Repeated droughts, driven in part by declining rainfall linked to climate change, had turned their lands barren. Water sources dried up, crippling agriculture and animal husbandry, the lifeblood of their livelihood.
With no other way to survive, many men were forced into dacoity, hiding in jungles and risking their lives every day to evade police. Karauli’s average annual rainfall dropped from 722.1 mm (1951-2000) to 563.94 mm (2001-2011), according to government data.
Together, they began reviving old, dried-up ponds and constructing new pokhars (water bodies) with the help of Tarun Bharat Sangh (TBS), an Alwar-based NGO dedicated to water conservation since 1975.
“I would have been dead by now. She convinced me to come back and start farming again,” recalled Jagdish, Sampatti Devi’s husband, now 58, who surrendered his weapons and chose peace.
Pooling every penny earned over the years by selling milk, they built a pokhar at the base of a hill near their village, Alampur, in 2015-16.
When the rains came, the ‘pokhar’ was filled and for the first time in years, their family had water, enough to sustain them for a longer period.
“Now, we grow mustard, wheat, pearl millet and vegetables” says Sampatti Devi, sitting proudly on the pokhar’s embankment. She even rents it out for water chestnut cultivation, earning about Rs 1 lakh each season.
Karauli, once among Rajasthan’s worst-hit dacoit areas, witnessed a transformation.
Karauli district is part of the Chambal region, which extends across Rajasthan, Madhya Pradesh and Uttar Pradesh. It has historically been notorious for dacoity due to its rugged terrain, ravines and forests that provided hideouts for dacoits.
“With community-led conservation efforts, stability is returning,” said Karauli SP Brijesh Jyoti Upadhyay.
He says rainfall in the region is erratic and leads to periods of both water scarcity and intense short-term downpours.
“Karauli faces droughts during dry times and flash floods when it rains heavily, like last year, when the monsoon brought over 1,900 mm of rain.”
Sumit Dookia, an associate professor at Guru Gobind Singh Indraprastha University and a native of Rajasthan, said the rocky terrain makes water run off quickly and stops much of it from soaking into the ground. “With all this going on, smart water management is really important.”
The wave of conservation in Karauli has transformed the Serni, once a seasonal river, into a perennial one. Just a decade ago, the river would run dry after Diwali, leaving people desperate for water.
“Now, the river holds water even at the peak of summer, thanks to around 150 water harvesting structures constructed along its entire length and breadth. The groundwater level has risen to just 5 to 10 feet below the surface,” said Ranveer Singh from TBS.
Forty years ago, he said, the river flowed all year round, but overuse and climate change had left it dry. With no options left, some men migrated to cities in search of work while others turned to mining or dacoity.
“Illegal mining exposed them to lethal silica dust, causing silicosis, a painful and incurable lung disease. Many did not live past 40,” said Rajendra Singh, the Magsaysay Award and Stockholm Water Prize-winning water conservationist who leads TBS.
A 2013 study by the National Institute of Miners’ Health (now part of ICMR-NIOH) found that 74 per cent of surveyed sandstone workers in Karauli suffered from silicosis.
In Bhoorkheda village, where many families once felt forced to marry off their daughters early under the heavy burden of financial hardship, 55-year-old Prem, a woman married to a former dacoit, made a courageous sacrifice. She gave up four bighas of her own land to build a pokhar on the village’s edge.
She beams with pride as she shares how the pond now brings water to grow wheat and pearl millet, nourishing the families of her village.
“Though I do not have much to offer, I am content knowing that people can grow crops and have enough to eat,” she said.
Lajja Ram, 60, also from Bhoorkheda, admitted he turned to dacoity out of desperation.
“My father was a farmer. There was enough water in his time. But as I grew up, rainfall declined, wells dried up and farming became impossible. We were lucky to produce even two to four manns (80-160 kg) per bigha. Our cattle died, and we felt like we were next,” said Lajja Ram, who once faced 40 criminal cases.
It was his sister who finally persuaded him to surrender and join water conservation efforts.
Now, they grow wheat, mustard, chickpea and pearl millet on their 10 bighas of land, own eight buffalos, several goats and have enough to eat. “Ab anand hai (Now, there is happiness),” he says.
In Arora village, 70-year-old folk singer Siyaram remembers when rains failed, crops withered and children wept from hunger.
His 30 bighas of land lay parched and his sons migrated to cities. His wife, Prem Devi, who passed away two years ago, had inspired him to join the water conservation efforts.
Siyaram sings of that time: “Paani ki dori hath nahi, tum chaho to barsat nahi. Paani ki ajab kahani hai. Ab bhai khuwari bin paani hai..”
Today, Siyaram sings a song of hope.
“Paani hi jeevan ka saathi, paani bin mar jaye haathi. Sun lo dada, bhai, naati… mil jayega dhan ratan, agar hum paani rokne ka karein jatan..”
On a scorching May afternoon, water shimmers in Karauli’s ponds and pokhars. The Serni river flows gently, with children splashing and cattle grazing along its banks.
