On the banks of the Benki River in Barpeta’s Kadong village, Samiran Nessa was cooking her evening meal in front of the narrow tent that had become her only shelter. The structure, pieced together with tarpaulin, bamboo poles, and thick PVC pipes, was her refuge from the forces of nature.
She hurried to finish before sunset, as the encroaching darkness would leave her in complete isolation—there was no lamp to light her nights, nor electricity to brighten the vicinity. Her face flushed with embarrassment when we encountered her, a woman forced into poverty by circumstances beyond her control.
She adjusted her discoloured saree over her head and softly said, “We have to finish eating before it gets dark.”
When asked where she found the PVC pipes, she pointed to the river. “They came floating in the river. We caught them,” she explained. A battered aluminium pitcher beside her, filled with water from a neighbour’s tube well, was her only possession from what was once a modest life.
Samiran’s plight reflects the relentless battle between people and the forces of climate change, exacerbated by the river’s steady erosion. This year, she lost her last piece of property—the home she had built with her husband, Sohrab Ali—to the Benki’s unyielding flow. The erosion came so swiftly that they could only grab their bedding and escape with their lives.
They are now camped on a neighbour’s land, living in a makeshift tent. “We received the tarpaulin and mats from Gramonnayan,” Samiran said, referring to the assistance provided by Anchalik Gram Unnayan Parishad, a local society known for standing by distressed families.
Her two sons, both married, now live temporarily with their in-laws in nearby villages. “Any help would be welcome,” she added, her voice tinged with quiet desperation.
Sohrab, her 50-year-old husband, used to farm 20 bighas of land. Gradually, year after year, the river claimed it all. “Now it’s in there,” he said, pointing to the vast expanse of flowing water that once nourished his crops. “What you see is all we have, but the plot we stay on isn’t even ours,” he added mournfully. Sohrab now works as a labourer on other people’s farms. The work is irregular, leaving them with little to survive on.
The effects of climate change have become increasingly apparent in Kadong village. The weather patterns are unprecedented, with long stretches of unusually hot weather damaging seasonal crops. Paddy saplings, essential for survival, are being scorched in the fields.
Pond water heats up during the day, killing fishes. Just a month ago, the village was under deep water. The monsoon brought not just rain, but the destruction of homes, farms, and livelihoods.
The Benki’s relentless erosion continues year-round, carving away at the land, leaving villagers like Samiran and Sohrab with nowhere to go.
During our assessment, conducted jointly by Humanitarian Aid International (HAI) and Anchalik Gram Unnayan Parishad, we found 23 families displaced this monsoon by the river’s merciless erosion.
Having lost everything, some set up temporary shelters along the riverbank, while others fled to distant villages or sought refuge with relatives.
A couple of families, with nowhere else to turn, moved to the barren sandbar in the middle of the river, a harsh landscape where nothing grows but kahuwa grass. It was clear that the immediate needs of these families were for shelter and employment. Although United Way Delhi is about to provide back-to-home kits for displaced families, much more is required to truly address their plight.
Punyajan Nessa, a 60-year-old woman, brushed aside the crowd to share her story. Forced to move to the sandbar, she found herself without even a tree to provide shade. “This is the fourth time we’ve moved because of the erosion,” she said, her voice weary from the repeated trauma of losing her home. She now lives on the sandbar along with another family, making several crossings each day in a small canoe to gather basic supplies.
Her grandson, Jeherul Islam, a bright-eyed class four student, said proudly, “I go to school every day.” His father or grandfather takes him to the school across the river. Responding to our question, he replied, “I want to learn how to control the river,” dreaming of solutions for a problem that has toppled his childhood.
Rafikul Islam, a 62-year-old farmer who used to stand tall with the pride of self-sufficiency, has lost everything to the river. His wife moved in with her mother, but Rafiqul refuses to leave his tent, choosing solitude over dependency.
“I can’t move in with my in-laws at this age,” he said firmly. “I’d rather live alone than be a burden.” He remains, torn between his dignity and the harsh reality of his circumstances, with only a few chickens to keep him company.
Even the youngest victims of this crisis have become resilient in the face of loss. Babidul, a 5th-grade student, has already seen his home swept away multiple times. “Our houses have been taken by the river many times; I don’t know how many,” he said, without a trace of fear in his voice.
The last house his family lived in wasn’t even on their own land—they lost that long ago. When asked what he wants to be when he grows up, he smiled. “I don’t know,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes, as if the future still held endless possibilities, despite the instability beneath his feet.
The people of Kadong village are fighting not just against a river that refuses to stay within its bounds, but against the broader effects of climate change that have made life on the Benki’s banks increasingly precarious. Erosion is not merely taking their land; it is eroding their livelihoods, their dignity, and their hopes for the future. Even as the Benki threatens to wash away the physical foundations of their lives, their resilience remains deeply rooted, defying the currents that seek to sweep them away.
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