Water the Game Changer

 

Continuing the journey into the mysterious Earth

For children and curious minds of all ages

Yogendra Deva

Mihir was enjoying the rain from the window, watching droplets race each other down the glass. The air smelled fresh, and the world outside looked newly washed.

He suddenly turned around and blurted, “Aaba, after The Restless Earth and The Earth Breathes Fire—tell me the truth. Is water a hero or a villain? It floods, it drowns, it breaks roads… and yet everyone keeps saying, ‘Save water!’”

Aaba smiled.

He tapped the table gently. “Exactly. That’s why it deserves today’s title.”
“Water is the Game Changer.”

“Okay, Aaba, I’ll go with that,” Mihir said. “But where did all this water come from? It didn’t just fall from the sky one fine day, did it?”

Aaba smiled. “Not one fine day, Mihir. Many, many rough ones.”

“When the Earth was young and extremely hot,” he continued, “volcanoes were everywhere—and along with lava, they kept releasing huge amounts of steam.”

Mihir’s eyes widened. “Steam? But Aaba… if it’s all fire inside the Earth, where does steam come from?”

“That’s the clever part,” Aaba replied. “There was no water as water inside the early Earth.”

Mihir frowned. “Then what was it?”

“Water’s ingredients,” Aaba said. “Hydrogen and oxygen—trapped inside molten rock as gases and chemical compounds.”

“Trapped?” Mihir asked.

“Yes,” Aaba said. “When the Earth formed from a cloud of gases and dust, some of those gases—what we call volatiles—became trapped inside the growing planet. Much of the early Earth was already hot and molten, and these gases stayed dissolved in the magma, just like gas stays dissolved in a cold soft drink.”

Mihir’s eyes lit up. “And when you open the bottle—”

“The gas escapes,” Aaba said. “Exactly. When magma rose toward the surface, pressure dropped. The trapped gases rushed out. Volcanoes didn’t just release fire—they released steam, carbon dioxide, and other gases.”

“Then, what happened to all that steam?” Mihir asked.

“The Earth cooled,” Aaba replied. “Slowly. Patiently. The steam condensed into clouds. And when the crust became cool enough—after millions of years—it rained.”

Mihir swallowed. “For millions of years?”

“Yes,” Aaba said softly. “And that rain didn’t just wet the ground. It filled giant depressions that became oceans, seeped into cracks, settled inside rocks, and began shaping valleys.”

Mihir looked thoughtful. “You mean to say that water didn’t just arrive… it moved in.”

Aaba smiled. “And once it did, nothing on Earth stayed the same.”

Mihir looked thoughtful for a moment. Then he frowned. “Ah, that’s why you call it the game changer.”

He paused, then added gently, “But that wasn’t the end of the journey.”

Mihir tilted his head. “There’s more?”

“Yes, that’s where the water journey truly began,” Aaba said. “The Sun kept warming the oceans. Bit by bit, water rose into the air, gathered as clouds, and returned as rain.”

“Some of the rain rushed over the land,” Aaba continued. “It joined streams and rivers, carving valleys as it went, finally finding its way back to the oceans. Some of it soaked quietly into the ground, slipping into tiny cracks and fractures in the rock, resting there as groundwater.”

“Oh,” Mihir added quickly, “that’s the classic water cycle we all know.”

“But wait,” Mihir said, squinting. “You said water went inside rocks. That doesn’t make sense. Rocks are solid.”

Aaba nodded. “They look solid. But the Earth has been stretching, cracking, and folding for a very long time. Those cracks—tiny and big—became hiding places.”

“Hiding places for water?” Mihir asked.

“Yes. Water slipped into joints, fractures, and pores,” Aaba said. “That’s how rocks learned to store water.”

“And rivers?” Mihir asked quickly.

“Rivers are show-offs,” Aaba laughed. “They rush downhill, splash noisily, carry soil and stones, and redraw maps.” “Given enough time, water can carve rock harder than steel,” he added.

Mihir looked at the small stream flowing past the path. “This little fellow could make a valley?” “If you give it a few million years.”

Mihir shook his head. “That’s too slow.”

“For rivers,” Aaba smiled, “time is never a problem.”

Mihir thought for a moment. “Is that why we build dams? To stop rivers?”

“Yes,” Aaba agreed. “We store water behind dams because we need it—for drinking, farming, and power. Left alone, rivers don’t wait for anyone.”

“Then why don’t we use ocean water?” Mihir asked promptly. “There’s so much of it.”

Aaba smiled. “Because the oceans are salty.”

“I know that,” Mihir said. “But why?”

“Rivers again,” Aaba replied. “As they flow, they dissolve tiny bits of minerals from rocks and carry them to the sea. The water evaporates, but the salt stays behind.”

“Does the ocean keep collecting salt?”

“For millions of years,” Aaba said. “That’s why it’s salty.”

Mihir nodded slowly. “All that water… and still not drinkable.”

“Yes,” Aaba said quietly. “Which is why fresh water is precious. Without it, farms fail, cities struggle, and humanity cannot survive.”

Mihir kept quiet for a while and then asked, “Rivers keep flowing. But the water we pull up from the ground—does it come back as easily?”

Aaba shook his head. “That’s where the trouble begins.”

“Groundwater refills slowly,” he said. “But we’ve learnt to pump it out very fast.”

Mihir frowned. “Faster than it can recover?”

“Much faster,” Aaba replied. “In many places, we take out more water every year than nature can put back.”

“Does the underground level drop?” Mihir asked.

“Yes,” Aaba said. “The water table falls. Wells dry up. Borewells go deeper and deeper. Sometimes, even deeper isn’t enough.”

Mihir looked up sharply. “Can that happen to a city?”

Aaba nodded. “It almost did,” Aaba said. “In Cape Town, its reservoirs shrank, its groundwater dropped, and officials began counting days.”

“Days to what?” Mihir asked.

“To Day Zero,” Aaba replied. “The day when taps were supposed to run dry.”

Mihir swallowed. “Did it really come that close?”

“Yes,” Aaba said. “People queued with buckets. Water was measured in litres, not taps. The city survived because people changed their habits—and because the rains returned.”

He paused. “But the warning stayed.”

“When water becomes scarce,” he added, “countries start thinking the unthinkable—even ideas like towing icebergs across oceans for fresh water.”

Mihir leaned back. “Water is always moving up, down, and around.”

“That’s right,” Aaba said. “It evaporates, rains, flows, seeps, freezes, melts, and moves again. It shapes rivers, carves valleys, fills aquifers, turns turbines, and sustains life.”

“And sometimes causes trouble,” Mihir added.

“Yes,” Aaba said. “When we forget how powerful it is—or rush without understanding the groundwater reminds us.”

Mihir looked thoughtful. “Water isn’t good or bad.”

“No,” Aaba agreed. “Water simply follows the rules of nature.”

“And those rules need to be understood and respected,” Mihir said.

Aaba nodded. “That’s why we study the Earth—to understand the water that works quietly beneath our feet.”

He paused before adding, “When those rules are ignored, water can become unforgiving.”

“How does that happen?” Mihir asked.

“When too much rain falls too fast,” Aaba replied. “Rivers swell, floodplains fill up, and water spreads wherever it finds space.”

“Floods,” Mihir said softly. “And landslides—do they begin with water too?”

“Very often,” Aaba said. “Water seeps into slopes, fills cracks, makes soil heavier, and reduces friction. Gravity takes over.”

Mihir thought for a while and a question popped up. “But tsunamis don’t come from rain.”

 

“No,” Aaba said. “They begin with the Earth moving beneath the sea.”

“Earthquakes?”

“Yes,” Aaba replied. “When the seafloor suddenly rises or sinks, it shakes the entire mass of water above it—like a giant tank being jolted. The water starts to oscillate, forming waves that grow taller as they reach the shore, creating havoc.”

Mihir remembered something. “Underground water can be dangerous too, can’t it?”

Aaba nodded. “Especially when tunnels are dug without fully understanding fractures and water paths.”

“And then?” Mihir asked.

“Then water rushes in,” Aaba said. “It floods tunnels, weakens rock, delays projects, and reminds engineers that guessing is not enough.”

Mihir thought for a moment. “So tunnels aren’t the problem.”

Aaba raised an eyebrow. “Then what is?”

“Guessing,” Mihir said. “You should’ve asked the water first.”

Aaba laughed. “If only water answered emails.”

They both laughed.

The house settled into silence, but far below their feet, water continued its slow journey through the Earth.