Specially Written for Vikalp Sangam

For two years, not a single person from the entire village of Goverdhanpura touched their 100 hectares of forest — neither for grazing, fuelwood nor building. The slow growing dhonk, unassaulted by grazing, had grown several feet, its pale branches shooting skyward. A community flourished around it. Jaal, with its thick green stems, grew convoluted around adusa, whose leaves cure cough; dasar, a spiny bush which bears tart berries; jhadu-wala-ped, a purple flowered shrub which is used to make (you guessed it) brooms; jungli tulsi, beloved by the bees who didn’t seem to care that it was a foreign invasive, and several kinds of grasses which were turning golden in the November sun. 

“There were only rocks here, with plants barely inches tall. It took 3 years of struggle to make the forest green.” says Manoharlal Sharma, a resident of Goverdhanpura. “It all started when Babuji [Kunjbihari] asked me to gather the women in the village,” says Suman devi, Manoharlal’s wife. “Lots of women came… nayi, gujar, jogi, brahmin, baniya, from all communities” she continued, “We discussed different issues, like making medbandhi (bunds), anicuts (small check dams) for conserving water, how chemicals used in farming is causing illness… and how cutting trees is damaging the forest.” 

Kunjbihari Sharma, who initiated these meetings, is not just a farmer from the nearby Nandu village but a veteran water conservationist. Since 2004, he has been associated with Sambhaav, a voluntary development organisation founded in 1999. Sambhaav is not a typical non-profit, its form is more mycelium-like, sustaining and nurturing communities across 7 districts of the state to revive ecologies and livelihoods. Beginning with resuscitating the flow of the Nanduwali from a seasonal to a perennial rivulet around his village, Kunjibihari’s work has trickled downstream to revive the Karara, a connected rivulet in Nanduwali’s lower basin. He focuses on 4 villages Goverdhanpura, Kakrali, Rampura and Danta that sit in Karara’s micrwatershed.

Forest restoration springs out of water conservation work, since the best way to ensure water recharge in the hills is with trees. However, the overexploited, barren hills needed rest for the vegetation to return. Parvati Devi, a middle-aged Van Gujjar farmer-herder, explains “We decided to stop grazing and harvesting fodder from the forests here, we initially had to buy fodder.” Her family spent Rs.50,000 a year to feed their dozen buffaloes. “Now we are able to grow our own fodder, since the medbandis we created on our farm have increased moisture in the land” she shares. As the forest was allowed to regenerate, even more abundant than before!

500 hectares of forests have been restored across the four villages of Kakrali, Rampura, Danta and Goverdhanpura since 2023, without a single rupee of external funding, only through the resolve of the community. Van Sankrakshan Samiti and Gram Vikas Samiti, committees for forest restoration and village development, have been formed to include different caste communities in governance. In Govardhenpura, Van Sanrakshan Samiti consists of men, “this is because chowkidars [guards] are men, and its mostly men that access the forest” Manoharlal clarifies. Gram Vikas Samiti’s board of 13 members consist of 7-8 women. “Women meet separately, this way we are able to talk freely” shares Suman devi. As forest conservation has been ingrained in people’s habits, the samitis which used to meet every couple of months, now meet when issues arise, such as allowing timber harvest if someone cannot afford to buy it.

Such community organisation has enabled people to govern their own resources. “We urged the forest department to guard the forest, which they were not doing. The Van Samiti also introduced its own chowkidars” says Manoharlal. The Samiti fines Rs. 101 if anyone cuts trees without permission, and if a witness fails to report such a violation they are fined Rs. 151. The village also protested against a local mine, and many people, including Manoharlal, blocked the route of mining trucks with tractors. “[The mine] was not beneficial for the village, it was very polluting and wasted a lot of water” he shared, highlighting how excavation disrupted the water table. The 2-3 year battle to close the mine was finally settled in Delhi’s courtrooms. 

A few months ago a certain section of the forest was opened, welcoming back its human kin and hoofed herds. Shivering and slimy, and barely an hour old, a newborn goat suckles at the forest’s edge. The rest of the herd trickles through the thicket, nibbling at the spiniest dasar and climbing the sternest khejri. Deeper in the jungle, sonorous bells ring, swinging around the necks of unhurried buffaloes . Babu Lal, their pastoralist, carries an axe across his shoulders. “Sometimes an animal gets stuck, their horn gets caught… that is why I carry the axe” he shares. “We don’t cut trees. If the trees are destroyed, from where will we get fodder or wood? We protect the forest, it also benefits us.” he beams. No lopping of branches for fodder, no cutting of trees, only collecting dry wood for fuel — new agreements bind the human and forest.

They carry an echo of the old agreements. “Our ancestors had an understanding that we are forgetting,” says Kunjbihari. “The forest at the boundary of the villages was called Kankad Bani, both villages had haaq [right] over this forest and did not cut them.” By “right” he did not mean the right to own or use, but of connection, an understanding that is nearly lost. “While the forest that was protected from use was called Rakhat Bani.” Kunjbihari would use the words “rakhat” and “reserve” to describe the 500 hectares of forests that are currently conserved. While rakhat invoked traditional ways of conservation, reserve invoked state restriction. His choice of words, like the work that was happening, was unalien, springing from and weaving into the place. 

What would these forests look like if they were allowed to grow untouched for close to a century? The answer is found in the bordering village of Tilwar where a closed canopy of dhonk trees filter the afternoon sun. Dhonk is so slow growing that it can be mistaken for a shrub, or when grazed, a creeper. Here, they were forty to eighty feet tall. On top of the steep, dense hill is the shrine of Bhomidev, a legendary warrior whose spirit grants wishes. People offer Bhomidev flowers and alcohol (at the risk of being flicked by young men), songs at every dawn and dusk, labour and devotion. “I don’t graze my goats here, I take them 8-10km away,” shares Chotelal, a 45 year old resident. Even dry wood is offered back for the ceremonial fire. Nothing is taken, only given. This is dev bani, the third kind of forest.

The hillface hidden from the Bhomidev is ravaged. The foothills are spotted with papad and palash trees, all bearing axe wounds; some vilayti keekar — a foreign invasive, and adusa shrubs. Dhonk creeps along the dusty ground in patches. Two large goats climb higher and higher, hunting specs of grass and dasar. Their keeper, a lone woman, gathers firewood. “The village’s goats and cows graze here,” she tells me. When asked why there are no large trees or bushes, she responds in a hurry “Everyone cuts the trees, if I don’t cut them, someone else will”, she chases behind her goats before she can share her name. 

Forests once cared for by the community as a whole are now subject to the individual’s need to maximise income. Kunjbihari feels this fragmentation in his everyday work “Earlier no matter where I went people invited me to their homes, they listened. People do not have time these days. I have to follow up a hundred times for even the smallest work.” Around 50 years old, Kunjbihari wonders who will inherit his work. “After yesterday’s field visit I was finishing paperwork till midnight. Who will work like this when they can get paid more money for mindless work elsewhere?” Sambhaav’s Alwar team has only two other people who are young joinees. 

Kunjbihari epitomises the karyakarta, an activist and worker amongst the people, a breed which is disappearing like the judav, connection, that people felt with nature. “Even when I go to weddings I ask people about their wells and johads,” says Kunjbihari. “This work can only happen through vyakitgat sambandh and vyavahar [personal relationships]. It can’t happen by setting objectives and chasing funding alone,” he says, hinting at non-profits that spend crores on restoring the same river or forest year on year. “This means that people are not benefitting and they have not taken ownership [of the work]” he says. Sambhaav’s conservation works created even decades ago are now taken care of completely by the people, Kunjbihari needn’t visit nor provide additional funds through the organisation. For instance, the village holds an auction for lopping trees for fodder on the johad’s periphery, the money from which is used to make the johad deeper. 

Despite the advantages from Sambhaav’s work, the community has not stepped forward to systematically extend the work in the region by themselves. “Because of water availability, people’s incomes through livestock and farming have doubled or tripled, but did the community extend its support to do similar work in neighbouring villages? Or did they pull Sambhaav out from the pits when there was a gap in its functioning?” asks Ashis Panda, Sambhaav’s new Executive Secretary, who is rebuilding the organisation’s projects after nine years of hiatus due to transitions in leadership. “We need to tie the work being done in such a way that those who have benefited can reciprocate and cooperate with others to benefit as well, by offering their time, effort and funds in new interventions in new villages. We also need to recognise more interconnections, and add new layers of work such as ecological agriculture, native seeds, market linkages and education — that is work through a systems approach” he elaborates. Kunjbihari has begun distributing Sona Moti, Bansi and Kaali Baal, indigenous wheat seeds for the upcoming Rabi. “People were able to start farming because of water conservation, but they began to use poisons with the coming of irrigation chemicals. Now we are pushing for organic farming at the outset…” he says.

Sambhaav has also started work with government schools.  “We went to the Dhirodha Botanical Park nearby, there were so many varieties of bamboo, I was amazed! We also planted many desi trees in our school”, says Munni, a 5th grader from the local public school. As Sambhaav sows the seeds for the new generation of nature stewards, we wonder what their future will hold. The Supreme Court announced last year that one-twefth of the Aravallis, hills under a 100 metre elevation will no longer be categorised as hills, giving a free chit to their mining and erasure. Yet, for now, villages like these will continue to remember their connections to the hills, forests and rivers, and resist their plunder.

Outro: Sambhaav works on the ground in the two eco-regions of the Thar Desert and the Aravallis in Rajasthan, with a mission to rebuild relationships between nature, livelihoods and culture. Apart from river and forest restoration, they work on several intertwined initiatives. First, reviving rainwater harvesting and groundwater recharge systems such as khadeens (embankments for water capture) and beris (shallow wells). Second, working with government schools on ecological education through initiatives like water conservation, setting up kitchen and forest gardens. Third, conserving native seeds and plants and promoting biodiversity-based ecological agriculture. And forth, documenting and communicating their work. They are in the process of building new partnerships and educational channels, such as through the agroecology multiversity courses. They are in the process of reviving a hindi language ecological newsletter started by the late Anupam Mishra, a stalwart in the field, who was Sambhaav’s trustee and mentor.  For internships and volunteering opportunities you can reach out to [email protected].

Scientific name: 

Initially I had not included scientific names, it might be worth questioning if their inclusion is necessary, and if yes, why. In some sense they are viewed as being more legitimate and accurate than their local names, but I would argue that it is the local names which are more legitimate and truthful. In using local names only we are signaling that we value knowledge paradigms that arise from relationship and lived experience rather than striving for an ‘objective’ and extractive end. In any case here are the scientific names that I could find:

Dhonk Anogeissus pendula

Ker Capparis sepiaria

Adusa Justicia adhatoda

Jungli tulsi Ocimum sp

Papad Holoptelea integrifolia

Vilayti keekar Neltuma juliflora formerly Prosopis juliflora

Jhadu wala ped Indigofera colutea

Jaal

Video from protected forest of Goverdhanpura https://drive.google.com/file/d/1A9feGw48qKdq2YdFf1P_4SkFeI5V2UZI/view?usp=drivesdk

About the Author

Anushka loves gardening, singing and travelling. She’s an independent consultant who works on issues of environment, agroecology and alternative education. 

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