By Parineeta Dandekar
As we stood on a ridge near the Lakke Wali Mata shrine, a tributary of the Ravi roared through a deep gorge below us. Across the chasm rose a shaded mountain slope, thick with devdar—Himalayan cedar—its green broken only by a steep brown trail cutting diagonally across the mountainside. As we watched the headwaters of the Ravi, it slowly dawned on us that the trail itself was moving.
A steady line of white sheep emerged from the trees, flowing across the slope like a living river. At the head of the flock trotted a fluffy dog with alert ears, and behind the animals walked two shepherds in grey woollen coats and bright Himachali caps. They were Gaddis, the semi-nomadic, semi-pastoral transhumant community of the Ravi Basin, whose feet have traced these mountain paths and passes for centuries.
The Himalayas are home to many transhumant communities—the Anwals, Bakarwals, Bhotiyas, Kanets, Van Gujjars and others—who move seasonally with their animals between mountains and plains. Yet the Gaddis, herders of sheep and goats, are the living heritage of the Ravi Basin. For centuries they have undertaken a demanding annual journey: leaving the plains of Punjab and Himachal in spring, crossing the formidable Dhauladhar and Pir Panjal ranges, and reaching the cold, dry summer pastures of Lahaul.
As winter approaches, they reverse the journey, walking back to the plains along the same ancient routes taken by their ancestors. Most of this migration unfolds within the Ravi Basin, and in summer, when they cross the high passes, they briefly enter the Chenab Basin.
Bharmour, the ancient capital of Chamba located in the upper reaches of the Ravi, is known as Gadderan—the traditional home of the Gaddis. But for a community that spends three months in Lahaul, three months in the plains, a few months in Bharmour, and most of the year on the move, the idea of “home” remains fluid. With their flocks, they travel from elevations as low as 100 metres to more than 4,000 metres, covering as much as a thousand kilometres on foot in a single year.
Over generations, the Gaddis have become memory keepers of the mountains—walking archives of stories, songs, observations and knowledge about forests, rivers, snow, glaciers, pastures, grasses, medicinal plants and wildlife. Followers of Lord Shiva, whom they regard as the original shepherd of the Himalayas, they sing their oral histories through festivals such as Shiv Nuala, weaving landscape and ancestry into music.
Shiva is not merely a deity but a presence embedded in daily life. Gaddi belief holds that Shiva gifted them not only sheep and grass shoes (pulan) to traverse rugged terrain, but also the woollen cloak (chola), belt (dora) and other essentials to survive the cold. Their seasonal movement between summer and winter abodes—kailasha and pyalpuri—mirrors Shiva’s own mythic journeys. Sacred geography is deeply interwoven with Gaddi identity: the traditional Gaddi cap itself symbolises Manimahesh Kailash, the sacred peak from which the Budhil River originates.
On the banks of the Ravi, near Holi, we met Meenu Ram, a seasoned shepherd of 51 years, travelling with his son Vijyendra and a companion, Akash. As their flock rested and grazed by the roadside, the men squatted to prepare a quick meal of khichdi over a small fire. Vehicles honked impatiently, forcing them to rise again and again to steer the sheep away from the road. Two large sheepdogs stood guard as the men cooked.
Meenu Ram told us they had planned to cross the mountains via the Kuwarsi Naag pass, at around 2,800 metres, but early snowfall had blocked the route. Now they would have to find an alternative path to reach Ranital in Kangra, nearly 270 kilometres away. Having walked with sheep for three decades, Meenu Ram said neither he nor his elders had witnessed rains or floods like those of the 2025 monsoon. Trapped high in the mountains, they had remained in their tents for months. “We saw ice blocks flowing in the rivers in December and January,” he recalled quietly.
Crossing a pass, he explained, is never merely a logistical decision. The Gaddis seek permission from the local deity at the Kuwarsi Naag shrine before attempting the crossing. The shrine stands beside a sacred devdar tree and a protected water source. “This is Naag Devta Pradesh—the land of the snake deity,” Meenu Ram said. “The weather can change in a minute here. Entire flocks can be lost. We trust the gods more than people.”
Historically, colonial forest managers viewed the Gaddis as threats to Himalayan forests, seeing only timber extraction as legitimate use. The lived reality of Gaddi coexistence with the landscape tells a different story. Their ecological knowledge is vast—studies have recorded their use of over ninety plant species—and they actively nurture community-conserved spaces: sacred groves, trees, lakes and spring sources. Mountain springs are worshipped and fiercely protected. High passes such as Kugti, Chobia, Jalsu, Kali Cho and Kuwarsi are revered gateways to summer pastures, each marked by shrines and governed by strict community rules limiting how many flocks may cross in a day.
This intimate relationship with terrain makes the Gaddis acute observers of climate. Research has shown that their memories of changing weather patterns align closely with recorded climate data. Yet climate change—rising temperatures, erratic snowfall, declining rainfall—and shifting land use patterns are disrupting their migrations. Early snow, sudden floods and shrinking pastures increasingly force them to halt, detour or abandon traditional routes.
Development pressures compound these stresses. Roads, hydropower projects, dams and compensatory afforestation schemes in the Ravi Basin have cut across pastures and corridors, often without recognising Gaddis as stakeholders. Theft of animals, the spread of invasive plant species, declining forest permits and shrinking flock sizes have pushed Gaddi pastoralism, according to some studies, to the brink of extinction.
“This is where the Budhil meets the Bhujala,” he said, pointing to the rivers below. “Bhujala comes from the right arm of Lord Shiva at Manimahesh Kailash.” During the 2025 floods, he and his companion had been trapped in the gorge for five days. “We climbed onto tree stumps. There was no one to rescue us,” he said matter-of-factly. “This year the snow has come early and deep.”
Further downstream, near the Kuther and Bajoli Holi hydropower projects, we met Garibdas with his flock of 150 sheep and goats. His dog Jackie quietly guided the animals away from the road. Garibdas had walked from Keylong in Lahaul and was headed to Una. “I have come from my home in Bharmour,” he said. “Now I won’t see home for five months.” Climate, he felt, had always been changing, but the erratic snow this year had cost him several sheep. “We take permission from Kartikswamy shrine at the Kugti pass before crossing. We have to trust something. The journey ahead is dangerous.”
Eighty-year-old Jijjuram, travelling from Manimahesh to Bilaspur with his wife, a companion and over two hundred sheep, simply shook his head when asked about the life he led. “It is very hard,” he said. His wife, tending to goat kids, echoed him softly: “Naseeb mein hai, aur kya kahein. Bada kathin kaam hai.” Jijjuram spoke of black bear and brown bear attacks, of fighting a ferocious reesh with bare hands in his youth, of surviving a landslide that left an iron rod embedded in his arm.
As dusk gathered near a traditional fountainhead overlooking the roaring Budhil, we encountered Vijay Chauhan and Chhotu resting with their flock. Their young dog, Brownie, rushed toward us before settling protectively by the sheep. “She’s only a year and a half old,” Vijay said proudly. “She’s protected the flock from bears three times this year.” During the 2025 floods, they had been stranded for days, unable to cross the Kugti pass, losing several animals. That night, they planned to walk forty kilometres from the Budhil to the Ravi in a single stretch.
Gaddi youth today walk through landscapes transformed by dams and roads, listening to music on their phones as they guide their flocks past altered rivers. They carry two worlds at once: one shaped by remembered paths, seasonal passes, guarding deities, songs sung on the move and a life attuned to grass, water and weather; the other defined by shrinking pastures, erratic snow, floods, theft and a future that demands stillness from people whose lives have always been in motion.
The Gaddis are not only shepherds. They are storytellers and living archives of mountains, forests and rivers—keepers of knowledge about climate, glaciers, pastures and passes. If they vanish from the Ravi Basin, it will not be merely a livelihood that disappears, but an entire way of knowing the river and its landscape that will be lost with them.
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A version of this article was first published as a photo story on the website of the South Asia Network on Dams, Rivers and People (SANDRP). Photographs by Abhay Kanvinde
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