A herd of goats makes its way through a stubbly, dry grassland to a hilly grove. As they get closer, the air becomes noticeably cooler, the vegetation denser, the grass greener. A couple of buffalo wallow in a shallow pool of water, and beyond, a forest path leads to a giant old ficus. From the tree’s roots, a little stream emerges, its peaceful gurgling punctuated with the plopping sound of ripe figs falling into the water.  “Baba himself looks after this forest and this stream,” says Bhawani Shankar, the custodian of this forest and the shrine of chud sidh which lies at its center. “Its water is so life-giving that my hair has grown to my ankles ever since I came here … years ago.” Twirling his matted locks into a bun larger than his head, he scatters seed for peacocks on a feeding platform. “Nothing good has come to anyone who dares to cut wood from this forest. The last man who cut an ancient tree here to build his house lost everything in a fire that somehow only left the beam he’d made from the tree unscathed.” Aman Singh gestures at a stream emerging from the roots of a ficus tree in Adaval ki Devbani. Credit: Geetanjali Krishna This forest is Adaval ki Devbani in Alwar, in the western Indian state of Rajasthan. Devbani literally means “sacred grove,” and the state has an estimated 25,000 of them. Sometimes they are also known as orans, or places where land, water, jungle and people coexist peacefully. Over centuries such groves have existed, not just in India but across the globe, as commons land, used by neighboring villages as pastures and places to collect fallen wood, medicinal herbs, honey and forest fruit. Deeply held spiritual beliefs ensure that trees and animals are protected within their boundaries, making them treasure troves for naturalists and the last refuge for a variety of indigenous species. In the desert state of Rajasthan, devbanis and orans also have within them bodies of water that humans and animals use.  But with changing lifestyles and land use patterns, these little pockets of biodiversity have been in a state of continuous decline. During the British colonial period, the revenue department  declared many of them ghair mumkin zameen, or uncultivable land that was not taxed. This made them fair game for encroachments, mining, land grabs and worse. Since Indian Independence in 1947, they have continued to face pressure from farming, construction, mining and more.  In 1992, Aman Singh, a Rajasthan native and no stranger to water scarcity, founded an NGO with a mouthful of a name, Krishi Avam Paristhitiki Vikas Sansthan (KRAPAVIS), which literally means “organization for the development of ecology and agriculture/livestock.”  Bhawani Shankar, the custodian of Adaval ki Devbani in Alwar, a forest in Rajasthan. Credit: Geetanjali Krishna “I had a theory that if we could rejuvenate water sources in village commons, perhaps this could improve the water table underground and revive the nearby wells and water bodies downstream that had long dried up,” he recounts. KRAPIVIS restored 15 orans and devbanis in Alwar, on the fringes of Rajasthan’s Sariska Tiger Reserve. As the orans and water bodies within them revived, he says his hypothesis was proved. “Wells revived, water levels in the nearby Siliserh Lake in Sariska Tiger Reserve rose and although the exact hydrology of this area hasn’t been studied in depth, this showed us that they were all connected underground,” he says.  The realization that reviving sacred and community forests across Rajasthan could help desert communities develop resilience to harsh weather and climate change gave KRAPIVIS an impetus to revive as many such forests as it could.  Siliserh Lake, which was declared a Ramsar site in 2025, glints in the strong desert sun as we drive past it to Adaval ki Devbani. KRAPAVIS has restored over 249 and mapped 1,400 orans and devbanis in Rajasthan like this one. As Singh explains, after identifying a sacred grove that needs to be revived, KRAPAVIS assesses how receptive the neighboring villages are to collective action.  “Village residents are an equal part of our restoration plan, and share the cost either in cash or labor,” he says. “So their buy-in is essential to the project’s success.”  Weighed down by negative news? Our smart, bright, weekly newsletter is the uplift you’ve been looking for. [contact-form-7] In the devbani, the air suddenly feels cooler, and a hush descends as Singh and I walk deeper towards the mouth of the stream. KRAPAVIS and local volunteers have planted indigenous trees including date palms, cleaned the mouth of the stream and desilted the pond. They have also repaired the ancient temple dedicated to a local deity located within the grove, and co-opted Shankar, its priest, to look after the forest. He patrols the forest and fines those who break the community rules for using forest produce. For his service, villagers contribute grain for his monthly ration. The restoration cost about U.S. $10,000, roughly the average that KRAPAVIS spends on each grove with funding from institutional donors and the community.  We drive about 25 miles to the boundary of the Sariska National Park, where a sacred grove on a hillock, Bherunathji ki oran, faces the park boundary, patrolled by three forest guards. The oran is verdant and dense, in sharp contrast to the park, where deforestation and illegal tree felling is evident.  Siliserh Lake is located in the buffer area of Sariska Tiger Reserve. Credit: Geetanjali Krishna Community-led conservation, Singh says, is much more effective than state-led conservation, which he says makes locals feel disconnected from the forest. “People have a sense of ownership for their oran; their economic, cultural and religious life is linked to it,” Singh explains. Women collect forest fruits, honey and firewood. Pastoralists follow strict community-set rules when they take their livestock for grazing. For example, devbanis with grasslands prohibit grazing between March and July when new grass grows. However, sacred groves in India face a more fundamental challenge today: loss of relevance.   “When I was a child, most people in my village were farmers and livestock owners,” says 37-year-old Sunil Harsana, who lives in Haryana’s Manger village barely 20 miles from New Delhi. Today, the majority of young people there are looking for more urban occupations and a handful have become real estate agents. So far, a 650-acre sacred grove, Manger Bani (“grove” in Haryanvi) has somehow survived the capital’s uncontrolled expansion.  This dry well in a devbani in Alwar revived when a nearby body of water was revived. Credit: Geetanjali Krishna “The bani is losing relevance for villagers,” he says. Harsana, with other ecologists, has been fighting against efforts to change the status of Manger bani from forest to farmland since the early 2000s.  Peacocks call plaintively as Harsana and I hike to a ridge in Manger bani for a rare glimpse of the original vegetation of the Aravalis mountain range. From the top, rocky slopes are colonized by the hardy dhau (Terminalia anogeissiana), a tree which has all but disappeared from neighboring areas. In 2015, the then chief minister of Haryana declared Manger to be a forest, added a buffer zone of 1,200 acres and declared the entire area a no-construction zone. But legal tangles continue to endanger the forest. And religious beliefs — a part of the forest is believed to be protected by the spirit of a holy man, Gudariya Baba — have now become tools in unscrupulous hands, Harsana says.  Having contracted polio as a child, Harsana walks with a limp. He hauls himself painfully over the unforgiving terrain to point out a tiny new shrine here, a new road there, saying that these could well be the start of a new land grab. He runs a weekly Eco Club for local schoolchildren to inculcate a love for the forest in their midst.  “Two of our students have returned to volunteer with us at the Eco Club, and three others are working on eco-restoration projects elsewhere,” he says. “And their parents also at least know why they should protect the bani instead of selling it for real estate.”  In Alwar, Singh too is wary of using the word “sacred” in connection with the groves they protect. “We advocate a strong legal framework to conserve devbanis and orans as ecological  heritage,” he says, adding, “not as national parks, which separate communities from the forest, or religious sites — but as community-owned and community-led conservation areas.” A tiny shrine under an old ficus tree in Manger. Credit: Geetanjali Krishna In 2024, he petitioned the Supreme Court to recognize and preserve Rajasthan’s devbanis and orans. Recognizing their crucial role in conservation, groundwater recharge, grazing regulation and sustaining local livelihoods, the court directed the state government to map them, prevent them from being used for non-forest purposes, and ensure community participation in their management.  “Moreover, the court stated that traditional community-conserved ecosystems across India, and not just in Rajasthan, cannot be treated as ‘wasteland’ and must be safeguarded,” a visibly elated Singh says.  Wait, you're not a member yet? Join the Reasons to be Cheerful community by supporting our nonprofit publication and giving what you can. Join Cancel anytime Meanwhile, at Adaval ki devbani — far removed from courts, religious manipulation and real estate avarice — there is a sense of peace. An 80-year-old pilgrim has ridden his motorcycle 50 miles to get here.  “I’d been feeling stressed the past few months and decided to visit,” he says, massaging his aching back. “Can you feel how special this devbani is? The sound of flowing water and the cool breezes have washed my stress away.” The post The Verdant Refuge of India’s Sacred Groves appeared first on Reasons to be Cheerful.