A year ago, in a coastal village in Odisha’s Puri district, an elderly woman — popularly known as Benga Mousi — welcomed me during a community meeting at the cyclone shelter with a warmth that felt larger than the gathering itself. Her face bore the quiet authority of someone who has survived cyclones, crop losses, and the slow theft of certainty by the sea.
As a token of hospitality, she gently placed a bottled beverage in my hand but did not seem happy as she had no ‘clean water’ to offer. She was breaking an age-old tradition of her family and community by not offering water to her guests, and she was pained about it. Ironically, she arrived at one of our programmes last December holding a bottle filled with coloured, beverage-like water — what she sarcastically called “fanta.” “Drink this fanta and all the fizz in your life will disappear,” she joked, but her smile carried the same pain she had shown me years before.
I have been visiting her village for more than 15 years. That small moment said what statistics often fail to: she was embarrassed by her own water.
In her village, the sea is no longer a boundary; it has become an intruder. Cyclones strike with growing intensity, tidal surges push salt inland, and saline water steadily seeps into ponds, tube wells, and aquifers. The freshwater lens beneath the land — once the community’s quiet insurance policy — is thinning. What was once a seasonal inconvenience has hardened into a permanent condition. The village is living through what can only be described as “water bankruptcy”.
And yet, we live in an age when countries celebrate advanced desalination plants and “smart water” technologies. The contrast is stark: technological triumph on one side of the world, and an elderly woman apologising for the taste of her well water on the other.
Government data shows that roughly 77 per cent of rural households in Odisha are now covered by piped drinking water systems — an administrative achievement worth acknowledging. But coverage does not always mean potable water flowing reliably from a tap. In saline-prone coastal belts, many villages remain in what might be called the “shadow zones” — technically counted but practically excluded from freshwater access.
Benga Mousi lives in one of these “difficult geographies,” where geography itself has become an adversary. Research on coastal aquifers in Puri district confirms that seawater intrusion is pervasive — with substantial portions of groundwater showing saltwater influence and chemical signatures that make water unsuitable for drinking without treatment. In many shallow aquifers, saltwater intrusion is evident across seasons, and a large majority of sampled wells fail to meet World Health Organization drinking water standards due to high sodium levels and other ions linked to seawater mixing.
Countrywide studies of India’s eastern coast also reveal that coastal Odisha is a hotspot for groundwater salinisation, driven by both natural processes and human pressures like groundwater over-extraction.
But data alone cannot convey what this means in lived reality. Each day begins with uncertainty: Will the water be drinkable? Will the next storm undo the little recovery achieved? Will a tanker arrive? These are not just logistical questions — they are psychological ones.
This year’s Union government budget rightly recognises mental health as a priority. Yet mental wellbeing cannot be separated from environmental security. In saline-hit villages like this one, mental stress is not an abstract clinical diagnosis — it is embedded in daily survival.
Benga Mousi told me that she keeps dreaming of freshwater. Several petitions, meetings with local representatives, and appeals to authorities have yielded little relief. Tanker water has been promised, especially in summer, but there is also a tanker drought, she rues. Some days she waits for a tanker that may never come. Every failed attempt chips away at a person’s sense of control, dignity, and stability.
This is not a one-time trauma; it is chronic stress.
Psychologists have a term for the loss and distress caused by environmental change: solastalgia — the grief of seeing one’s home transform into something unrecognisable. Her village is living in that grief. The borewells she trusted no longer serve her. The seasons she understood no longer behave. The “normal” she grew up with is gone.
The mental health implications of water insecurity extend beyond distress. Scientific research shows that saltwater intrusion into drinking water sources can contribute to elevated sodium intake, increasing the risk of hypertension and cardiovascular disorders among coastal populations — a risk that is expected to worsen under future climate scenarios.
In Bangladesh and other coastal regions, studies link salinity in water to health outcomes such as skin ailments, gastric disorders, and high blood pressure, disproportionately affecting women and children. These physical health stresses further compound psychological burdens.
This reveals a profound Resilience Gap. While there are great plans to invest in sea walls, aquifer recharge systems, and climate-proof infrastructure, vulnerable coastal communities struggle for a bucket of fresh water. The result is not only physical deprivation, but a silent mental health burden — anxiety, helplessness, and exhaustion.
Mental health budgeting, therefore, must go beyond post-disaster counseling. It must be woven into climate resilience planning. Assurance, transparency, and visible government action are themselves forms of psychological support. When communities see systems responding, hope becomes a protective factor.
As funding for the Jal Jeevan Mission continues, difficult geographies like Odisha’s cyclone-prone coast require disproportionate attention. Standard pipe-and-pump models cannot solve a problem where the groundwater itself is saline.
The solution must be integrated:
Technological equity
Deploy small-scale, community-managed desalination units, rainwater harvesting, and solar-powered treatment systems that bypass contaminated aquifers.
Psychosocial resilience
Train community workers to recognise stress linked to water insecurity and environmental loss. Support groups, counseling access, and social safety nets must be part of water programmes.
Climate justice
Those contributing least to global emissions are bearing the heaviest burden. Addressing water insecurity in such regions is not charity — it is equity.
Ecosystem restoration
Local water security largely depends on the ecosystem conservation models we adopt. Efforts are on way to restore the coastal ecosystems, but we need to do more for sure.
I often think back to Benga Mousi. Her gesture was not merely hospitality; it was a quiet confession of systemic failure. Her dignity remains, but her environment is in deficit.
If this era of water bankruptcy is to end, we must recognise that water security is also mental security. A functioning well is not just a utility; it is peace of mind, social stability, and human dignity.
She does not just need a tap connection on paper. She needs to feel confident enough to offer a guest a glass of water from her own home — without apology, without fear.
Until that day comes, our job is unfinished.
Ranjan Panda is a convenor at Water Initiatives. He writes on water, environment, and climate change issues concerning the vulnerable communities, including youth, women & indigenous peoples.
Views expressed are the author’s own and don’t necessarily reflect those of Down To Earth