Shepherds in Palamu: battling climate change

“Come, come! Have a seat,” calls out Nandu Pal, 45, as he spreads out a white blanket made of sheep’s wool on the ground for me to sit. A member of the Gaderi community—traditionally known for sheep rearing and listed as OBC in the state list—he explains, “This keeps you cool in summer, warm in winter, and also provides shelter from the rain.”

Not content with sharing only its practical uses, he continues: “it has been honoured by kings and emperors. And this is the very seat of the high priests; it is considered auspicious; the tradition has failed.”

Nandu’s sheep – 650 of the indigenous Chottanagpuri breed are grazing around us here in Sheopur village. Nandu has been herding sheep for five generations, a job he doesn't take lightly. “You can't leave them alone for even a minute,” he says, chewing on a datun (twig used for cleaning teeth). “If you get careless, the dogs will attack or the sheep will wander into someone’s fields.”

It’s the second week of May, and the temperature in Jharkhand’s Palamu district has already climbed to 43°C. Dry fields stretch as far as the eye can see. A solitary pond, situated about 500 metres from where we sit, is the last remaining water lifeline for Sheopur village. Locals refer to it as ‘Sheopur dam,’ and it sustains crops and animals like Nandu’s sheep.

The proximity of water is one of the reasons why the group of Nandu along with his two male cousins and a young nephew has camped here. They’ve enclosed the sheep in a nylon net to protect them from wild animals. The shepherds manage without a tent or makeshift shelter – they just roll out their blankets each night and sleep under the open sky.

“Do you know what the scriptures say about sheep?” Nandu asks. And then he answers after a pause: “they [sheep] want to stay far from humans!”

Shepherds like Nandu say that grazing has been severely affected by climate change. Pastures have shrunk in size and even the quality of grass has deteriorated. “Pahale hamlog kahi kahi ek ek mahina bhi ruk jate the, lekin ab mushkil se 10 din. Bedhi charbe nahi karega [Earlier, the sheep could graze in one place for a month, but now they can hardly stay even 10 days],” he tells PARI. Nandu and the other shepherds belong to the Gaderia community (Pal or Bherihar-Gaderi), listed as Other Backward Class (OBC) in the state.

Jharkhand is one of India’s most climate-vulnerable states, facing droughts, irregular rainfall, floods, rising temperatures and frequent heat waves. Within the state, Palamu is projected to be among the worst-affected districts. Summer temperatures are expected to rise 1-2 °C from 2021-2050, says this 2022 report on district level changes in climate.

Hotter days as well as higher intensity rainfall have already impacted agriculture and allied activities like pastoralism. “Earlier, grazing was never a problem. But now we have to venture out far and wide in search of grazing pastures. It is still difficult to feed the sheep,” says Nandu about the small ruminants in his charge.

Nandu Pal is among the few remaining shepherds in Kankari village, which is located in the Chainpur block of Palamu. While the state has over six lakh sheep (2019), it ranks among the major goat herding states in the country with over 88 lakh animals, not to mention 11 million cattle. These animals share common grazing grounds.

“On some days, we have to walk 12–13 kos [about 40 kilometres] in search of pastures,” adds Ramrati, 62, Pal’s paternal cousin. “Earlier, there used to be plenty of grass in the dohar, like magar grass and stalks. But now, that’s gone too,” he adds. Magar ghaas is a thick, coarse grass that grows abundantly around dohar (natural water bodies) in the region. It is often used as fodder for livestock and only thrives in wet soil conditions. As water bodies shrink, this grass has disappeared.

Even the farmed land is not giving the animals enough to chew on. Where earlier crops like channa and chakawad (Senna obtusifolia) grew and left their seeds in the field, now they are hard to find as few farmers grow them. Instead, many now cultivate maize, paddy and wheat; crops that leave no edible residue for grazing. “Sheep aren’t getting the nutrition they used to. Now, all you see is a little bit of savanna grass and some dub grass [​​Cynodon dactylon],” says Nandu.

Two years (2022 and 2023) of drought in the area has dried up water bodies, or they are now too polluted. “Sheep need clean water to survive,” adds Nandu, who has seen many water bodies disappearing in the last decade.

During last year’s drought, “We were at breaking point. After grazing all day, the sheep still went hungry,” says Nandu in a loud tone. “I lost 20 sheep last year [2023],” says Nandu after a pause.

Recently, Nandu and his companions had their sheep vaccinated against pneumococcal diseases, a potential danger they say, for animals unable to access clean water.

“Every four months we shear the sheep’s wool, and only then do we vaccinate them],” he explains. For flock of 600 sheep, he spends about 8,000 rupees every four months on vaccinations, almost 25,000 rupees a year.

Remembering the old days, when Jharkhand was part of Bihar, “In Lalu’s time everything was good; we used to get all the medicines, but now we don’t get anything,” says Nandu with disappointment.

When will this news show up on our mobiles?” Ramrati interrupts. “We should be getting some support from the government,” he says.

Wool was considered priceless once. “Now, we just throw away the wool after shearing it. What else can we do?” says Ramrati. Others agree, “what we will do now…”

Nandu holds up his worn plastic shoes. “They’ve removed everything valuable and left us with only rubbish,” he says. “In the old days of the kings, work was done order by order; sheep hides made our shoes. Now they’ve stopped that, and we have to wear plastic shoes,” says Nandu.

The rising costs of keeping sheep is worsened by the lack of income from their wool. “Earlier, when we used to sell wool, we could get up to 100 rupees for three kilos,” says Nandu. But those good days are long gone.

The women of their families helped with the weaving. “It was a lot of hard work. First, you had to clean the wool, then card it, spin the thread, and only then could you weave. It took three people two days to make one blanket,” recalls Sanju Devi.

Married to herder Ramrati, the 45-year-old is speaking to us sitting outside their brick house in Kankari village. “We used to get only 100 to 200 rupees for making one blanket,” she adds, showing us an old spinning wheel, which is now the last remaining symbol of what was once a family tradition.

The rise of synthetic wool has wiped out the demand for handmade blankets. Her eldest son, Vinay Pal admits, “even we buy blankets from the market now!”

Ramrati and Sanju own three bighas of land on which they grow maize and paddy during the kharif season and wheat in the rabi season. “This time, it rained after two years. So, the maize crop should be good,” she says. Mostly their harvest is for home consumption, and only any excess is sold. The couple have four children—two daughters and two sons. Three of them have married and begun lives of their own.

The younger generation is moving away from pastoralist livelihoods. “I quit seven years ago. It’s too much hard work. No one wants to do it anymore because there’s no income,” says Ramrati’s eldest son, Vinay Pal, 25, who now works as a daily wage labourer. “We also used to sell ghee made from sheep’s milk. But there is no demand for that anymore,” he adds to illustrate the shrinking demand for their animals’ products.

Their primary source of income now comes from selling sheep. Each sheep fetches a price of about Rs 2,500 to 3,000, ensuring an annual income of Rs. 100,000. “If only our wool started selling again,” sighs Nandu wistfully. “It would bring employment to our entire village. We could then preserve this dying tradition.”

As earnings shrink, every rupee counts. For the last few days, Ramrati’s grandson has been suffering from fever and they have consulted the jhola chap doctor, an unlicensed medical practitioner, commonly seen in rural areas of central India. “He said that my grandson will be fine. I just got medicines for 200 rupees,” says Ramrati, who has walked nine kilometres to visit the sick child. He had set out the previous evening and returned early in the morning, using a familiar herding route.

“Turrr-turrr-turrr…” At the sound of Nandu’s call, all the sheep stand up, ready to leave. “This is a special language; only we can understand it,” laughs Nandu. “Each one has a name. This is Chikari, and this one’s Bhuri,” he adds, pointing at a couple of sheep in the flock. Chikari is the one with spots or chitkabra, and Bhuri is named for the brown or bhura colour of its coat.

It is just another busy morning and the shepherds are cooking rice and nenua (bottlegourd). “The rice is ready, quickly start the vegetables,” Nandu calls out. With only one pot between them, Virender scoops out the rice from the tasla (a wide metal vessel) and spreads it into four plates so they can cook the next dish. Ramrati rinses the nenua (sponge gourd) and breaks it into pieces with his hands – knives are a luxury they don’t carry.

From a black polythene bag, Nandu pulls out pinches of dry red chillies, cumin, and turmeric, placing them on a paras tree leaf. He tosses the spices into the hot oil, adds the gourd, and covers the pot.

By 7:30 a.m. they have eaten and packed away utensils, plastic buckets and nets into old plastic cement sacks. When moving further away from their village, they carry this load on their shoulders, but since they will return here tonight, they simply hang it from a date palm.

Nandu, Ramrati and Mallu divide the flock into three groups. With long sticks in their hands and blankets slung over their shoulders, the three men head out. They will walk 20 to 30 kilometres a day sometimes. Their longer routes take them east to Ranchi via Lohardaga and west to Dehri in Bihar via Garhwa, over 500 kilometres away.

In Palamu, sheep herding is almost entirely done by men. “If you go along the Delhi–Panipat route, you’ll see entire families herding together,” says Nandu. “Even on the Singrauli route,” adds Ramrati, “they keep donkeys and camels too.” Both men recall crossing paths with herders from other regions and were surprised to see women among them. “In our families, women have never herded sheep,” says Nandu with pride. “This work belongs only to men.”

“Just as the government’s fiscal year runs from March to March, so does our migration,” explains Nandu. “From one March to the next, we complete a full round of grazing routes.”

Over the decades, Nandu and Ramrati have walked thousands of kilometres. “These days we carry phones,” Nandu laughs, “but back then, if you wanted to send news—say, a wedding or a death—you had to send one man on foot. The messenger would ask villagers along the way to confirm which area we were in before passing the message on.”

Four hours later it’s time to take a break. “We’ll just have some sattu [roasted gram flour]. It fills your stomach and helps battle the loo [hot, dry summer winds],” says Nandu. Later they will roll out the nets for their animals and call it a night.

News and gossip travel faster than the herds. Each evening, as the shepherds return toward the village, they find a handful of villagers waiting in the open field; this time to hear of a child’s death in Nandu’s extended family.

In the darkening twilight, Nandu recalls an earlier time when villagers fought over who got to keep their sheep in their fields. “They used to offer us food and grain, and some would even shear the sheep’s wool for free,” he says. Sheep droppings are precious manure and so the animals and their keepers were honoured guests.

“But now, even if we offer to pay, no one is interested. There’s a big difference between then and now. Now, no one even notices us. We’re the last,” Nandu laments, “After us, no one will herd sheep anymore.”