What the Aravallis lose when herders leave

Between puffs of a bidi, Ratan Singh, a herder of the Gujjar community in Mangar village of Faridabad, tracks his goats. Having just arrived at a grassy patch after an uphill trek in the Aravallis, he calls out to offer a drink of water. “Trrr trrr,” the sharp, quick call goes, and 45 goats begin to gather.

“Each call varies in tone and pitch, and signifies specific commands, and there are dozens of different calls to control the herd,” he says.

There is “aao, aao”, a gentle call to bring the goats towards the herder, just a simple “come here”. Then there is “leh leh leh”, a distinctive call to tell the goats it’s time to eat some salt.

“Aaoole, aaoole – uuuhh uuuhh” is a dual purpose call, reassuring the herd of the herder's presence and warning potential predators that the herd is not alone.

Ratan Singh, 65, enacts each one, explaining the subtle differences in tone and rhythm, demonstrating how the sounds maintain an ancient bond between herder and herd.

Tall and thin, Singh wears a kurta-pyjama and a turban. His leather shoes are heavy, suitable for walking on sharp rocks and thorns in the hills.

Singh belongs to Mangar, a village in the Aravalli range on the Delhi–Haryana border, known for its rich biodiversity.

The Aravallis, which stretch across the country’s north-west from Delhi through Haryana and Rajasthan to Gujarat, are currently an environmental flashpoint for the country following a November 2025 Supreme Court order that limited legal protection to only those parts of the range that exceed 100 metres in elevation. While ecologists and civil society groups have conveyed dismay at the ruling, for families like Ratan Singh’s, a traditional stewardship of these lands endures. On December 31, 2025, the SC kept its previous order on the Aravallis in abeyance after taking suo motu notice of the public outcry. It has proposed that a high-powered committee be constituted to analyse whether mining in the areas no longer covered by the new definition poses an ecological danger to the Aravalli range.

Nearly 90 per cent of Mangar’s total area of 4,262 acres is forested, with tropical dry deciduous and tropical thorn trees. There are at least 40 species of trees and 30 species of shrubs, and he can identify each of them—Dhau (Terminalia pendula) is the dominant tree species that is now often seen as a shrub due to heavy grazing pressure; and then there are Ganger (Grewia tenax), Aatan (Grewia flavescens), Ronjh (Vachellia leucophloea), and Jharber (Ziziphus nummularia), all commonly used as fodder for grazing herds.

“People here used to keep a lot of livestock—every household had at least 100 goats,” says Singh, who also owns two large cows, two small cows, and a buffalo with its two calves. “Now, invasive species have replaced the native trees and shrubs that traditionally provided fodder.”

The Prosopis juliflora, a threatening non-native tree species that has spread across several continents with a range of severe impacts, is among them. While the Haryana government in 2017 attempted to remove this species from its list of protected trees under the Punjab Land Preservation Act (PLPA, a law introduced by the British in 1900 to prevent soil erosion), calling it an ‘alien invasive species’, in fact the state government had itself planted the trees in the Aravallis two decades earlier.

The Aravallis are classified as open scrub forest, referring to forests with the least tree cover (10 to 40 per cent), landscapes that are often classified as ‘wastelands’ in state records, and attempts are made to ‘improve’ or make them financially productive through forestry projects. Local shepherds like Singh, however, have always known the Prosopis juliflora, locally called the ‘Vilayati Kikar’, to be less useful as fodder, though cattle now eat its pods, and the tree serves as the primary source of fuelwood in this region.

“Ab pahad me purane pedon ki jagah Vilayati Kikar jaisi prajatiyon ne le li hai [Now the hilly space occupied by native species has been taken over by alien species such as the Vilayati Kikar]. The native trees and shrubs were mostly useful as animal fodder,” Singh says sadly.

The Prosopis juliflora was planted on approximately 38,500 hectares of public land in the Aravallis in the 1990s, financed by a European Union grant meant to address the global fuel crisis.

Singh belongs to the Harsana (Gujjar) community of pastoralists that rears camels, cows, goats, buffaloes and sheep. They have depended on these forests for their livelihood for centuries, and have played a key role in protecting them. The sacred grove, Mangar Bani, which the community has preserved in memory of their deity, Gudariya Baba, is one example of conservation.

Mangar Bani is the last remaining natural forest located on the border of the national capital, Delhi. Native species facing extinction elsewhere in the Aravallis due to forestry and non-forestry activities thrive here. The ‘Dhau’ or Terminalia pendula, the primary tree species of the Aravalli region that was once commonly found on rocky slopes, is under grazing pressure. Mangar Bani is the only area near the national capital where thousands of Dhau trees, hundreds of years old, remain in excellent condition. One reason for this is the local Gujjar community's devotion to Gudariya Baba, a saint who they believe performed penance in the forest and eventually merged with the forest, residing in its plants and trees.

It is thanks to local people’s efforts that the region continues to support 245 bird species, including the endangered Egyptian vulture and red-headed vulture, as well as migratory species such as flycatchers and Indian pittas that breed here, Singh says. The forests are also home to at least 20 species of mammals, including the leopard, striped hyena, rusty-spotted cat, jungle cat, Indian golden jackal, small Indian civet, Asian palm civet and the Indian grey mongoose.

Singh’s day starts before daybreak. At 5 a.m., he cuts green branches to feed the younger ones in his herd of indigenous goats later—they are too young to go out grazing. They will stay back in the rewada (a fenced area for goats).

Next, he expertly milks the nanny goats, collecting the rich, warm milk in a steel bucket. The youngest kids, bleating and eager, gather close as Singh ensures they are lovingly fed from their mothers’ teats.

The herder now has barely an hour before heading out for the rewalli (grazing). He takes a quick wash, eats a hearty meal of wheat chapatis served with a chutney of garlic and red chillies, all washed down with a tall glass of buttermilk, and gathers up the day’s essentials before heading out—a saffi (cotton cloth), a stick and a water bottle for the long day ahead.

The trailhead for the grazing route is on the outskirts of Mangar, where it is time for the herd to lead the herder, the goats’ familiarity with the trail and their daily routine evident. The animals skip ahead, but Singh stays alert. The area around Mangar Bani is a densely forested area of ​​the Haryana Aravallis, and is home to a sizable wildlife population, including leopards.

“Pehle ke samay me bahut log pashu rakhte the, isliye nuksaan vitarit ho jaata tha [In the past, when many families kept livestock, the losses from predators were distributed across households]. Today, the remaining livestock keepers have to bear a much greater share of these losses,” Singh says.

As the sun climbs overhead, Singh rests on a rock, monitoring his livestock and enjoying another bidi when an air of excitement takes over. A goat in the herd gives birth and, minutes later, delivers a second kid. The mother spends the rest of the afternoon licking her babies and feeding them. Soon, the new mother and her kids began a series of vocal exchanges.

The sudden events pose a challenge, for the newborns cannot walk on their own for at least six-seven hours. As the sun begins to set, it is time to head home and Singh beckons the herd with specific calls. He carries the newborns in both hands, and now walks along the edge of the herd instead of in the middle.

En route back, Singh notices a python lying perfectly camouflaged in a pile of fallen leaves. “Look, how she is waiting. If I had not seen her and had moved a little ahead or behind my goats, she would have grabbed a goat,” he says. He would have noticed the attack only much later, for pythons grab animals by the neck in such a way that they make no sound, he adds.

This is but one of many dangers that herders face while grazing livestock in the wild. Singh shares stories of leopard attacks, describing how the predator chokes an animal soundlessly before carrying it up a tree to consume there. “Pashuon ko surakshit rakhne ka ek hi tareeka hai—hamesha unke saath rahna [There is only one way to keep animals safe—to be with them always]. And even this does not always guarantee a happy outcome,” he says.

The numbers of families in the Haryana Aravallis who depend entirely on pastoralism to make a living is dwindling, Singh acknowledges, owing to increasing urbanisation and the low economic returns from traditional livelihoods.

In the past, the primary livelihood source in this region was animal husbandry, says Chetan Agarwal, a senior fellow with the Centre for Ecology Development & Research (CEDAR), who has conducted research here for more than a decade. “Cow-herders and goat-herders enforced norms for judicious management of the Mangar Aravalli hill forests, such as restricting fuelwood and fodder collection to thin tertiary branches, so as to ensure long-term fodder availability. Grazing and harvesting by outsiders was also restricted.”

The forests provide grazing lands, medicinal plants and natural shelter, sustaining herds through the seasons. In return, herders and their animals help maintain ecological balance. Grazing prevents overgrowth, encourages fresh vegetation, facilitates seed dispersal, and ensures forest regeneration.

“This system was disrupted with the privatisation of the commonlands and the advent of mining and real estate,” according to Agarwal.

The sun has almost vanished behind the Aravalli hills by the time Singh returns to the rewada, his tired goats following quietly except for the soft tinkling of the bells around their necks.

Once home, he counts them, checks for injuries, and ensures the youngest ones are fed. His animals now safe, he sits down for a simple meal, chapatis again, with a saag of mustard leaves and a glass of hot goat milk.

Tomorrow, he will return to the hills, following the same routes, using the same calls, reading the same signs. The forest has changed, the work has become harder, and fewer people are willing to take it on. For now, though, herder and forest still recognise each other.