Who has the right to Kabartal? Bihar’s Kanwar lake is shrinking under caste-based influence

Ram Sahani, a man in his sixties, sat on the parched earth by Kabartal Lake in Bihar’s Begusarai district, repairing a bamboo fishing trap. Dressed in a faded dhoti, he gazed at the shrinking waters before speaking. “Whatever you see submerged in water belongs to us, the fishing community. Whatever is dry goes to the farmers. Our ancestors fought in the freedom struggle and earned us water rights. Now, farmers are draining the lake using canals. If there is no water, we have no ownership over the lake or its resources. Farmers will plough it, and we’ll be left hungry, dependent on their mercy,” he says.

Why is it important to save Kabartal?     

Bihar has a dense network of surface water sources. Major rivers such as the Ganges, Kosi, Gandak, and Son, along with their tributaries, create numerous chaurs (floodplain meadows) and mauns (oxbow lakes). Floodplains are flat areas that submerge when rivers flood, while oxbow lakes form when rivers change course.

These interconnected water systems help maintain ecological balance during both floods and droughts. During floods, excess river water flows into the lakes and prevents nearby areas from being inundated. In times of drought, the lakes supply crucial water for survival.

Kabar Tal, also known as Kanwar Lake, is one such oxbow lake. It formed when the old Gandak River changed its course. Located about 145 kilometres from Patna, it was declared a bird sanctuary in 1989, covering 6,786 hectares. In 2020, it earned the status of a Ramsar site, marking it as a wetland of international importance.

Under the 1971 Ramsar Convention, natural and near-natural wetlands that support vulnerable, endangered, or critically endangered species or ecological communities receive the Ramsar designation. The convention lays down specific criteria for identifying Ramsar sites.

According to Ramsar documentation, Kabartal, located 21 kilometres from Begusarai town, is the largest wetland among several shallow wetlands spread across the low-lying land between the Burhi Gandak River and the abandoned stream of the Bagmati River. Some of these wetlands remain submerged throughout the year, while others hold water only for a few months.

Until the 1950s, floodwaters from both the Burhi Gandak and the Kosi rivers replenished Kabartal with water, silt, and aquatic species, making the lake a lifeline for local fishermen and farmers. Today, around 15,000 families in 17 villages depend directly on the lake for their livelihoods.

Kabartal also plays a critical role in the district’s hydrography. It absorbs rainwater and floodwaters from the Gandak, protecting surrounding areas from flooding and helping recharge the groundwater table. In winter, the wetland becomes a haven for migratory birds, making it one of the most important bird congregation sites in North Bihar. Over 200 bird species have been recorded here, including 58 species of migratory waterfowl, particularly ducks and coots.

The site’s biodiversity goes well beyond birds. Researchers have recorded 165 plant species, 44 phytoplankton, 46 macrophytes, and 75 ground-cover species. Its fauna includes more than 394 animal species: 70 zooplankton, 39 insects, 35 fish, 17 molluscs, 7 amphibians, 5 reptiles, and 221 bird species. Many of these are considered rare, sensitive, or endangered.

Each winter, birdwatchers and researchers flock to Kabartal. Cameras capture images, bird lists are updated, scientific papers are written, and conservation plans are drafted. But beneath this flurry of scientific and administrative activity, a quieter and more contentious battle rages, a struggle over land, water, and rights. For local residents, the wetland has become more than an ecological site; it is a battleground where the question of who controls Kabartal, and who will be excluded from its future, is being fought in silence.

When Conservation Clashes with Caste and Agriculture

According to a study by two researchers from the Forest Research Institute, Kabartal covered about 6,786 hectares in 1984. By 2004, its area had shrunk to 6,044 hectares, and by 2012, it had reduced further to just 2,032 hectares.

Over the last three decades, modern farming techniques have worsened the situation by increasing invasive species like silt and water hyacinth in the lake. Each year, when parts of the wetland dry naturally due to seasonal changes, wealthy landowners seize the opportunity to occupy the land and start farming.

This illegal encroachment has been steadily reducing the wetland’s natural area. Land that once held water during the rainy season is now being taken away from the lake’s ecosystem. In recent years, landowners have even dug small canals to forcibly drain water from the lake, arguing that this is necessary to expand agriculture.

Although wetlands are public resources and fishing rights legally belong to fishing communities, control on the ground rests with powerful landlords — mainly from agrarian elite castes such as Bhumihars and Brahmins. These groups have systematically dried parts of the wetland by constructing embankments, trenches, and canals. Once dry, the land is converted into paddy and sugarcane fields.

For these landlords, wetland conservation holds no value. They openly dismiss it as irrelevant and, in some cases, a conspiracy. As one of them put it, “The conservation of the lake is co-conspired by Russian communists and Indira Gandhi to protect Russian migratory birds. The only way to develop Bihar is to dry up all such lakes for modernistic agricultural growth, like Haryana and Punjab.” To them, draining Kabartal and turning it into farmland is the only vision of progress.

Whose Wetland Is It Anyway?

In this self-serving, short-sighted model of development, even marginal farmers support the landlords. They either own small patches of land or cultivate the land of large landowners on a sharecropping basis, receiving only a portion of the profits in return.

One group that remains entirely excluded from this exploitative distribution of water resources is the Musahar community. Whether the lake holds water or not, this Mahadalit community remains invisible. Historically considered untouchable, the Musahars have never had rights over the wetland. Their relationship with the lake has always been shaped by exploitation — they have never been allowed to use its water or fish in it. Instead, they work as daily-wage labourers, often for a few kilos of grain or leftover straw. Landowners occasionally allow them to build huts on the drying wetland, but even this is at the landowners’ mercy. In this caste hierarchy, their right to land, life, and dignity is nowhere acknowledged, leaving their future permanently marginalised.

The Sahni community (a fishing sub-caste) also feels its rights slipping away. “If the water ends, our livelihood will end, our relationship with the lake will also end,” says a fisherman, summing up the crisis in one sentence. The Sahnis' are among the few communities with deep ecological knowledge of the wetland. They have traditionally managed fishing seasons with minimal ecological impact and acted as custodians of the lake. Yet, their knowledge and role in sustaining the wetland are rarely recognised in formal conservation efforts.

As the wetland continues to shrink, the space for communities to coexist also contracts. Fishermen are catching fewer fish each season and are forced to find other ways to survive. Many migrate to cities as labourers, while others compete with Dalit communities for daily-wage work nearby. Meanwhile, dominant castes plough land that was never theirs, fragmenting what was once a shared community ecosystem into private plots.

How the Lake’s Ecology is Dying

Chemical fertilisers from surrounding agriculture wash into the lake, adding even more pressure to the shrinking wetland. Each year, runoff from fields carries soil and chemicals into the lake, suffocating it further. Fertiliser-rich water fuels the growth of water hyacinth, which spreads quickly and chokes the lake’s surface.

Although the administration sometimes removes silt and water hyacinth, these interventions are expensive and temporary. Authorities avoid tackling the root causes because doing so would mean confronting powerful communities. The real problems are mechanised ploughing along lake banks, excessive fertiliser use, and the construction of canals to drain water.

Kabartal’s Ecological Crisis Is Rooted in Social Inequality

Management plans conveniently ignore the most obvious reality: caste determines who occupies the wetland, and this illegal occupation is driving the ecological collapse of Kabartal. This crisis is not simply the result of climate change or negligence; it is rooted in structural violence, social coercion, and legal loopholes. Current schemes attempt to offer technical and ecological fixes to what is essentially a political problem — making them ineffective on both fronts.

Kabartal exemplifies how caste domination, the fight for control over community resources, and silenced histories have caused environmental devastation. The lake is a mirror of Bihar’s social geography, where questions of water and questions of power are inseparable. Saving Kabartal requires confronting those who illegally control land, water, and legitimacy.

Protection must become the responsibility of the entire society — but society remains deeply divided along caste lines. Ignoring these divisions only deepens injustice. The real question is not whether Kabartal should be saved but how it should be saved.

First, we must acknowledge that conservation, like land reform or economic policy, is never neutral. It benefits some and disadvantages others. Unless we address who gains and who loses from conservation efforts, we risk deepening the very inequalities that have created Kabartal’s crisis.