This article is written by Madhuri Sharma, based on her experiences from walking along River Luni (Pichiyak to Ajmer) as part of our Moving Upstream: Luni Fellowship programme. She undertook this journey with co-fellow Hassan Islam. Please note that this is a long read ~ 15 minutes (with lots of visuals!)
Cover photo: Hassan Islam as he traverses a heavily mined riverbed that has been dry for months; now a desolate expanse of barren sand and sparse invasive vegetation.
How do we imagine rivers?
What does the common imagination of a river look like? Often, it’s a vibrant flowing line of blue water carving its way through land.
But this imagination betrays reality for many rivers. The River Luni is a seasonal, sandy river flowing through the arid regions of Rajasthan. It is marked only by various shades of brown that are parcelled into rectangular fields that stretch out till the horizon.
Does that make the Luni a lesser river? No. Even in the absence of water, seasonal rivers can be a canvas over which life sustains and thrives. Even in the absence of water, Luni often takes the form of forested patches that appear as an oasis in the arid landscape. These patches support an incredible diversity of life.
The Luni might exist furtively, but it can’t escape the grisly stamp of human presence that has scarred it beyond recognition. Large amounts of sand continues to be pilfered from its river bed.
At the least, the dried sand bed provides space to hold water, even if temporarily. The Luni may not be flowing, but it often appears pockmarked with puddles and small ponds. It becomes a receptacle to store rainwater water.
The Luni means many things to those from the region. Its bed can become a home to the marginalized who have not been welcomed anywhere else.
Or, for some, it is a cremation ground. Unlike the holy rivers of the country, here, the cremation doesn’t take place by the banks of the river, but in the river itself.
And sometimes, the river becomes a putrid reality of society. A reality that we’d rather not address, and instead pass the poison to communities downstream.
Walking on and along the Luni
This is the story of our 140-km journey along the Luni River in Rajasthan, from Pichiyak dam to Ana Sagar Lake in Ajmer as part of the Moving Upstream Luni Fellowship. The lake is one of the sources of the Sabarmati River, flowing out of the city as an urban nallah and eventually joining other tributaries to form the Luni River.
My walking partner, Hassan Islam, and I spent two weeks immersed in the environment and lives of the riparian communities, experiencing a spectrum of emotions: wonder, curiosity, hope, disappointment and uncertainty.
The walk challenged us in every way possible: physically, mentally and even our perceptions of what ‘nature’ could be.
When we are taught about rivers in school, it is almost always expressed as two lines, two edges with blue in between. This walk has completely changed this naive perception for me because it’s impossible to have two ‘lines’ or ‘edges’ to define any river’s extent.
Above are drawings by Komal Singh and Lavjeet Singh (aged 14 and 4) who live in Udaliyawas, a village next to the Luni river. They excitedly drew these when they heard about our journey along the river. They stay a kilometer from the banks, but they too imagine Luni to be lines of blue, surrounded by trees.
In reality, the river close to their homes was indistinguishable from the brown of the fields. This is perhaps a reflection of how the education system inculcates within us an idea of what a river should look like.
This fellowship was an attempt to document the complexity of a river, using the slowness of walking as a medium. While we had a rough daily walking plan, the days were often shaped by the people we met along the way.
In nearly every village, we were approached with curiosity (and sometimes suspicion) on the streets, at chowks (junctions), and from balconies & verandahs, asking who we were and what we were doing with our large bags.
When the small talk and courtesies ended, most people would invite us home. The offer was a chai or a warm meal. All our curiosities for each other’s lives would eventually bring up the most intriguing conversations centered around the river, their livelihoods and their everyday joys & struggles.
The walk was intended to chalk out the river’s contribution to people’s daily lives and their memories beyond its geographical bounds. Walking as a medium to understand all this, has been a brilliant method and just the amount of pace needed to pause yet keep moving.
Changing landscapes, occupations and agriculture
At the start of our walk, downstream from the source, water levels were extremely low. This impacted agricultural livelihoods, leading to high outward migration. As we walked upstream, the landscape shifted. Around Alniyawas, water and rocky contours transformed the scenery.
The contrast was so stark that people from different areas couldn’t believe each other’s experiences. Upstream, fishermen in the plentiful Govindgarh reservoir were shocked by videos of the bone-dry Pichiyak dam, some 100-km downstream from them. Many in Ajmer were unaware of these extremes downstream.
Agriculture remains a key livelihood for riparian communities along our route, with most farmers cultivating less-water-demanding crops such as Jeera (Cumin), Bajra (Pearl Millet), and Moong (Mung Bean). In winter, some vegetables like Gawar (cluster bean) and Tinda (Indian round gourd) are also grown. However, the introduction of borewells and government water supply has led to the widespread cultivation of water-intensive wheat, a shift that began post-independence with the government’s focus on food security.
As cultivation changed, so did people’s culinary culture. Access to water, in some ways, became a form of aspirational currency. “A whole generation grew up accustomed to the taste of wheat, and depending on it as a staple,” says Ramrant Chowdhary, who in his lifetime has bore witness to this transformation. “The traditionally eaten Gujji (Barley), now associated with poverty, is grown only as animal fodder”.
Ramrant, originally from the area, had worked in a factory in Ghaziabad (Uttar Pradesh) before returning home when the factory closed. His farm, located along the riverbanks in Rampura ki Dabla, benefits from 4-5 functioning wells together irrigating 100 bighas1 of land—a rarity in the region. He described two types of farmland: “Chai” (छाई), with perennial water, and “Bharani” (भारणी), suitable for seasonal farming.
Bharani land, which is not taxed, tempted him to return to agriculture as means of livelihood. But, his wells were dry and barely 3 bhigas (less than 1 acre) were being irrigated. That changed when the Sabarmati River2 started to flow in the canals near his land five years ago. Today, he cultivates wheat, barley, onions, chilies, peas, and several types of flowers, including Genda Phool (Marigolds).
This is the story of the Luni in regions closer to the source – farmers shifting to more lucrative but highly water-intensive crops, which comes at a steep cost. Both groundwater and surface water, drawn from wells, are naturally replenished (to some extent) by Luni’s seasonal flow.
However, the impact of dams, sand mining, climate change, and over-extraction has severely diminished the river’s reach, leaving it barely flowing beyond Alniyawas, just 40kms from the source of the river. As a result, farmers downstream are increasingly forced to depend on expensive borewells, which must drill ever deeper, often tapping into only saline aquifers.
Consequently, migration is rampant here: with many choosing the uncertainties of cities over the uncertainties of agriculture. “It’s a gamble. We have to separate from our families to survive, with no security even in cities,” says Durgaram Mali, 60. “My family prefers South India, but we only see each other during Diwali. Employment is a huge issue, and we rely on community networks for odd jobs.” Durgaram owns 50 bighas of land and primarily grows Jeera (Cumin), Rayda (Mustard) and Bajra (Pearl Millet). His sons have migrated, leaving the elderly couple with farmland and an empty house to maintain.
There’s immense pressure on land too, with the riverbed becoming a refuge for those who have lost access to commonlands elsewhere. Pastoralists are often seen with their herds of sheep and goats on the river bed – the only land they still have access to.
Sand Mining
As traditional occupations struggle, the illegal ones thrive. The aridity of Luni has opened up its sand-laden bed. Throughout the walk, the scars of rampant sand mining3 were unmistakable.
The sand mined areas only got larger as we walked upstream. We could see huge mounds of excavated rock and sand, some almost 30-50ft high. The river’s path was obstructed by these mined depressions that acted like artificial ponds. There was little life around. Shrubs, trees, birds and sights of little creatures scurrying around were replaced by omnipresent marks of the JCB4 tires.
With mining so ubiquitous, we’d often encounter those illegally removing sand. Most villagers were certain that sand mining was destroying the river. But there was resignation too: they had little choice.
Ramji (name changed, aged 32) was embarrassed about his sand mining involvement even before we brought it up. “Farming is in my blood, and we have 20 bighas of land next to the river. I tried for years to sustain growing minimally with whatever scarce water was possible. Two years ago, the water situation got extremely severe, and I decided to join the other villagers in the mining,” he says.
In the cloak of darkness, they’d leave the village. Between 3 a.m. and 6 a.m., their machines ravage the river bed. A day’s earning would ensure food on the table. “The whole village is involved, even the police, with the sand ultimately controlled by the ‘mafia’ in Jaipur,” he says.
Who does the river belong to?
As our walk reached its end towards Ajmer, we could see the dramatic effect of the urban fabric around the river ecosystem. The Nadi (river), even when it had no water seemed to have more importance downstream, compared to the Nala (waste water channel) that it was perceived as around Ajmer. The white floating foam created by the polluted water was disheartening to watch, as they floated away downstream.
There was a general mindset, throughout the cities and the villages, that somehow the people in Ajmer deserve more water than others. This seems to come with an inherent right to waste the same abundance. This sets up a cruel cycle of suffering in rural areas, where the panacea to their ills is to migrate to cities. And for cities, it is an excuse to set up faraway dams to quench the city’s perennial thirst.
This irony was not lost on Mahesh Kumar (Age 40) at Govindgarh. The village is by the Govindgarh reservoir, the last major water body of the Luni river. “Despite appearing water-rich, both Ajmer and Govindgarh rely on drinking water from Bisalpur Dam5 (situated 130 kms away on the Banas River, a tributary of River Chambal). The Saraswati River (a key tributary of the Luni) is now dry due to multiple dams, leaving Govindgarh with piped water only coming in once every 4-5 days,” he says.
Even the fish at Govindgarh is not meant for those who live nearby. Fishing at the river is only through a license, which is auctioned off. “We applied for a fishing license when the reservoir was dry and prices were low. Fortunately, water levels have improved, leading to great profits,” says Naushad Ali (34), who leads a group of fishermen there. “We hire skilled fisherpeople from Bihar and West Bengal, and our catch is sent directly to Delhi, not sold locally.”
Locals instead are forced to resort to “illegal” fishing.
Listening to the ether
As we undertook the walk, the contrasts of sound and silence, company and solitude, and arid versus green landscapes became more pronounced. The constant uncertainty eventually went hand in hand with the confidence that we can figure things out. By the end of the walk, we actually enjoyed the uncertainty and the adrenaline rush of being surprised by something completely new.
Even if we couldn’t always see the birds, their calls were familiar and changed as we moved upstream. We felt the wind on hot days and found the early morning bhajans both bothersome and strangely catchy. The constant rhythms of Marwadi music from passing vehicles guided us through the vast river landscape. We also grew accustomed to the sounds of our feet on various surfaces—sand, grass, mud, and gravel.
Crossing fields and ducking through fences, we noticed the distinct river sand compared to the soil in irrigated areas. Vegetation was sparse, with Khejdi (Prosopis Cineraria), Babul (Vachellia nilotica), Jalki (Salvadora persica), Ber (Ziziphus mauritiana), Kaner (Nerium indicum), Rohida (Tecomella undulata), Ker (Capparis decidua), and the invasive Vilayati Babul6 (Neltuma Juliflora) standing against the clear blue skies.
Just after two weeks of walking there was so much familiarity with these cycles, we would often wonder how much more depth the pastoralists who walk everyday and depend on it must have. Their intuitive accuracy with directions, water availability, rain predictions and empathy with the animals were amazing to observe.
Observations as outsiders
We rarely encountered women engaging in public conversations with us, except for older women. In private spaces, like kitchens, and with their ghunghats removed, younger women were more open, discussing their vibrant domestic life and their roles with a sense of acceptance.
Many girls attending school were often first-generation students, however many seemed to be dropping out after Class 8. Additionally, several women had been married off unofficially as children. Despite living by the river, many women, especially those from privileged castes with stricter indoor norms, had never seen it.
The hyper awareness of my privilege accompanied me throughout the walk; a quiet but lurking shadow questioning my intentions and gaze. This suddenly grew louder as we ended the walk, wondering what power we have as individuals or small groups in the face of the complicated layers of society.
Whenever we met someone, before even our names, we were asked about our caste first. And oddly, only mine usually. They constantly asked for my ID card (and not Hassan) and on seeing ‘Sharma’ (a privileged caste surname), it was a sense of relief for them and they would open up. It was an uncomfortable experience to be reminded that our birth caste has and continues to shape everything we do today.
In the Marwad region, traditional attire varied by community. Women wore bright, synthetic fabrics, with most Hindu women in ghaghras, blouses, and odhnis, and most Muslim women in salwar kameez with Bandhej Odhnis. Men typically chose plain cotton garments, with older men wearing unstitched turbans and dhotis that symbolised their caste.
Men often accessorized with golden earrings featuring ruby flowers, while women adorned themselves with distinct silver and lac jewelry, much of which had been worn since childhood and could not be removed. This stark contrast made us reflect on the relative freedom some of us have in changing our appearance.
Food became a gesture of love where words failed. In this parched landscape, traditional cuisine relies on dried, spiced foods like Mangodi, Raabdi, and Gatta, which last longer than fresh vegetables. Preparing food was a slow, communal activity, with everyone gathering around the wood-fired chulhas.
Food is inextricably linked to water in the Luni. Bajra was common in the water-scarce Marwar region, while wheat was preferred near Ajmer. Pastoralists often sold their goats but did not consume the meat themselves. Despite living by the river, fish was rarely eaten, likely due to the river’s seasonal nature.
Architecture and the built environment
Being an architect, I’d peer at the buildings wondering about their design systems. The design choices, materials and layouts of older buildings were a product of centuries of evolution, providing comfortable living even in extreme climates. They reflect a direct response to the climate, community co-living, frugality in philosophy, proximity to materials and the availability of natural resources.
The older houses, often made with adobe (sun-dried mud blocks) and mud plasters with earth sourced locally from the lakes and rivers nearby. They are mixed with herbs (like methi – fenugreek) and processed with an intuition that has been passed down over generations.
Open spaces are the heart and life of the homes in this hot, (and then cold), arid region. The courtyards, verandahs and terraces are the versatile playgrounds for all the activities in the house and its use changes with time of day and with season. These open spaces have been shaped organically based on how people live and have grown with the families and villages collectively. Principally this applies to the larger village level scale too, of how settlements grow and evolve and get used.
Many newer buildings, however, are constructed using water-intensive methods like concrete and fired bricks—materials chosen without regard for the local climatic context, much like in other parts of the country. These structures often lack the wisdom embedded in older designs and result in less comfortable living conditions. Those with more resources resort to air conditioning, while those with less are left to endure poor thermal comfort.
However, it’s important to acknowledge that the desire for a “pucca” (brick & concrete) house often symbolizes a drive to overcome poverty and achieve societal status, rather than merely romanticizing traditional structures. The maintenance of the older structures was often ritualistic, intertwined with festivals, natural resources, and caste-based professions, embodying a cultural system that doesn’t exist without resistance now.
Having seen the rampant illegal mining of sand, I wondered how my work is directly complicit in the pilfering of natural resources. My work relies on these materials, and while policies suggest m-sand (manufactured sand) as an alternative, it also has significant environmental drawbacks.
Small and big acts
With numerous pauses and countless cups of chai, our days were filled with walking, aiming to be indoors before sunset. Without prearranged plans for food or lodging, we depended on the generosity of strangers who welcomed us into their homes, verandahs, school classrooms, Panchayat buildings, and ashrams.
We were incredibly fortunate to experience some of the most remarkable acts of kindness along the way. In Rampura ki Daabla, Ugmi Devi (80) was tending her sheep when I asked if her woolen shawl was made from desi oon (local wool). She confirmed it was and our conversation sputtered as she spoke Marwari and I Hindi.
She then insisted I try on her shawl. She dismissed my protest and I wore it. When I tried to give it back she refused. Despite our language barrier, it became clear that she wanted to gift this to me.
That night, I stayed up a bit longer, reflecting on how I had never experienced anything like this before and how much there is still to learn about sharing. Despite their limited space, they ensured we slept comfortably in another building. That night I teared up, felt humbled. It felt difficult to ‘rationalize’ this kindness I’ve received.
These small and big acts of kindness often got us thinking about the nature of altruism, especially when resources are so limited. Perhaps, it is as natural to share as it is to accumulate excess.
The simplicity of the fellowship’s core intent—to walk, observe, listen, and see—provided us with a range of learning experiences. The seeds for questioning and reflection have been sown.
Footnotes
- Bigha is a land measurement unit. In Rajasthan 3.97 bighas equal to 1 hectare ↩︎
- Sabarmati is the local name for 1 of the 2 main streams that join to form Luni near its origin. Not to be confused with River Sabarmati that flows through Ahmedabad) ↩︎
- To learn more about Sand Mining, refer to Veditum’s project India Sand Watch ↩︎
- JCB is a reference to backhoes and excavators, which are popularly referred to with the name of the company – JCB – that produces them. ↩︎
- https://hi.wikipedia.org/wiki/बीसलपुर_बाँध ↩︎
- Vandita Sariya, another fellow on the Moving Upstream Luni fellowship has written a detailed piece about Vilayati Babool for Carbon Copy. Read it here: https://carboncopy.info/kill-or-keep-how-a-thorny-invasive-shrub-is-shaking-up-indias-ecosystem/ ↩︎
Madhuri Sharma is a Moving Upstream fellow who spent time walking along River Luni, as part of Veditum’s Moving Upstream Fellowship program along River Luni, that we co-hosted with the School of Public Policy, IIT Delhi, and was supported by Out of Eden Walk & A4Store. To read more about our Moving Upstream project, click here.
If you’d like to commission stories from this walk, please write to the author (madhurisharma612@gmail.com) or email us at asid@veditum.org
Mohit Rao & Siddharth Agarwal mentored and guided the fellows, and have also edited and produced this piece. The Luni Fellowship has been held together in collaboration with Prof. Pooja Prasad.
This piece can be re-published (CC BY-NC-SA) with a line mentioning ‘This was originally published on Veditum’ and a link back to this page. In case of re-publishing, please alert asid@veditum.org
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