanities Center.

I want particularly to thank the staffs of the various archives in which I conducted research, in Pakistan (Punjab Archives, Punjab Board of Revenue Record Room, and Punjab Public Works Secretariat, Irrigation Branch, Record Room in Lahore) and in India (National Archives, Delhi and Maharashtra State Archives, Mumbai, for material on Sind). I am very grateful to the staff of the India Office Library and Records at the British Library in London. I also want to thank the many people in India and Pakistan who gave me extraordinary hospitality and assistance while conducting the research, particularly Hur Gardezi during the earlier part of this research, and Humeira Iqtidar and her family during a series of more recent visits to Lahore. I also want to give special thanks to M.H. Siddiqui at the Punjab Irrigation Department for taking the time, near the beginning of this project, to help me understand a variety of critical and complex aspects of irrigation engineering in the region. This was vital in helping me to understand much that was in the colonial records on earlier irrigation development in Punjab.

Many people have read parts of the manuscript at varying stages and in varying forms and have given me critical advice and direction, sometimes in conversation or comments at panels and conferences, and sometimes through written comments. I have received valued support over the years from colleagues in the History Department at North Carolina State University, most particularly Jonathan Ocko, Matthew Booker, Lauren Minsky, Will Kimler, Mimi Kim, Ross Bassett, and John David Smith. Colleagues in the Triangle South Asia Consortium have also provided valuable support and comments; among these, Tony Stewart, Anna Bigelow, Robert Moog, Matt Cook, Matt Hull, Iqbal Sevea, and Richard Fox deserve special mention. Special thanks go to the late John Richards and to Sumathi Ramaswamy, both for feedback on particular parts of this project and for fostering a stimulating climate of intellectual collaboration. Many others have given me comments or inspiration with respect to various parts of the project over its long trajectory, both at conferences and individually: Emily Hodges, Jim Wescoat, Daanish Mustafa, Pamela Price, Rob Nichols, Amita Baviskar, Brian Spooner, Shelley Feldman, Farina Mir, Mubbashir Rizvi, Asif Kamran, Maira Hayat, John Briscoe, Humeira Iqtidar, Michael Adas, Stig Toft Madsen, Dane Kennedy, Chetan Singh, Ram Guha, Naveeda Khan, Brian Caton, Daniel Haines, Venkat Dhulipala, Kamran Ali Asdar, Will Glover, Ron Herring, Michelle Maskiell, Prem Chowdhry, Barbara Metcalf, Tom Metcalf, and my brother, Steven Gilmartin. I am sure there are others I have left out. A special thanks goes to David Ludden and K. Shivaramakrishnan, who read over the final manuscript in its entirety and made comments and suggestions. Although I have not been able to follow all of their suggestions, their comments were extraordinarily detailed and generous.

At the University of California Press, Kate Marshall and Stacy Eisenstark have made the publishing process a pleasure. I especially want to thank Lynne Withey, retired director of the press, for conversation and friendship over many years—and for long-term support of the project even though it took years past her retirement to see completion. I also want to thank Bill Nelson for preparing the maps and Julia Zafferano for excellent copyediting.

Lastly, I want to thank Sandy Freitag for reading and commenting on innumerable drafts over the years, well beyond the call of duty. To her the book is dedicated.

MAP 1. The Indus basin watershed.

MAP 2. Upper Sind, Bahawalpur, and the Derajat.

MAP 3. Canals of Dera Ghazi Khan, ca. 1875.

MAP 4. The districts of British Punjab, ca. 1880.

MAP 5. The Hajiwah grant (with internal mauzas shown).

MAP 6. Major Tiwana canals, ca. 1900.

MAP 7. Perennial canal system in the late colonial period, ca. 1947.

MAP 8. Partition and its aftermath in central Punjab.

MAP 9. Major new dams, barrages, and links ca. 1960–1990.

1

Introduction

Community and Environment

Changes in structures for controlling water transformed the Indus basin in the century and a half from 1850 to 2000. A largely arid region with a historical mix of varying forms of agricultural and pastoral production, the Indus basin became, by the second half of the twentieth century, one of the globe’s most heavily irrigated river basins. At the time of the British departure in 1947, there were some twenty-six million acres of irrigated land within the Indus basin, which encompassed by then the largest integrated, state-controlled irrigation system in the world—and one that had made the region one of the most agriculturally productive in India.¹ Divided between India and Pakistan by the subcontinent’s partition, the Indus basin’s irrigation expansion nevertheless continued apace after 1947—on both sides of the border. The Indus basin today supports a dense agricultural population whose size would be unthinkable without the transformations that extensive irrigation wrought.

The story of irrigation in the Indus basin is one of modern history’s great stories of large-scale environmental transformation, but it is also a story of changing relationships between Indus basin society and the state. A large-scale environmental history of the Indus basin has yet to be written. If it were, it would focus on many of the critical processes that have transformed South Asia more generally. An environmental narrative of the Indus basin would of necessity incorporate long-term interactions among pastoralism, migration, agriculture, and trade. It would lay out changes in patterns of land use as agriculture expanded (and sometimes contracted) in response to technological and political changes, focusing on the dramatic expansion in the production of commercialized cash crops (particularly wheat, cotton, and rice) that came in the twentieth century. Yet it would also offer something more. It would detail how the very process of environmental transformation was linked with changes in the imagining of the human communities—defined by relationships to nature—that bound visions of state power and the people of the Indus basin together.

The relationship between changing natural environments and changing structures of community lies at the heart of this book. As the British colonial state transformed the landscape of the Indus basin, it also redefined its claims to legitimacy through its reformulation of communities defined in relationship to nature. On one level, the construction of massive new physical works underscored the state’s new claims to legitimacy, framed by its role as the mediator of an imagined community of producers dependent on new, scientific technologies of water control. But, on another level, the state also molded and manipulated forms of indigenous community whose relationships to nature had long shaped forms of community organization and imagining. These included not only communities of production but also communities of blood, newly reordered through programs of large-scale settlement and of property delimitation. Blood and water came to be intimately linked, and in ways that were to have a profound impact on the state’s relationship to Indus basin society. The story of the transformation of the environment is also the story of the transformation of community and of the forms of state legitimacy with which this was intimately connected.

DEBATING THE POLITICS OF NATURE’S TRANSFORMATION

As the framework for a story of modern agricultural expansion, the Indus basin’s history has long been the subject of historical attention. With the region the most important focus for state investment in irrigation in British India, the degree to which the expansion of irrigation laid the groundwork for capitalist transformation—particularly in the Punjab—has been a staple of historical debates, and one that has often focused on the impact of colonial policies in either facilitating or retarding this process.² But the history of the state’s relationship to nature and production is important for more than the history of capitalism. Environmental history provides a critical ground for exploring the relationship between community, environment, and the structuring of legitimate political authority on a much deeper level.

The close connection between irrigation projects and state legitimacy was never far from the surface in British thinking as they undertook the major projects of environmental transformation that changed the Indus basin. This was captured nowhere more clearly than in a review of colonial irrigation undertaken for the British Council by Gerald Lacey, one of the most eminent twentieth-century British Indian water engineers, shortly after partition. Lacey, though hardly oblivious to the problems associated with British irrigation, detailed the vast transformations in land use that had irrevocably changed the Indus basin by the time of the British departure in 1947. This was a story told in part through the numbers of new works constructed by the British and the millions of acres brought under canal command. But when irrigation is conducted on so vast a scale and works of such magnitude are involved, he wrote, the mere repetition of figures and statistics falls on a dulled imagination.³ Rather, the deeper significance of British irrigation lay in its links to the larger modern epic (as Sir Douglas Harris put it in his foreword to Lacey’s account)⁴ of man’s conquest of nature for productive human advantage. With scientific knowledge of nature serving as a touchstone for the legitimacy of rule, this was a story that transcended the bounds of colonialism and, as Lacey saw it, ultimately encompassed both colonial and national forms of rule. It was a saga brought to fruition in the Indus basin by generations of engineers, British and Indian alike. The Indian Service of engineers in which the British and their Indian colleagues laboured for so many years has passed away, Lacey wrote, but, in independent South Asia, the tradition remains and is a living force, continuing to shape the ongoing expansion of Indus basin irrigation in India and Pakistan.⁵ The irrigation works of India and Pakistan, down to the smallest distributary channel, and the loneliest canal ‘inspection-house,’ must always remain, Lacey declared—evoking a modern archetype of nationalist sacrifice, but linked here to the disinterested profession of scientific control over nature—a monument to the unknown engineer.⁶

This image of irrigation patronage as a selfless and beneficent gift to the people was, for all its modern, scientific (and propaganda) emphases, one with well-established links to notions of ruling legitimacy in precolonial India.⁷ Cultural assumptions about the legitimizing significance of water control can be seen in the many indigenous, colonial-era ballads celebrating the exploits of British water engineers and casting them as water patrons, much in the mold of earlier rulers. Anand Pandian has thus described the persisting, heroic image of one colonial engineer, the man responsible for the Periyar dam in South India. Large-scale irrigation patronage found deep resonance in popular thinking, he notes, and was associated with the sympathetic delivery of nature’s bounty to the people.⁸ Similar attitudes emerge in the Indus basin (whatever the regional differences in their cultural framing), as evidenced by Punjabi praise poems to nineteenth-century colonial irrigation builders and entrepreneurs, such as Popham Young, the administrator most associated with the settling of the Punjab canal colonies,⁹ or Captain L.J.H. Grey, who personally supervised the construction of a network of canals in the Punjab’s Ferozepore district in the 1870s. Grey was terrible to look at like a king, a balladeer wrote in praise, but he performed all his works by kindness to the people. With a formerly dry country watered, he was, the poet proclaimed, like a hundred Alexanders.¹⁰

But if such works showed beneficence, they also reveal irrigation patronage as an act of power, bound up with all the moral ambiguities that the direct exercise of state power over nature inherently involved. The flip side of a vision of beneficent rule rooted in irrigation patronage was thus a vision of water control as a source of the most potentially oppressive authority. If men like Grey were praised for bringing arid lands under productive command, they were also the focus of deep controversy and complaint both from other colonial officials and from the local people.¹¹ The operation of large-scale water control as a form of potentially overbearing state power was the subject of intense debate in the mid-twentieth century, extending well beyond the Indus basin. The relationship of water control (and, more broadly, of state-directed control over nature) to the dangerous authoritarian tendencies of the modern state was argued forcefully by Karl Wittfogel in the 1950s. The historical roots of modern despotisms in state-managed irrigation works lay at the root of Wittfogel’s focus on what he came to call oriental despotisms. Reliance on large-scale water works removed power from local hands and vested it in the hands of authoritarian managers, who controlled the knowledge, the powers of labor mobilization, and the military means to protect these works. Such concentrations of power in turn led to hierarchical class divisions and to the ideological structures needed to legitimize such authority. Although Wittfogel’s arguments drew heavily on ancient examples, they were intended primarily as a critique of authoritarian state power in his own day and its relationship to the forms of power that water control in arid environments—and scientific control over nature—seemed to legitimize.¹²

As a guide to the actual operation of large-scale irrigation systems, Wittfogel’s arguments have proved generally unhelpful.¹³ But in directing attention to the moral ambiguities inherent in state control over irrigation, they have exerted an important influence over the debates modern irrigation has engendered. As Erik P. Eckholm noted in the 1970s, in a work inspired by the 1972 U.N. sponsored Stockholm Conference on the environment, the great irrigation works of modern times had come to dramatize the dangers inherent in efforts to expand large-scale control over nature without sufficient attention to the ecological requisites of nature itself.¹⁴ In the 1990s, Sandra Postel underscored these moral ambiguities in her discussion of the irrigation miracle of the twentieth century, a world-wide phenomenon in which the Indus basin’s transformation played an exemplary early role.¹⁵ The twentieth-century explosion of irrigation transformed world agriculture on an unprecedented scale, she writes, promising a plenty of agricultural production previously unimagined. But it also entailed a vast Faustian bargain with nature, in which state power—and the hubris of state knowledge—was deeply morally implicated. In return for transforming deserts into fertile fields and redirecting rivers to suit human needs, Postel suggests, nature has written its own counter-narrative, exacting [its] price in myriad forms,¹⁶ a price paid by the people who have borne the brunt of ongoing environmental deterioration.¹⁷ Perhaps the most explicit linking of a critique of large-scale irrigation with a moral critique of the modern state is found in the work of the American environmental historian Donald Worster on the western United States. Wittfogel’s central question, as Worster restates it, was How, in the remaking of nature, do we remake ourselves? Worster’s answer followed the critique Wittfogel laid out, though he linked the rise of authoritarian control over nature not to oriental despotism but to modern capitalism itself. Modern large-scale irrigation works, in which the state has become a tool of the capitalist and instrumental desire to dominate nature, were, in Worster’s argument, fundamentally inimical to freedom. Democracy cannot survive, he wrote, where technical expertise, accumulated capital, or their combination is allowed to take command.¹⁸ Large-scale control over nature could, in such a view, only have a corrupting effect on the morality (and reciprocity) of power itself.

Such environmental critiques have, of course, come to be inflected in distinctive ways in the South Asian context—and with respect to the Indus basin—by the history of colonialism, and the forms of statecraft and community organization it encouraged.¹⁹ Indeed, while debates on the costs and benefits of large-scale irrigation in the Indian subcontinent have in some ways tracked debates about the environmental history of water control elsewhere,²⁰ the political implications of India’s irrigation development have come to be grounded in distinctive analyses of the nature of colonial rule as a political system. Such questions have taken on particular force in South Asian history precisely because large-scale projects of control over nature—such as the transformation of the Indus basin—have become touchstones for assessing the relationship between the colonial past and the new, national—and democratic—identities that succeeded, as Lacey’s comments on the transition from colonial to national rule in 1947 suggested. The critique of large-scale irrigation has thus been linked for many in the South Asian context to a search for indigenous, small-scale models of adaptation to nature as an alternative genealogy for national identity, independent of the grand epic of large-scale scientific control of nature that in the Indus basin seemingly legitimized the colonial state—and whose legitimizing mantle was bequeathed to the developmental states that succeeded it.

It is in this context that much has been written on local, community-based irrigation works, on the local knowledge these entail, and on the ways in which they have declined under the onslaught of state-based irrigation works.²¹ Narratives of environmental decline—in the face of capitalism, expert knowledge, and the hubris of the modern state—though at one time a staple of environmental narratives more generally, have taken on their own distinctive valences in South Asia not only as a critique of post-colonial governmentality²² but also as a plea for more attention to be paid to South Asia’s local, seemingly more authentic traditions of environmental adaptation. In the works of more polemical writers, such as Vandana Shiva, this narrative of decline in the face of large-scale state action has embodied the call for a more communitarian (and feminist) national ethos.²³ But even for more mainstream environmental historians, such as Madhav Gadgil and Ramachandra Guha,²⁴ this narrative of environmental decline in the face of state-based technicalism offers an alternative to the grand epic of state-based science, thus suggesting the possibility of an alternative environmental morality with perhaps more democratic and participatory potential—and a less evident colonial genealogy. Indeed, such ideas exerted widespread influence in both India and Pakistan in the years after 1980 in calls for more participatory, grassroots developmental initiatives across a range of settings.²⁵

Yet such highly moral uses of environmental history have also provoked their own reactions. As many historians (and historically minded anthropologists) have pointed out, such environmental narratives of decline can easily romanticize small-scale irrigation, ignoring the power relations that have shaped water control on all levels and at all times, long before the great projects of the colonial era. Many recent works have thus challenged the underlying assumptions in such narratives in fundamental ways. As David Mosse has shown in his careful study of tank irrigation in South India, neither the state nor the local community can be easily understood as bounded, alternative entities in the morally charged ways that more populist environmental narratives have tended to present them. Mosse’s work explores with great sophistication the history of water control as a facet of statecraft in the broadest sense, involving multiple players on many levels, linked historically to shifting structures of power, governance, and legitimating ideology.²⁶ From such a perspective, the dichotomy of state versus local community largely dissolves—and can be seen to be as problematic as the simple dichotomy between the indigenous and the colonial as a framework for understanding different forms of management. The rejection of such dichotomies—and of the fixed boundaries of analysis they enable—has thus proved central in undermining both triumphalist narratives of colonial progress and the romanticized counter-narratives of autonomous, authentic, community-based irrigation development that arose in their place.²⁷

But as Mosse’s work also suggests, the conceptual juxtaposition of opposing images of large-scale, bureaucratized irrigation, on the one hand, and small-scale irrigation adapted to local community, on the other, has its own intellectual history, rooted in 150 years of state making in South Asia since the mid-nineteenth century.²⁸ The way these images were juxtaposed was itself a product of the structure of colonial thinking. To understand the larger political dynamics of the Indus basin’s transformation, it is thus critical to begin with a historical examination of the roots of these dichotomies themselves. Indeed, it is the argument here that, if the history of statecraft is central to the history of irrigation, then the intellectual history of the relationship between state and community (and the environment) as concepts must be at the heart of the history of nature’s transformation under the colonial regime, for only in this context can we trace the intertwined history in the Indus basin of irrigation and modern forms of statecraft. However inadequate intellectual history may be as a framework for fully understanding the history of irrigation in all its myriad local details, the conceptual history of terms like community and environment is central to linking the large story of the Indus basin’s dramatic transformation under colonial rule in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries to the great redefinitions of state power—and its morality—that have marked the modern era. Indeed, to analyze the historical saga of Indus basin irrigation, it is necessary, I would argue, to begin with the concept of community itself—and the ways that its meanings were fundamentally intertwined both with the history of the state and with changing ideas about nature.

Indus Basin Irrigation and the Concept of Community

The relationship between community and water control can, of course, be examined on multiple levels, as the term community has multiple meanings. In its most common usage, community in matters of water control is often used to refer to the collective interests and actions of local irrigators in contradistinction to the dictates of bureaucratic or state-level water control. But to embed the environmental transformation of the Indus basin in its political context, it is critical to take a larger view of community and to ground its meanings in the nineteenth-century debates in Britain about social order and the role of man’s relationship to nature more broadly. Community was not just a local thing but a concept central to modern reformulations of the legitimacy of power on a broad scale.

As Raymond Williams notes in his classic, Keywords, community in its modern usage (and in its relation to modern statecraft) was a concept grounded in the nineteenth century in the uncertainties of a European social order undergoing rapid economic and social change.²⁹ For a range of late nineteenth-century social theorists, the concept of community was deeply intertwined with the search for a stabilizing sense of belonging—often through relationships to nature—in the face of the loss, alienation, and atomization associated with capitalism and modernity (a concern, of course, still reflected in the narratives of loss surrounding many accounts of traditional irrigation today).³⁰

However—and this is necessary to understanding the story of the Indus basin—the linking of community to nature took at least two broad, contrasting forms, suggesting antithetical conceptions of how man’s relationships to nature generated such a stabilizing sense of common community and belonging. Two oppositional visions of man’s relationship to nature, both deeply rooted in the broad currents of late nineteenth-century intellectual history, were central to colonial definitions of community in the Indus basin—and to community’s role in the stabilization of the state’s authority during the region’s great environmental transformations.

The first vision of community was one predicated on the autonomous actions of man on nature, with man conceptualized as a rational actor standing apart from nature and turning it to his productive benefit. This was a vision lying at the heart of the worldview of many nineteenth-century engineers, and it was central to the eventual emergence of technical development. Yet it was a vision also imbued with the imagination of a common community of producers—a community rooted in the common need of all producers to adapt to nature’s unifying laws. The shared requirements of wresting production from nature forged, in other words, a utilitarian, public community of rationalizing individuals transcending self-interested competition.

This conception of community was perhaps articulated most clearly in the high colonial period by William Willcocks, one of the most influential late nineteenth-century British Indian water engineers; he was trained in India but spent much of his career in Egypt. If the story of modern irrigation was an epic in the sense discussed earlier, then for Willcocks this was precisely because it created a sense of common community that, even amid the conflicts of capitalist modernity, was dictated ultimately by nature’s overarching laws. This was, for Willcocks, a form of community as old as civilization itself. When hundreds and thousands of families had at first to learn the laws of nature, then apply them, and then live in accord with one another, in order to ensure the irrigation and drainage of their individual holdings, Willcocks wrote, true civilization took its birth.³¹ Such a vision of civilization—rooted in the productive control of nature—had gained all the more importance in modern times. Whatever men’s varying interests, nature’s laws dictated, as Willcocks put it, that men work in accord with each other, . . . respect each other’s rights, . . . combine together, and finally . . . exercise their intelligence to the full.³² Here the autonomy of nature’s energy—to which men, as active, economic agents (and as rationalizing actors) were forced by the basic requirements of modern production to collectively respond—shaped the idea of a community defined by a commonality of rational action upon nature.

Yet, if the unity of nature’s laws themselves called into existence a powerful imagined community of producers, this was also a conception of community with its own, potentially divisive, internal tensions. On one level, with knowledge of nature’s autonomous—and unifying—processes at its center, this was a vision that self-consciously transcended the potential internal tensions associated with the differing claims of land, labor, and capital—and individual interest. But, on another level, with the common discipline of nature’s laws at its root, it was also a vision that gave pride of place to those with the greatest control of technical, scientific knowledge. As we have seen, in the eyes of some critics such as Wittfogel (and his later followers), such a vision was less a recipe for large-scale community than for an authoritarianism of expertise backed by the state, a vision easily juxtaposed against the seemingly more organic community of the localities. Yet the key to Willcocks’s vision lay not in the juxtaposition of bureaucratic expertise against local knowledge or local community but in the incorporation of all those whose engagement with production was regulated by the rational, productive exploitation of nature, on whatever level of scale, into an overarching utilitarian public (a usage of public captured in the nineteenth-century development of the concept of public works). The river basin, imagined as a natural unit—and one conceptually prior to the marketplace—thus represented a particularly clear frame for the incorporation of communities on multiple levels of scale into a natural whole.³³ Indeed, in this context, the river basin came to be imagined, as Richard White has put it, as an organic machine of many interlocking parts, shaped both by nature and by a rationalizing, overarching human community generated by the common needs of production (or work, as White puts it) on all levels.³⁴

But this was a vision of community juxtaposed in the late nineteenth century against a second, powerful form of community that was projected as quite contrary to this one—that is, as the antithesis of productive instrumentality. In this view, the search for stabilizing forms of community in the face of the potentially disordering power of capitalism required that men turn to bonds generated entirely outside the realm of processes of production, because—contra engineers like Willcocks—only there could men generate a sense of belonging transcending the peculiarly powerful, and atomizing, stresses that modern production and environmental change generated. This alternative vision of community—generated not by man’s rational, productive action upon nature but rather by the reverse, nature’s nonproductive impact upon man—also gained an increasingly important place in late nineteenth-century social theorizing. Indeed, in some ways the imagining of a community defined by man’s rationalizing capacities as a producer (standing apart from nature) authorized (even, perhaps, required) the imagining of an alternative type of community rooted in the opposing impulses of human nature—impulses dictated to man by nature. In such a framing, community arose in part from the commonalities of sympathy, awe, and worship generated by nature’s powerful emotional and aesthetic influence on man’s internal, affective nature; it arose in part from the ties of heredity and race that defined the individual as an intrinsically biological, racialized, and gendered being; and it arose in part from the reification of a language of kinship, or blood, derived from the assumed primacy of the family (or, in the colonial context, of the lineage and tribe) as natural units.³⁵ These forms of community represented not simply local alternatives to larger communities of production but also alternative conceptions of the meaning of community. They could operate, like communities of production, on multiple levels of scale, ranging from the family, to the clan, to the race, to the nation. But, perhaps most critically, they were seen by many nineteenth-century thinkers as antidotes to the political dangers of a world defined simply by productive instrumentalism.

The juxtaposition of these opposing community forms profoundly shaped colonial statecraft during the time of the Indus basin’s transformation. The colonial world was a prime site for projects of capitalist action and exploitation, a central venue for action in controlling nature, as the history of the Indus basin illustrates. Comments by engineers such as Lacey and Willcocks suggest clearly the importance of a model of community linked to transformative action upon nature (we might even say scientific mission) as a legitimizing foundation for the colonial state as a modern institution. The Indus basin’s transformation was, in this sense, only the most spectacular of many such examples of action upon nature in the colonial world. But this was commonly juxtaposed in colonial statecraft against an alternative, politically stabilizing vision of community with antithetical roots. Colonized countries like India were widely projected in colonial writing as lands where nature’s influence upon the ordering of community and society was deep-seated and widespread—and where nature acted upon man far more than the reverse.³⁶ A vision of India as the land of natural communities—observable in a form pre-dating (and therefore in their origins entirely distinct from) capitalist development—thus provided a compelling countervailing image that most nineteenth-century colonial administrators projected as critical to social order in India (and, indeed, in most Asian and African colonial contexts), even as they also saw their rule in the subcontinent as bringing India under the sway of the laws of modern political economy.

The developing intellectual framework for this juxtaposition in India in the late nineteenth century can perhaps be most clearly seen in the thinking of Sir Henry Maine, who served as the legal member on the Viceroy’s Council in the 1860s.³⁷ It was Maine who first laid out the vision of evolutionary progress from communities defined by status to those defined by contract. For him, communities based on contract, rooted in an abstracted vision of a rational man, provided the bedrock for rationalized visions of human community. Indeed, Maine himself played a critical role in embedding this vision of community in the provisions of the most important statute that came to govern colonial Indus basin irrigation projects in the late nineteenth century, the 1873 Canal Act (described in chapter 4), in whose drafting he had an important hand. But Maine was also deeply impressed while he was in India with the social importance of the distinctive, and countervailing, forms of natural community (or community shaped by nature’s actions upon man) that he observed there. There can be no question of the scientific propriety of [political economy’s] method, or of the greatness of some of its practical achievements, he wrote. Yet only its [political economy’s] bigots assert that the motives of which it takes account are the only important human motives, or that whether they are good or bad, they are not seriously impeded in their operation by counteracting forces.³⁸ The power of such counteracting forces, particularly as they were manifested in natural, kinship-based communities, was a central lesson that Maine took from India. Indeed, Maine saw India as a window on Europe’s own, precapitalist past and thus as a guide to how such status-based communities had historically developed and evolved. But, for Maine, a vision of historical evolution (or progress) did not simply consign such communities to the past; it also provided a frame for hierarchizing them as they were juxtaposed with productive communities in the present.³⁹ Even as they were ranked in an evolutionary hierarchy, both forms of community were projected as critical to the modern colonial state.

This perspective is also significant in understanding how the concept of environment came to play an important role in colonial statecraft. The term environment (in the sense of a natural environment) was only in process of emerging in its modern usage in the late nineteenth century, and its direct usage in the Indus basin was quite limited until well into the twentieth century. But the concept of a natural environment is nevertheless relevant to the Indus basin’s story precisely because its emergence was closely intertwined with the rise of these two antithetical, yet interacting, concepts of community in British thinking: one a product of nature acting upon man, the other of man acting upon nature. Indeed, the critical significance of environment as an evolving concept lay in its giving these forms of community an increasingly spatialized framing in the late nineteenth century, a framing critical to the territorialized development of colonial administration more broadly—and one within which different forms of community could be structurally brought together.⁴⁰

The larger evolution of the term environment as a frame for spatialized visions of nature is complex and well beyond our treatment of the Indus basin here. That there was an important colonial backdrop to this evolution has been argued persuasively by Richard Grove, who traces the history of environment as a spatial concept to colonial writings about the interactions between people and nature within the distinctive contexts provided by bounded colonial islands.⁴¹ But it was the larger development of Darwinian thinking in late nineteenth-century Europe that first pushed the term toward its distinctive modern usage, critically linking the spatialization of nature to the spatialization of community. The mutually defining character of the terms environment and community can be seen, for example, in the emerging, late nineteenth-century concept of a biological community (lebensgemeinschaft, or living community, in its German origin), a community of organisms defined precisely by its dynamic, evolutionary relationship to its spatialized natural surroundings, its environment, a relationship at once defined by the action of nature upon a community of organisms and by the actions of such organisms upon nature itself.⁴²

Relations between environment and community were thus bound up in the same reformulations of community marking the rise of political economy in British thinking more generally. But to track debates within the British administration is not, of course, to describe how these played out on the ground. Among most Indus basin peoples, the action of blood (kinship), on the one hand, and the search for productive livelihoods dependent on water, on the other, intersected in complex ways that were shaped by influences often quite distinct from the debates marking the application of colonial political economy. Tribe and territory had long been viewed as operating in mutually constitutive ways in the Indus basin, and central to their interaction was the Indus basin’s most fundamental environmental reality, its productive uncertainty, a reality that operated on both the organization of production and the evolution of tribal community and that rendered their full conceptual separation impossible. In the context of Indus basin nature, it was thus the embedding of tribal calculation in the uncertainties of multiple, often unsettled modes of productive adaptation to arid environments that provided a critical backdrop to the operation of colonial ideas and policies, even as the new conceptual dichotomies of modern political economy took hold.

In such circumstances, the relationship between environment and community shaped the fundamentals of British statecraft on two intersecting levels. On one level, statecraft was powerfully molded by the multiple (and sometimes conflicted) meanings of community operating within British thinking (and state administration), meanings arising from the internal tensions of modern political economy itself. But colonial statecraft was shaped also, on another level, by the ongoing tensions between British framings of community and those of the Indus basin’s peoples themselves. The tensions defining British thinking were significantly complicated by the varied forms of community that they found on the ground. Although British projects for environmental change and settlement often forced indigenous groups to adapt to colonial structures, the internal fissures within colonial statecraft—particularly relating to the relationship of production and community—provided openings for Indus basin peoples to carve out for themselves significant arenas of independent action. These processes came together to define blood (a product of nature’s action in shaping natural communities) and water (a natural resource central to the construction of communities of production) as critical, intersecting elements in shaping the politics of the Indus basin’s great environmental transformation.

Telling the Story

In this book, we will trace these dynamics through the many phases of the Indus basin’s transformation in the years after 1850. We will begin with a case study of irrigation on the Indus basin’s Baloch frontier, where interactions between British ideas on political economy and existing forms of tribalism shaped an emerging imperial statecraft in the mid-nineteenth century (chapter 2). Here we can see the critical intersection between visions of tribal kinship and the construction of productive community in shaping colonial policy. The analysis then moves to the conflicting ideas about community and production that shaped the establishment of a distinctive, spatialized colonial property order in the Punjab, an order adapted to the two conceptually distinct forms of community emerging as central to colonial thinking. This was a property order shaped both by late nineteenth-century intellectual dynamics and by the reality of water scarcity and the constraints it imposed on production, particularly in the more arid regions of western Punjab (chapter 3). The critical intersections between conceptions of community and of environment were evident also in the development of new structures of water law in the region, which grew out of the same underlying dynamics shaping the property order. These structures of water law were to exercise a powerful, long-term influence on water development (chapter 4). Each of these chapters tracks the negotiations, both within the state and between state and society, that defined a developing colonial statecraft with respect to the control of water.

In the 1880s, the British began to move toward the large-scale irrigation projects that ultimately transformed the Indus region’s landscape irrevocably. The construction of large perennial canals in the late nineteenth century defined a newly emerging environmental vision centered on a conception of the river basin itself as a technicalized, spatial entity, defined both by science and by nature. The story of this vision, and the conflicts it evoked, lies at the heart of the narrative of early twentieth-century irrigation expansion told in chapter 5. This was the era of the great Punjab canal colonies and the conquest of wastelands that they entailed. But it was also the era that crystalized the internal contradictions marking colonial statecraft and produced significant popular resistance, particularly during the canal colony protests of 1907. Those protests, and the official response to them, subsequently defined the distinctive frames for water politics that marked the years after 1920, when the evolving vision of the river basin as a spatialized environment came to intersect with new forms of colonial administration and electoral politics to influence new visions of provincial and national identity. These were processes that significantly shaped the national division of the Indus basin in 1947 (whatever its roots also in all-India politics), which divided not only the territory but also the waters of the river basin itself—a division formalized more than a decade later by the Indus Waters Treaty of 1960 (chapter 6).

Subsequently, the history of water control in the river basin evolved on two sides of an international border. But the history of water development in the last decades of the twentieth century hardly left behind the tensions between competing visions of community that had marked the colonial era. This was evident both in the structuring of internal, particularly provincial, water conflict (in India and Pakistan alike) and in continuing state-based debates about the relationship between politics and water development. These debates were deeply inflected by new intellectual currents within the field of knowledge that had been known in the nineteenth century as political economy. Central to the structuring of the Indus basin’s irrigation works remained the conflicted question of the role of community in the imagining of a structure of control over, and adaptation to, nature—and specifically to the dynamics of water—as the key to the politics of productive environmental transformation (chapter 7).

THE SETTING: THE INDUS BASIN

However much the history of the Indus basin’s modern transformation tracks the large-scale tensions associated with modern ideas about production, community, and nature, it is also a history tightly bound to the distinctive, natural particularities of one, large, very specific South Asian region, the Indus basin. Aridity was the region’s defining feature—and, as a result, nothing was more important to its long history than the role of water in defining the relationship of community to the land. Yet water is the most fluid of elements, as the British, like many before them, readily discovered. As Lacey put it in the 1950s, whatever the constant talk of taming the Indus basin’s rivers, these rivers were at all times very much alive.⁴³ They had, in a sense, minds of their own. Long before the arrival of the British, water’s history provided a key to the structure of production and community in the region, even as its autonomous energy—a key also to the imagining of community—always lay, like the power of God, beyond man’s full control.

The region drained by the Indus river and its tributaries is a large one (encompassing almost 1.2 million square kilometers), marked by considerable internal regional variation, particularly between the large, mountainous area drained by the Indus basin rivers in the north and the vast alluvial plains of the Punjab and Sind. The latter are the main focus of this study. Rainfall on these plains is very limited, diminishing as one moves toward the southwest away from the Himalayan foothills in the north. As a result, water from rivers has long been central to the history of agriculture. The greater part of the water in the Indus system comes from the annual monsoon runoff from the hills and from snow/glacial melt in the Himalayas. The waters of the five rivers of the Punjab—the Sutlej, Beas, Ravi, Chenab, and Jhelum—join the Indus from the east, whereas the Kabul river, draining snowmelt from the Hindu Kush, flows into the Indus from the west (see map 1). All these rivers show similar patterns of flow, and their vicissitudes have dictated much in the region’s history.

Water’s history in this region has largely been determined by high seasonal variation. With the bulk of the water in the system coming from rainfall and snowmelt in the mountains, slightly over 50 percent of the annual flow in the Indus rivers, on average, comes in the three months from July to September, when snowmelt is joined by flow from monsoon rains. An additional 30 percent comes from early melt in the period from April to June. Flow in the rivers in the six months from October to March is therefore minimal, constituting, on average, only 16 percent of the total annual flow. As a result, floods in the summer months were historically substantial, spreading, according to H.L. Uppal, on average twenty to twenty-five kilometers annually in the era before embanking on either side of the rivers, though this varied significantly from year to year.⁴⁴

Floods and Wells

Given this picture, the annual Indus floods have been a determinant factor in the history of the region. These floods were undoubtedly central to the earliest agriculture in the region, and they remained so until the early twentieth century, when perennial canals began to dominate the irrigation system. The Indus floods, though enabling agriculture, also constrained the ways that agriculture could spread and develop. This was due not only to the floods’ variability but also to the Indus rivers’ extremely high silt load. On the one hand, silt was central to the fertilizing capacity of the rivers, which helped to sustain agriculture for millennia. On the other hand, the heavy silt load of the rivers, carried down from the hills, had been responsible for the marked instability of the channels of the major Indus rivers on the plains, and thus for many of the problems in channeling Indus basin flows for irrigation.

The major rivers of the basin have shifted their courses repeatedly, sometimes dramatically, which has had a profound impact on the history of irrigation. We have no comprehensive history of these shifts, though evidence of ancient settlement on the now-disappeared course of the Ghaggar-Hakra, which flowed at one time parallel to the Indus all the way to the Arabian Sea, suggests the antiquity of the process. More recent evidence can be found in the still-visible evidence of old river beds, such as the old bed of the Beas running through the high bar of the Bari Doab in the Punjab, which was abandoned by the river when its flow was captured by the Sutlej in the second half of the eighteenth century, after many changes in course over the previous centuries.⁴⁵ Such old river beds are readily apparent in Sind, where a series of Indus courses, both to the east and to the west of the present bed, have been tracked through on-site inspection (and core samples) and aerial photography.⁴⁶ All of this suggests a highly dynamic process in which large-scale deposits from silt-laden floods were often associated with significant shifts in river course.

Indeed, modern accounts of flood-based agriculture suggest that it was rarely entirely fixed but was based on the shifting attempts to trap flood waters in enclosed basins, usually through the construction of small basin embankments (bunds). Such techniques, as observed in modern times, allowed cultivation to shift readily into new beds when flood basins were drained. The very nature of these techniques generally rendered the sowing of summer kharif (or hot weather) crops difficult in the most arid parts of the region, allowing usually only a single rabi (or cold weather) crop after flood waters subsided and saturated the ground.⁴⁷

Such flood-based agricultural techniques were also probably supplemented early on by irrigation from wells. The presence of brick-lined wells in ancient Indus valley cities suggests the advanced state of well-building technology from a very early time. Yet there seems to be little evidence that such wells were actually used for irrigation. Rather, kaccha (unlined) wells were probably dug to supplement receding flood waters. As one official noted at the end of the nineteenth century, [T]hese wells are quickly and inexpensively made and roughly fitted with a rope and bucket. The principal crop grown on them is barley, and when this has been reaped the wells are deserted and often fall in. The connection with shifting flood waters was critical: The area irrigated from wells varies considerably from year to year. When the floods fail the people devote all their energy to their wells, but again when the floods are favorable they sow a great deal of land with the help of the floods and then irrigate a large proportion of it from the wells, and the best crops are most easily got on land which has been moistened and rendered fit for sowing by the river floods and has afterwards had its supply of moisture kept up by irrigation from a well.⁴⁸

Such wells played an important role in relations between agriculture and pastoral animal herders. Pastoral movements in the Indus basin have historically taken many forms and included transhumant migrations between plains and hills.⁴⁹ But circulation with flocks between the interior areas of the plains, away from the rivers, and the riverine areas was also common and was largely dictated by the same seasonality of the floods that shaped agriculture.⁵⁰ Herders circulated in the higher interfluvial plains (the bar), following the best grass in the cold weather, but moved back toward the rivers during the hot weather. They too dug wells to water their herds as flood waters receded and grass appeared in the extensive areas left behind. Although there have undoubtedly been wide variations in such relationships over time—and in different parts of this large area—the close relationship between pastoralism and agriculture within an arid environment defines one of the most important long-term determinants of the Indus basin’s history.

The relationship is also critical to the complex history of