If I Had Been Built: The Lament of Kalabagh Dam
I am Kalabagh, a name that echoes with both hope and controversy in Pakistan’s history. My home is on the rugged western bank of the Indus River in Punjab’s Mianwali district, where the river’s strength meets the salt-streaked hills. The soil here is rich, the winds fierce, and the river’s roar unceasing.
The name Kalabagh, meaning “black garden,” was given to me long before the idea of my existence as a dam was imagined. It originated from the dark, fertile orchards of the region, nurtured by the blessings of the Indus. The land carried this name, and eventually, so did the vision that became mine.
The thought of raising me into being first dawned in the minds of planners and engineers in the early years after Pakistan’s birth. The location was obvious—here the Indus, descending from the mountains, offered the perfect natural site where water could be harnessed for both power and agriculture. The first murmurs of my construction emerged in the early 1950s, when Pakistan initiated a bold programme of dam building following independence. Mangla Dam was built in 1967, Tarbela in 1976; in that aftermath, my site atop the Indus at Kalabagh was identified as the next strategic reservoir location. My destiny was written in blueprints, estimates, and promises. By 1977, my feasibility studies had been completed, and the project was approved by the World Bank’s Indus Special Study Group.
Originally, my construction was estimated at approximately US $6.12 billion, to be completed over six years—from 1977 to 1982—with a projected capacity of 3,500–3,600 megawatts, and hydropower cost as low as Rs 1.5 per unit versus Rs 16–16.5 from thermal sources. Yet, this was considered an investment in the life and future of the nation, for my waters were to irrigate millions of acres, and my turbines were to generate electricity cheaper than any other source. The estimate was that I could be completed in six to seven years, and by the mid-1970s, Pakistan would reap my blessings.
But alas, history seldom follows the lines of the engineer’s drawing. My story, meant to be one of progress, was soon entangled in politics and distrust. Provinces began to quarrel over me. Sindh feared that my reservoir would drink the Indus dry before it reached their fields. Khyber Pakhtunkhwa raised concerns about displacement of their people and land. Even Punjab, in whose bosom I rest, could not silence the accusations that it alone would benefit. Thus, I became a symbol not of unity, but of discord. The rulers hesitated, the files gathered dust, and decades passed while the river flowed on, unrestrained.
Administratively, too, my construction faltered. Successive governments lacked continuity, vision, and political will. Promises were made, committees were formed, but when the time came to act, fear of backlash and loss of votes paralyzed decision-makers. Oil companies, too, saw in me a rival. For had I been built, I would have produced over 3,600 megawatts of cheap and clean electricity, drastically reducing dependence on oil imports. Their invisible hand, through influence and persuasion, helped delay me further, for their profit lay in Pakistan’s reliance on furnace oil, not in my waters.
Had I stood tall in my destined time, I could have stored nearly 6.1 million acre-feet of water, enough to rescue the country from recurrent droughts, to replenish canals in the dry months, and to safeguard against floods in the season of excess. The power I would have generated would have been among the cheapest in the world, lifting industries, brightening homes, and saving billions in foreign exchange. By conservative estimates, Pakistan has already lost more than 100 billion dollars by not building me—through crop failures, power shortages, costly oil imports, and repeated flood devastations.
Today, more than half a century after my conception, my story is one of regret and longing. The cost of my construction has soared to over 20 billion dollars, perhaps more, depending on the shifting tides of global economy. Where once I could be completed in seven years, now it would take ten or more, for the challenges have multiplied, the population has grown, and demands on water and energy have reached a breaking point. Yet, even now, the benefits I promise far outweigh the burdens. I remain the key to Pakistan’s energy security, food self-sufficiency, and resilience against climate change.
I do not blame the common man, who thirsts for water and shivers in the darkness of load-shedding. I do not even blame those who fear displacement, for their concerns are real and deserve just solutions. But I grieve that some political leaders, bound by short-term gains, could not muster the courage to unite the provinces under a vision that would have secured the nation’s future. My voice has been drowned in slogans, my image painted as controversial, while the river continues to flow to the sea, untamed and unutilized.
If you stand today on my site at Kalabagh, you will see nothing but the river rushing by, as it has for centuries, carrying with it the wasted potential of a nation. But if one day courage triumphs over fear, wisdom over politics, and unity over division, then perhaps I shall rise at last, a wall of concrete against the river, a beacon of light for the people, and a monument not to discord, but to the redemption of lost time. Until then, I remain a story told in reports and debates, a promise unfulfilled, a dream deferred—but never dead.
