Geetanjali Krishna: Lost nomads of the Thar

I recently went to Sadri, a village in Rajasthan’s Pali district. In the shadow of the densely-forested hills of Kumbhalgarh and facing vast tracts of the Thar, this sleepy hamlet is a popular stopover for the Raika — nomadic animal herders who roam the desert in search of pastures. Stories about these people and their legendary, almost uncanny, affinity for their animals had riveted me, and I was full of questions when our host Hanwant Singh announced that we were to go to a Raika campsite at first light the following morning.

“Are they still nomadic?” I asked. Hanwant nodded: “They are, but most of them have now surrendered to modernity and have built permanent homes so that their children can go to school,” he said, “the men leave with their animals around March, travelling up to Madhya Pradesh in search of grazing grounds, and return in the rainy season.” “How shall we find them?” I asked, having visions of traipsing across the desert in search of nomads. His answer had me cursing my stupidity: “We’ll just use our cell phones!”

Anyway, en route to the Raika campsite, Hanwant, who’s the director of Lokhit Pashu-Palak Sansthan (LPPS), an organisation set up in 1996 to support Raika camel pastoralists, told us more. “Animal herders are increasingly losing their relevance in a society that’s rapidly and often mindlessly, modernising,” he said. Traditionally, the Raika used to camp with their animals on fields left fallow. “Overnight, the animals would spread their manure on the entire field,” said Hanwant. In return, the farmer would give the herders food, opium, clothes and sometimes even money. But farming has lost its allure and camel manure has lost its utility. Further, the Kumbhalgarh forest where animals and their herders roamed freely earlier have now been declared reserved. “While the Raika can get permission to take their animals inside, red tape often makes things difficult,” said Hanwant. As traditional grazing grounds begin to shrink, the population of local animal breeds that the Raika have traditionally bred have also fallen.

By this time, we’d reached the camp where a cockily good-looking young Raika, Bhanwar Singh, was waiting for us. About 100 camels — 99 females and one lucky stud — as well as three herders, were camping together. “Managing the herd is easy,” said Bhanwar Singh with a wicked grin, “the 99 females follow the male wherever he goes!” The three herders were shearing wool off the camels and training a not-so-young trainee-herder. The trainee had migrated to a city for work, but often young Raika men can’t adjust to the restrictions of city life after the freedom of their nomadic existence back home. “When a young man returns home from the city, we all give him one animal each so that he can start his own herd,” said Bhanwar Singh, “but first he must learn to control the animals!” He was laughing at the trainee getting flung mercilessly by a camel determined not to be shorn — his red turban flying in one direction and slippers in another. He stroked the recalcitrant camel and the shearing was accomplished in minutes.

We were suitably impressed, but Bhanwar Singh said, “we hardly earn anything from camel-herding — few young boys want to do it anymore. Today, Raika girls feel that marriage with a camel-herder means a lifetime of penury…” LPPS is promoting camel milk and other camel products to generate additional income for the Raika, but the progress is slow. “The only thing that will help us is a matrimonial agency!” said Bhanwar Singh with a loud guffaw. At the crossroads of tradition and modernity, caught in a rapidly-changing world, these nomads just don’t know which way to go anymore.