This article is written by Avisha Jain, based on her experiences from walking along River Luni as part of our Moving Upstream: Luni Fellowship programme. She undertook this journey with co-fellow Suraj Singh. Please note that this is a long read ~ 20 minutes (with lots of visuals!)
Cover photo: A great egret visits the Luni in a wet stretch of the river
Our first steps on River Luni were taken at Bhatala village, a nondescript clump of low houses bisected by the main road in Western Rajasthan. We had expected the river to be just a barren, dust bowl. Our first steps affirmed this. The river bed was sandy, as if a part of the Thar Desert had been transported here.
A few moments later, we could see some men on the river bed at a distance. They stood still. They seemed to be scrutinising our movements. We were being watched. Our bodies tensed. Our hearts pulsed. We put our phones in our pockets and in silence, we hurried on. We had unknowingly entered an active area of illegal sand mining.
In the weeks before, my walking partner, Suraj Singh, and I poured over maps and research papers. We both work and stay in different parts of Rajasthan, and this landscape, culture and language is somewhat familiar to us. We reached out to our contacts to form a picture of what to expect on this walk.
Within the first hour of the walk, we realised that we had little idea of what was to come. As we took speedy steps away from the men who continued to watch us, it felt like we had escaped a potentially thorny situation.
We would be wrong again. Five days later we wound up staying at the house of an illegal sand miner. Listening to the trucks roll by in the silence of the night, we couldn’t but chuckle at the surprises thrown by this Fellowship.
The walk
Suraj and I walked 150+ kms over two weeks in February 2024. We observed gradual changes in terrain, agriculture, food, water access and the river itself.
The landscape here changed every second day: from sandy river beds to a surface pockmarked in rainwater pools; from the stench of textile effluents to vibrant fields of water-guzzling fruits like pomegranates.
I’d assumed that the Luni River was a critical lifeline that would be cared for or worshiped. But, we found that it was another resource to be extracted for groundwater, sand and rock or treated like wasteland to be polluted.
Luni as a mesh of pipes
In the initial days of our walk, the sandy river bed was marked by a dense network of rubber tubes and pipes. All of them emanated from tubewells and spread towards the fields beyond.
Bhalaram, a farmer in Bhatala, said the tubewells drew water from a depth of 200 feet. “Even this water is so saline that we can only grow cumin and isabgol (Psyllium, which is a dietary fibre),” he said.
As we talked, Bhalaram kept a nervous lookout for rabbit and wild boar that often raided his crops. The river banks provided a safe space for the creatures. He boiled water pumped from the tubewell and offered us a cup. The water was so saline that we could not drink more than one sip.
In this region, villagers relied on taankas1 for potable water. These are closed water storage structures made using cement or other locally available materials. A small opening on the sides, which is covered with a sieve, acts as a filter. Rainwater enters here and is used even in summers when there is acute water scarcity.
River bed as a resource
The river bed had sites of past and present sand mining. And like our first day, we’d often encounter people actively engaged in illegal sand mining2.
At Dandali, Mukesh – who didn’t give us his full name – approached us. Two sand miners had spotted us and had directed him to enquire about our motives. Fear cut across both ways: us of them, and them of us. “People who are mining here get scared and stop working on seeing you,” he said.
The workers get INR 500-1,000 per tractor load of illegally lifting sand. But, if caught by the government, they could face a INR 1,50,000 fine.
There was visible relief when Mukesh found out that we were not from the government. “I’ll call people further ahead and tell them about you. This way, they won’t feel scared when they see you,” he said.
Habitation in the first few days of the walk was sparse and it was evident that not many people walk through this region. The river was flanked by rocky hillocks and scrub forests.
When there is little mining happening, the river can reveal itself to be a beautiful, serene place. At Nakoda Golai, one can hear the leaves blowing in the forest, the birds chirping and the wind creating ripples on the surface of the river. A skull or two of prey dotted the banks. Wild animals revealed their presence through the rustle of bushes.
The economics and politics of sand mining here unfurled through expected ways. One night, with few houses in sight, we ended up staying at an open rest house created close to the river bank. It was created by a local police informer (who are locals paid to pass on useful information to the police) to keep track of illegal sand mining. We found out quickly enough that this was not for protection of the river, but as a way to take money from every truck and tractor that passed through. This was one way illicit money was entering local governance.
It wasn’t just sand that was being mined. The hills were mined of stone, and at Bhimarlaai we were amazed to find fields dug up entirely. In this rocky, hilly part, gypsum is aplenty. Many farmers had mined the fields, leaving a trail of upturned soil.
Gypsum mining started here three years ago, and its price has skyrocketed: from INR 75,000 a truck to over INR 6,00,000 now. An average size farm holding here can yield 2 trucks of gypsum.
Much of this is done illegally by ignoring government norms, said Tikmaram Prajapat, a 39-year old who owns 100 bigha3 of land. He has resisted the temptation of mining for gypsum in his fields. “The soil loses its fertility after mining. It will take 3-4 years for the soil to settle down and for cultivation to even begin,” he said.
Multi-coloured faces of the Luni
A little upstream, the character of the river was determined by Balotra, a town known for its textile and dyeing industries. For nearly 30 kilometers downstream of Balotra, the river holds only stagnant, multi-coloured water that can’t be used for drinking, agriculture or even for livestock. The quality is so bad that even sand miners complained that the effluents were turning the sand saline and unsuitable for use.
Balotra is a dusty, crowded town built on its thriving textile industry. There are at least 1,163 textile factories in the district, most along the banks of the Luni. By law, these effluents can’t be discharged directly into the river. The Rajasthan government operates six Central Effluent Treatment Plants (CETP) which are supposed to treat effluents and only then discharge into the river.
We spotted an effluent plant in Jasol, on the outskirts of Balotra. After a bit of persistence, we managed to convince someone there to give us a tour of the place.
Jasol has over 110 textile factories which are supposed to direct their effluents to the CETP, said an engineer from the plant who talked to us candidly on the condition that we don’t mention his name in any publication.
This CETP was built to handle 6.5 Million Litres per Day (MLD) of effluent. But, according to the engineer, just 1,00,000 litres – or, barely 1.5% of the installed capacity – was being treated. The rest were just let out untreated.
From pollution to pomegranates
Just beyond Balotra – that is, upstream of it – the landscape changed drastically. Sandy, dry soil gave way to loamy, damp, fertile soil. It felt like we were transitioning between two different parts of Western Rajasthan: from an arid one to a green one with the dusty, polluted town of Balotra as its doorway.
There were fields of mustard, wheat and leafy vegetables; and even several large canopy trees. Even on satellite maps, one can see Kitnod and surrounding villages as a patch of green in an otherwise dreary brown region. The Luni remains dry here, but the borewells drilled into its bed produce sweet water.
What was a surprise was seeing large orchards of pomegranates.
The Patel brothers – Prakash and Parvesh – claimed to have introduced the crop in the region 15 years ago. They remain the largest pomegranate farmers in the region.
“Textile merchants from Malegaon (in Maharashtra) often visited the industries in Balotra. Pomegranates are grown in Malegaon and they brought the first seeds here,” said Prakash Patel. He is a grey-haired man in his early 50s, whose face reflects the collective wisdom of decades of work in the fields. There was a pervasive enthusiasm and energy about him. “Many farmers here have made their fortune in pomegranates.”
Pomegranates are heavily subsidized by the government (60% subsidy on input costs for three years), while the rate per kilogramme of the fruit can be as high as INR 90. The Patel brothers have 6,000 pomegranate saplings and by their rough calculation, each tree gives about Rs. 1,000 in annual revenue.
This fortune comes at a price. I spotted an abnormal number of pesticide cans and bottles piled in a tub. Use of these chemicals have serious impacts on human health as well as soil health, leading to environmental consequences.
As a coordinator in a non-profit focusing on natural farming, I’d assumed that agriculture in Western Rajasthan, which is bereft of large irrigation projects, was largely untouched by the unintentional consequences of the practices that came along with the Green Revolution. But here, pesticide usage mirrored that of fields in water-rich, canal-irrigated fields along the Indus and Ganga basins.
Parvesh Patel said this was necessary as pomegranates were susceptible to pests. The brothers have also started seeing the effects of this overuse. Soil health is declining, while pest attacks have remained persistent. This has initiated a cycle of using harsher pesticides. “In 100 years, the soil will be barren. One won’t be able to cultivate here,” said Parvesh, before quickly adding: “But who looks ahead to 100 years, when we continue to get profits now?”
A return to dryness
As we walked out of Kitnod, the green transitioned back to brown and pervasive aridity returned. Samdari, which was the last stop of our walk, has not seen water flow in the Luni River between 2017 and 2024, says Balwant Singh, a farmer and postal worker there. In 2024, the rains picked up again, but the drinking water situation remains bad.
The village has minor distributaries of the Indira Gandhi canal4, but the frequency of water flow is insufficient. Water comes here for two hours every two weeks.
“We end up relying on water tankers from other villages for drinking water supply, which can cost INR 1200-1500 per tanker. We need this twice a month, so the expenses on water are high here,” Balwant said.
Policy and market economics impact biodiversity
Apart from Kitnod, our walk was characterised by sparse, thorny vegetation. these are nature’s way of sustaining life in the desert ecosystem. Meethi jhaal (Salvadora oleoides), khaari jhaal (Salvadora persica), kheep (leptadenia pyrotechnica), phog (Calligonum polygonoides), siniya ghas (Crotalaria Burhia), dhaaman ghaas (Cenchrus biflorus) prevent desertification and provide fodder for the livestock in the region.
But native species, which have sustained the ecosystem and the community for millenia, are declining; and in its place, Vilayati babool (Neltuma juliflora/Prosopis juliflora) is thriving. Through the walk, the invasive species was a constant companion – making it difficult to access the river bank in some stretches.
Gumnaram, who works in the state forest department, said the tree had been actively promoted by the department between 1975 and 1995 to combat desertification. The seeds would even be sprayed aerially. “But, it stifled the growth of native species. Consequently, the mosquito population rose in the region, while higher rates of Asthma was reported among residents. It was only on seeing these effects did the department stop promoting it,” he said.
By then, it was too late. The invasive species is now firmly entrenched in the landscape.
Apart from flawed governmental policy, market economics also plays a role in preserving local biodiversity. For two weeks, we ate with locals and could observe these subtle changes in diets.
In villages that were remote, had bad road connectivity and low access to external markets, we found that the meals consisted of local vegetables native to the desert:
- Matira, a desert melon creeper grown along with a climber (like beans) and another crop (like corn).
- Ker: a small, sour fruit which is sun-dried to make the popular dish ker saangri
- Saangri: a long bean of western Rajasthan that is grown in the ubiquitous and religiously-significant Khejri Tree.
- Kakdi: a local cucumber.
- Kaachri: a small, oval-shaped savoury fruit that is dried and preserved till summer.
This dependence ensured that these native fruits and vegetables were grown within the villages.
However, in villages that had good road access to towns and cities, we found that the meals served largely relied on greens and vegetables like cabbage, green onions, peas, potato, tomato etc. grown in other parts of Rajasthan and north India. Consequently, cultivation of local vegetables had declined.
We observed this change in the staple too: wheat. In Bithuja, a local variety of wheat known as laal gehu (Red Wheat), which is slightly darker in color, was the staple. A few years back, another variety of wheat called kanak, which is lighter in color, was introduced. Lighter-coloured rotis made from this became more popular. Despite the higher prices for laal gehu, locals have shifted to kanak wheat cultivation. Now, laal gehu is grown only in patches primarily for self-consumption.
A woman’s voice in a patriarchal world
As a social development professional, field visits are the backbone of my work.
Usually, we’d be accompanied by a local contact; someone who had spent time building a relationship with the community. This approach ensured interactions were quicker, smoother and more focussed. However, it also created a certain vagueness of consent. Interactions felt distant: we’d ask questions and expect comprehensive answers. Often, villagers would have only a cursory knowledge about us or our objectives.
The Moving Upstream fellowship upended this approach. We had to engage directly at random with the community members. We had to gather information and find ways to seek bigger favours like providing a meal or stay.
This meant taking the time to introduce ourselves, explaining our purpose, building rapport, and taking explicit consent. It required a more respectful and conscious approach. It built a deeper relationship. The questions were not one way: often, we’d be the ones interrogated. The process seemed to give the communities as much agency as us. It was a relationship of some equality.
We were constantly objects of curiosity through the walk. It wasn’t just sand miners scrutinising our movements. Passers-by often stared at us until we were out of their view. Some even stopped to ask us a few questions.
Questions I was asked, as a woman, differed from what my male walking partner was asked. Out in the open, it was the men asking the questions. But at night, when we’d find shelter in the home, I was often whisked away into a separate space within the house which was the domain of women. Here, the women of the house who had probably bottled their curiosity about us opened up. The veil they wore outside literally and figuratively would be lowered.
Sushila, whose husband had offered us to stay at their place in Juna Somesara, wasted no time in interrogating me the moment I entered the “women’s space” of the house. Her first inquiry was about my caste. Satisfied that I was from a “respectable” caste, her inquiry assumed a softer tone: “Why are you walking? Who is with you? Did your family allow you for this walk?”
It was only in this space of the home that she could learn about the strangers who were let in by the men of the house. Strangers whom she had to cook for and care for.
Through the night, Sushila – and later, her three daughters – bombarded me with questions. Their curiosity pervaded the room. I became a window for her to learn about urban life. Sushila wanted to know if persons from ‘lower castes’ in cities were offered food in the same utensils as the “upper caste”. She wanted to know how I had acquired the freedom to choose my own career path, and where the courage to embark on the walk came from. Her daughters interrogated me about my education, the courses I’d taken and the work I’m doing.
Most interactions during the walk were like this. The men took the decision to host us; and the women would talk only in hushed whispers in their allocated space within the house.
But, just when I assumed that there was no escape from oppressive patriarchy here, I met Paani Devi in Jethantri on the penultimate day.
She was in her 50s, and her towering personality was matched by a strong voice. There was a remarkable confidence about her – something we had not seen among most women during the entire walk. We approached her, and after our introductions, she offered us tea.
In the meantime, Paani ordered her husband to head to the market with a long shopping list. Unlike the other women of our walk, she was unfussed about carrying on conversation with two strangers. We broached the tricky part of the conversation: asking for a place to stay the night.
Without hesitation and without expecting her husband to return to take the decision, Paani Devi offered us the house of her relative who had left the village for a few weeks. She was the only woman so far to make the decision for us to stay at her place.
With Paani Devi, I neither felt like a guest nor an interviewer with agency over her.
She was equally at command in the fields, where she told us about the perils of cumin cultivation: the heat and dry winds had just ruined her crop. Her authority was so pervasive that when we politely asked her if we could help, she rattled off a list of work for us to do in the fields.
Finding my voice
At the end of the walk, it wasn’t just the transformation of the Luni I had observed. The process of walking had gradually transformed me. My journey on the Luni had started off with some fear: of walking, of uncertainty, of potential unpleasant encounters with sand miners and hostile villagers.
On the last day, however, we decided to walk an additional distance just to find a place of solitude on the river bed. We sat there for more than 2 hours in silence. There was strong wind and the sound of nilgai scurrying nearby.
There was no fear. Just peace and the warm bask of achievement.
Footnotes
- https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Taanka ↩︎
- To learn more about Sand Mining, refer to Veditum’s project India Sand Watch ↩︎
- Bigha is a land measurement unit. In Rajasthan 3.97 bighas equal to 1 hectare ↩︎
- The Indira Gandhi Canal brings water to Rajasthan from the Indus basin. Read more here. ↩︎
Avisha Jain 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 (avisshajain@gmail.com) or email us at asid@veditum.org
To read published stories from other sections of the walk, click here.
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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Your dedication shines through every paragraph; the research and effort are truly commendable. This article is a testament to your hard work and passion.
Good going chinu didi very powder of you 🔝