As we splash our faces with cold water running freely from our taps, or pour a glass straight from a filter we trust blindly, do we ever stop to think: What if that water is gone tomorrow?

Imagine walking for three hours under the unforgiving sun just to collect a pot of water to drink. Not for cooking, not for washing. Just to drink.

This isn't a story from the dry belts of Sub-Saharan Africa, nor a cinematic dystopia. This is a real, recurring scene in the Barind Tract of north-western Bangladesh — a land slowly running out of water, and almost out of hope.

A slow crisis is quietly deepening: Barind has always been different. Its undulating clay soil and high elevation make it strikingly beautiful but also painfully dry. Once its fields thrived on groundwater drawn from deep aquifers. Today, that very source is collapsing. 
Studies show the water table has dropped by more than 20 feet in the last two decades, with some wells now reaching depths that would have been unimaginable a generation ago.
The aquifers are depleting faster than they can refill. The rainfall is erratic. The surface water is nearly gone. Yet the struggle continues with zero empathy — farmers digging deeper, women walking farther, families clinging to the last trickle of life underground.

It is a crisis of geology, yes, but more than that, it's a crisis of attention. Of how easily we normalise suffering when it isn't our own. 

The danger of chasing novelty is unintended dead weight loss. Every few years, the conversation around Barind resurfaces: often couched in the language of innovation. New projects are expected with glossy names, new pilots are sought, and new technologies are tested. But then, just as quietly, they fade slowly into another dry day.
We expect reinvention to be progress, but not every problem demands a new wheel. Sometimes, what it really needs is to install working wheels around the world on our own to be faster and better.

Barind doesn't need a new miracle; it needs a smarter dynamic driven by funds and focused attention. Proven solutions that help tackle drought and water crisis exist around the globe, such as alternate wetting and drying irrigation (AWD), direct seeding of rice, solar-powered atmospheric water generators (AWG), and even Waterboxx tree plantations that help trees grow in the driest soils. These are not fantasies. They work. The problem is that they remain fragmented, underfunded or trapped in pilot-project purgatory.

We keep waiting for the next big breakthrough when the real breakthrough is already in our hands.

Innovation is not always about invention; sometimes it's about intention and attention. The right allocation of fundraising, the right training of farmers, and the right will to act can do more in three years than endless reinvention in ten.

It is high time to move from novelty to necessity, to stop reinventing and start reinforcing.

From dry fields to a global milestone should be the ultimate ambition. If we do that — if we choose to scale what works and sustain it — Barind can become much more than a story of struggle. It can become a story of transformation.
Imagine five years from now: the same region once labelled as drought-prone, now cited in international journals as a model for adaptive resilience. A place where women no longer spend hours fetching water, where farmers use less and grow more, where trees rise again on what was once cracked soil.

This is not a dream beyond reach. It simply requires discipline: in policy, in funding, and in storytelling. We must commit to doing the right things consistently rather than the new things occasionally.

Bangladesh has proven its ability to turn challenges into global examples before: from community health to disaster preparedness. There is no reason Barind cannot be our next case study in human determination. But it will take focus. The kind that doesn't chase headlines, but harvests hope.

An awakening of empathy is what we need. When we read about "groundwater depletion" or "agricultural stress," it's easy to think of them as distant data points. But behind each statistic stands a person,  usually a woman or a child, who walks miles for a few litres of water. Behind every failed crop is a family choosing between food and education. And these families, these children deserve to see the same dreams as you and I.
Their lives unfold in quiet endurance while the rest of us enjoy the small luxuries of convenience - the tap, the filter, the steady stream of running water. It is not guilt we should feel, but recognition: that our comfort is not universal, and that the privilege of water comes with the duty to preserve it, share it, and protect it.

A call for continuity is what we need, not curiosity. Development work often romanticises innovation. It's easier to fund something "new" than something necessary. But if the world is serious about climate resilience, it must learn to fund continuity: to stand with what works until it works for everyone.
Barind doesn't need to be a recurring headline about despair. It can be a turning point, a reminder that sustainability is not built on novelty but on persistence. Because in the end, water scarcity is not just an environmental crisis. It's a test of empathy, efficiency, and endurance.

So the next time we turn on the tap and feel the chill of clean water on our skin, perhaps we should remember Barind and the countless hands that reach into empty wells each morning.

Change does not always arrive through reinvention. Sometimes, it comes quietly through consistency, care, and the courage to keep turning what already works.

Mohaimenul Solaiman Nicholas is a graduate of Economics and Social Sciences from BRAC University. 

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions and views of The Business Standard.