The lost nomads of Thar

At Sadri, a sleepy desert town in Rajasthan, the author meets the Raikas, the camel-herding tribe who eke out a living from the Kumbalgarh scrub forest

Getting up at the crack of dawn isn’t usually my cup of tea, but this morning we have to track (so I think) camel-herding nomads in the Thar, I wake up without an alarm. We are in Sadri, a small town halfway between Jodhpur and Udaipur in Rajasthan. In the shadow of Kumbhalgarh, it’s a sleepy desert town with starry nights and blisteringly hot days. My host, Hanwant Singh Rathore, director of Lohit Pashu-Palak Sansthan (LPPS) — an organisation working to preserve the right of pastoralist people, tells me that the Raikas, the camel-herding tribe of Rajasthan, are in danger of losing their traditional way of life. I ask how, and he says I’ll soon see for myself.

As we drive through dusty scrub and sand, a slight movement causes my perspective to shift. Perfectly camouflaged in the sand is a herd of hundred camels (99 females and one lucky stud, I’m told). The animals lie gently as they nestle against each other in the morning light. Minding them is Bhanwarlal Raika. Every year, he walks his herd in search of pastures while his family stays near Sadri. “I return when the rains begin,” says he. All his worldly belongings are packed in his tightly coiled red turban — while we talk, he pulls out his phone, lunch, opium stash, even a notebook from it. Bhanwarlal cuts a dashing figure with his long earrings and macho moustache, not unlike the single male camel in his herd. I ask how he manages so many animals and he grins, “I just let the stud lead… the females follow automatically!”

Earlier, farmers invited herders to camp in their freshly-harvested fields. Their camels not only cleared the fields for the next crop, but also fertilised the soil with their dung. “Every year,” says he, “I find myself walking further and further in search of pasture. Nowadays, I have to go as far as Madhya Pradesh.”

(in the centre) Daili Devi, Raika animal healer

The camels look vaguely prehistoric, and, as I watch Bhanwarlal train a newbie in the craft of shearing one, not necessarily gentle. “The camels recognise novices just by their touch,” says Bhanwarlal, guffawing as the animal flings the fumbling trainee from side to side. Yet, when it feels Bhanwarlal’s hand on his back, it placidly allows him to shear its wool. Definitely showing off now, Bhanwarlal milks the camel, and presents me with a leafy cone of frothy camel milk. It has immense nutritive benefits, he tells me. Since I only like milk when it’s been drowned in coffee, I pass. LPPS has been marketing this milk (they make ice cream from it, a big hit apparently, during the Pushkar fair) as well as camel dung paper, camel wool stoles and durries to generate additional income for the Raikas. Is it enough, I wonder. This trainee is an exception, Rathore says. The younger generation is mostly choosing to migrate to cities, avoiding the nomadic way of life.  

Later, I go for a walk in the Kumbhalgarh scrub forest, slated to be declared a national park soon. It’s quiet, other than the deep chuck-chucking of partridges. “Our camels should graze here. We’re demanding legal protection of the Raikas through the Forest Rights Act. By deeming their traditional pastures as reserved, the government has effectively signed their death warrant!” says Rathore. It is a shame, he says, for the wealth of traditional knowledge the tribe has, is immense. He introduces me to Dailibai, the animal healer who diagnoses a variety of ailments merely by smelling a ball of sand on which the animal has urinated. The story goes that a group of vets once tested her diagnostic abilities by giving her two urine samples — one of a pregnant woman and one from a healthy one. She sniffed the first one and said, “This sample is from a pregnant woman, not a camel.” Then she sniffed the next sample and said: “This is from a woman who isn’t pregnant.” And she added, “She ate kadhi before giving this sample!” Dailibai tells me that many of the medicinal herbs she needs are now not legally accesible, as they’re in the reserved forest.  “Without access to the forest, our old ways will die with my generation… Sadly, we’re so far from the city that the government isn’t even aware of our problems!” she says.

Bhanwarlal Raika

Dailibai’s fears are echoed in the Raika panchayat we attend. “All their children go to school, none wants to be a camel herder,” Rathore tells me as the elders pass around opium, cooked in jaggery (it’s such a staple that they even give it to colicky babies). The only beacon of hope for the Raikas, I learn, is that the ruling Bharatiya Janta Party’s election manifesto promised the status of Rajasthan’s state animal to camels. It may already be, however, too little, too late for the Raikas. As I leave Sadri, I turn back for one last look at the camel herders of the Thar. I know I may never see them again.