Ravinder Kumar knows exactly what ammonium sulphate is. A retired railwayman in his late sixties, he farms his ancestral, five-acre land in Ghargoha, a hamlet in Bihar’s Gaya district. Even when he put in the hours at his full-time job, the farming never stopped. Few farmers or sellers in the area can describe fertilisers as precisely as he does.

The fertilisers Kumar and the farmers around him actually use are urea, potash, zinc, and sometimes, Di-Ammonium Phosphate (DAP). Ammonium sulphate is not on that list. But he knows it well enough to still feed it to the soil.

“Like urea, ammonium sulphate also has nitrogen. Just less of it,” he says over the phone in early June, taking a break from the kendu leaf harvest in the nearby Gurpa forest. “And it doesn’t hurt the yield much.”

Then, he pauses and adds, “It is expensive, though. So fewer people use it here.” He isn’t sure of the current price of ammonium sulphate; it’s been a few years since he last purchased it.

He buys his urea at Rs. 8 per kg from a shop nearby; the price is a little higher than the government rate, which stands at roughly Rs. 6. But it is the convenience of a closer shop that costs him the difference. To pay the government price at a licensed khaad bhandar or krishi kendra, he would have to travel to Paharpur or Tankuppa, more than 15 km away.

A fertiliser bag, suddenly in the spotlight

Ammonium sulphate (AS) retails, before subsidy, at Rs. 1,100 to Rs. 1,200 for a 50-kg bag (Rs. 22-24 per kg), against a subsidised 45-kg bag of urea at Rs. 266.50 (under Rs. 6 per kg). But during the kharif season of 2025, widespread urea shortage was reported from across states. Soon after, in the following rabi season (2025-26), the government, perhaps to address this scarcity, “decided to include Ammonium Sulphate (both domestic as well as imported)” under the Nutrient Based Subsidy scheme.

The government also began promoting it as a stand-in for urea. The subsidy on the main grade of ammonium sulphate (20.5 per cent nitrogen and 23 per cent sulphur) was set at Rs. 9,479 a tonne, about Rs. 474 off a 50-kg bag, pulling the retail price down to Rs. 700 per 50-kg bag (Rs. 14 per kg). Even then, it remains more than twice the price of subsidised urea, which carries 46 per cent nitrogen.

Where soils lack sulphur, studies have found ammonium sulphate can match or outperform urea and use nitrogen more efficiently.

The push became more pronounced a few months later, amid the West Asia war that began in February 2026. The Indian Council of Agricultural Research (ICAR) wrote to states in May 2026, asking them to use ammonium sulphate instead of urea for paddy in the upcoming kharif season.

In a release dated June 14, 2026, the Department of Fertilizers said it had ridden out the West Asia crisis, with its shortage of natural gas and shipping delays around the Strait of Hormuz, while keeping urea at Rs. 266.50 per bag—even as the global price climbed above Rs. 4,100. The same release noted that ammonium sulphate usage had risen by nearly 60,000 tonnes. Yet over the same years, the government has also built six new urea plants and is opening two more, expanding the supply of the very fertiliser that it is, elsewhere, asking farmers to use less of, and wean from.

But what is ammonium sulphate, and what can it do? As the name suggests, it is a compound of ammonium and sulphate, carrying about 21 per cent nitrogen and 23 per cent sulphur. In India, it is made mostly as a by-product of other industries, unlike urea, which is made from natural gas and contains 46 per cent nitrogen.

The Fertiliser Association of India’s policy record lists ammonium sulphate as a caprolactam-grade by-product of plants run by Gujarat State Fertilizers and Chemicals (GSFC) and Fertilisers And Chemicals Travancore Limited (FACT). This industrial origin might explain why it has drawn fresh attention during a gas crisis. However, it is interesting to note that in soil, urea and ammonium sulphate work similarly: urea has to break down into ammonium first. Ammonium sulphate supplies that ammonium directly. After that, soil microbes convert it into nitrate, which the plant then absorbs. But urea provides only nitrogen, while ammonium sulphate also provides sulphur.

Devi says that moving farmers off the familiar white granules has been a losing battle, “again and again.”

Academic field trials don’t crown a clear winner. Where soils lack sulphur, studies have found ammonium sulphate can match or outperform urea and use nitrogen more efficiently. Where sulphur is already adequate, the two tend to perform about the same, and in some soils, urea gives steadier results.

The push for ammonium sulphate seems to be the need of the hour. But one wonders if it can really replace urea–even in part.

Compared to his neighbours, Kumar uses less fertiliser. His fields also receive applications of cow dung. He also consumes most of what he grows, unlike many of his peers, who depend on a substantial yield because farming is their only source of income. But even so, Kumar is not willing to pay more than he must for fertiliser.

As of our conversation in early June, news of the short supply of urea had yet to reach his fields. “If farmers, including me, don’t find urea, they make do with whatever is available. What option do we really have?” he asks. Other alternatives only create a greater dent in the pocket. To him, anything other than urea is a fallback he would resort to only if he had absolutely no choice.

Also read: India’s urea usage reveals the vulnerability of its food systems

From the other side of the counter

More than 200 km away from Gurpa, in Jharkhand’s Gumla, seed and fertiliser seller Rajni Devi confirms what Kumar’s economics imply, from the other side of the counter.

In her two decades of running a licensed shop–a business she married into, and for which she earned a diploma in agri-inputs–she has watched farmers refuse to use anything but urea.

“They’ll ask from outside, ‘urea hai?’ (do you have urea?) The moment you say no, they walk off to the next shop. As a result, none of your other products gets sold either,” she says over the phone, between customers. “If they do come in, they’ll add DAP, and a few other things.”

It is worth noting that India’s fertiliser journey began with SSP and ammonium sulphate, long before urea entered the picture.I

Neither Kumar nor Devi had heard of the push for ammonium sulphate as an alternative to urea. But Devi says that moving farmers off the familiar white granules has been a losing battle, “again and again.”

It is not that the alternatives never sell. She and sellers like her have been called to government meetings, locally, about alternatives like nano urea, the liquid fertiliser that IFFCO launched in 2021 and has promoted ever since as a substitute for the conventional kind. A 500 ml bottle of nano urea is priced at around Rs 225 at cooperative societies. But she has watched those alternatives sit on her shelves.

“Some better-informed farmers do buy it. They’ve seen videos on YouTube and Instagram, and they know it might be the better option,” Devi explains. “But that number is small. Maybe two in ten.” For the rest, she says, “no method works.”

The steady decline of soil

For decades, Indian farmers have sworn by urea. And why wouldn't they? At Rs. 266.50 for a 45-kg bag (last revised in 2018), it is the cheapest fertiliser available—kept that way by a government subsidy. Over time, that has only deepened the over-dependence on it.

A comprehensive study published in Regional Environmental Change in 2025, by Tek B. Sapkota and Bijay-Singh, traces how decades of fertiliser policy in India have pushed farmers toward an unhealthy dependence on it. As per their analysis, by 2022-23, urea made up over 81 per cent of all nitrogen applied; farmers in many states such as Punjab, Haryana, western Uttar Pradesh, and Telangana are reported to be using 50-70 per cent more nitrogen than needed. Phosphorus and potassium (P and K) were being persistently under-applied because they were more expensive. For context, the recommended ratio of application of NPK to the soil is 4:2:1. An imbalance in this ratio has resulted in declining soil health and diminishing returns from fertilisers over time.

People working in the agriculture domain know this too well.

Rishi Mishra, an agricultural expert who works with small-holder farmers in the Panna region of MP, says that until about a decade-and-a-half ago, a mix of diammonium phosphate and single superphosphate was used by farmers widely. “Together, they would cover the soil’s need for nitrogen, phosphorus, sulphur and calcium,” he explains, adding that policy changes over the years made urea more lucrative, and everything else took a backseat. Even diversification itself remained urea-centric—neem-coated urea, nano urea, sulphur-coated urea gold–so that everything continues to be planned around urea. This only leaves further nutrient shortage in soils, more in some regions than others.

A 2021 study in Scientific Reports, a Nature journal, mapped the extent of nutrient shortage in India. Carried out under the ICAR’s All India Coordinated Research Project (AICRP) on Micro- and Secondary-Nutrients, the team analysed 2,42,827 soil samples from 615 districts and found 58.6 per cent of them (acute deficient + deficient + latent deficiency) to be short of sulphur, the worst shortage of any nutrient it measured.

Bihar, where Kumar farms, fared worse than the national average. More than 60 per cent of its soils came up short of sulphur. It was one of 13 states, Jharkhand and Madhya Pradesh among them, where the deficiency crossed that mark.

The best way forward is to bring a region’s own indigenous knowledge of its land back into practice, instead of leaning on any one fertiliser to do the work.

The study traces the shortage partly to the rising use of NPK fertilisers that carry little or no sulphur or micronutrients, and to the dwindling use of organic manure: nutrients taken out and not put back in in any manner.

Ammonium sulphate could help fix a part of that soil degradation problem–at least the sulphur part of it, believes soil scientist Arvind Kumar Shukla, the lead author of the 2021 paper.

Shukla is currently the Vice-Chancellor of the Rajmata Vijayaraje Scindia Krishi Vishwavidyalaya in Gwalior, Madhya Pradesh. Formerly, he was the coordinator for the AICRP-Micro and Secondary Nutrients and Pollutant Elements in Soils and Plants at Indian Council of Agricultural Research (ICAR) - Indian Institute of Soil Science, Bhopal. Shukla began the exhaustive work of figuring out sulphur deficiency back in 1998, along with other soil scientists, in the soils of Uttar Pradesh, particularly in the Indo-Gangetic plain.

“At that time, we tried to understand how sulphur deficiency came about. One of the important reasons we could attribute it to was the use of high-analysis fertilisers like urea, diammonium phosphate (DAP) and muriate of potash (MoP),” explains Shukla. Earlier, he adds, farmers were using ammonium sulphate, which automatically provided 24 per cent sulphur to the soil along with nitrogen. And for phosphorus, instead of DAP, “we were using single superphosphate (SSP), which also contains around 12 per cent sulphur.”

It is worth noting that India’s fertiliser journey began with SSP and ammonium sulphate, long before urea entered the picture. In 1906, E.I.D Parry established India's first single superphosphate plant in Ranipet, Tamil Nadu, and ammonium sulphate production as a by-product of steelmaking began in 1933. Synthetic ammonium sulphate production followed in 1941, and the Fertilisers and Chemicals Travancore (FACT) plant began producing it in 1947.

India makes only a fraction of what a real switch would demand today. The bulk of domestic ammonium sulphate is produced, as mentioned, by GSFC and FACT–and much of it is a by-product of making other chemicals. GSFC’s capacity is about 4.59 lakh tonnes a year and FACT’s about 2.25 lakh tonnes, a combined total of under seven lakh tonnes. 

According to the Department of Fertilizers’ 2023-24 annual report, FACT was already running its plant above its rated capacity, producing about 2.4 lakh tonnes. GSFC added a new line in Vadodara in early 2024; even so, the shortfall is met by imports, which have been climbing fast, growing at around 45 per cent a year between 2020 and 2024, and coming mostly from China. In April 2026, the government also floated a tender to import three lakh tonnes of ammonium sulphate. 

“Earlier, sulphur was reaching the soil inadvertently,” says Shukla. “Now, we are devoid of these fertilisers. We use high-analysis fertilisers that contain one nutrient in a very high amount. Nitrogen in urea is 46 per cent, and phosphorus in DAP is 46 per cent. And they don’t contain any sulphur. Although several sulphur-containing fertilisers, including SSP, gypsum and bentonite sulphur, are available, the quantity used is meagre,” remarks Shukla, who also thinks changing cropping patterns have aggravated the problem.

“Instead of one crop, we are now taking two or three. Moreover, we are also bringing a sizeable area under vegetable and fruit production. The expansion of intensive agriculture, including horticulture and oilseed cultivation, has increased sulphur demand and nutrient removal from soils.”

Also read: What's lurking in our food?

The doubt over paddy

Not everyone is convinced ammonium sulphate suits every crop, paddy in particular. Dr Virender Singh Lather, former principal scientist at ICAR, warned in a recent New Indian Express report that a high dose of sulphur could turn harmful in waterlogged soils, putting paddy fields at risk. 

The concern is grounded in established science. In flooded fields, soil microbes can convert sulphate into hydrogen sulphide, a gas that damages rice roots and reduces the plant’s ability to take up water and nutrients. According to the International Rice Research Institute (IRRI), the global authority on rice agronomy, this sulphide toxicity is “associated with low-Iron (Fe) soils” and can show up in sandy, degraded, acidic or poorly drained fields. Where soils hold enough iron, it locks away the sulphide harmlessly, and the danger narrows quite a bit.

Shukla is not persuaded that it is a general problem. To him, urea and ammonium sulphate end up feeding the plant in much the same way. Urea breaks down into ammonium in the soil, ammonium sulphate supplies that ammonium directly, and in both cases, soil microbes convert it into the nitrate the plant absorbs.

IRRI also notes that the problem “is not very common in rice” and tends to be of little economic significance. In other words, whether added sulphur helps or harms a paddy field depends heavily on the soil it goes into.

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Push the fertiliser, or build the system?

It is always a welcome step to diversify when it comes to fertiliser, believes Shweta Saini, an agricultural economist and the co-founder of the Delhi-based Arcus Policy Research. “But soil health should be the ideal way to identify the dosages for different geographies,” she says, underlining that policy and infrastructure should be designed with the soil as the central focus.

Mishra and Saini also agree that pushing a fertiliser is not enough on its own. The government, they argue, needs to put systems in place to ensure that inputs are matched to what each soil actually needs, rather than recommended in a blanket fashion across regions.

“Just pushing another fertiliser on paper won’t work. It has to be economically accessible,” says Saini, adding that the government has to take cognisance of and change the policy accordingly. “You cannot continue to have urea so cheap; it has to be corrected.”

Mishra goes a step further. The best way forward, he says, is to bring a region’s own indigenous knowledge of its land back into practice, instead of leaning on any one fertiliser to do the work.

For now, though, the ground reality is something else. Since June 8, as reported by The Indian Express, farmers across Punjab and Haryana have held repeated protests over a shortage of urea.

Also read: The grave personal cost of pesticide use

Snipping off the corner of a new milk packet and tossing it into a dustbin may seem like a harmless, everyday act. So does throwing away plastic takeaway containers with leftover food still inside them, or bundling together vegetable peels, plastic wrappers and sanitary waste into a single garbage bag. The seemingly harmless, no-consequence nature of these actions is not an isolated thing; once the assorted mix of waste leaves our doorsteps and disappears into garbage collection vehicles, it is easy to assume that it has become somebody else's responsibility.

For years, this was the mindset at 17th B Lane, in Bengaluru's JP Nagar 2nd Phase. As in any urban Indian neighbourhood, the street's waste problem was not created overnight: residents (living in independent homes) who missed the call of municipal waste collection trucks in the early mornings began dumping their household trash on the side of the road. It accumulated gradually, through dozens of everyday decisions made inside the 70 homes that line the lane. Over time, these roadside ‘dumpyards’ became an excuse to not hand over garbage to waste collectors. By 2018, the consequences had grown into a mound that was impossible to ignore.

The average resident generates about 300 gm daily, amounting to roughly 1.2 kg for a family of four.

While most residents in the locality looked to the Bruhat Bengaluru Mahanagara Palike (BBMP), the city’s municipal governing body, for a solution, a small group of homemakers took it as a chance to introspect: if the waste was being generated in their homes, they reasoned, shouldn't the solution begin there too? To this end, they formed a group named ‘Women of Wisdom (WoW)’ in 2018.

Yet, the challenge they were taking on was not a simple one. In 2018, Bengaluru generated around 4,500 metric tonnes of waste every day. This figure has increased to around 5,500 metric tonnes in 2026, of which nearly 58.5 % comes from households. The average resident generates about 300 gm daily, amounting to roughly 1.2 kg for a family of four. Around 60% of this is biodegradable wet waste, 25% is dry waste such as plastics and recyclables, and the remaining 15% comprises inert materials, including silt and stones.

"We did not aim for a lot initially. We just wanted to take care of the 1.2 kg of waste we generated in our own homes," says Shwetha Urs, President of WoW.

Looking back, it sounds like a modest goal. But this focused objective foretold what WoW was to accomplish in the months to come.

Women take charge

When eight women of the 17th B Lane started meeting frequently, others  assumed it was nothing more than a huddle for gossip. The women laugh about this assumption in retrospect. "Like many streets in Bengaluru, ours is home to families from different parts of the country. Despite our cultural differences, we all grew up knowing our neighbours. We wanted to bring back that sense of connection and use it to address civic issues affecting our street," says Shwetha.

The most pressing of these issues was one that the residents encountered every single day: used sanitary pads and diapers were frequently discarded in public spaces. Garbage left out in the open attracted stray dogs, leading to safety concerns, particularly for children and elderly residents. For Shwetha and her team, this accumulation of waste became the starting point to addressing other problems—of public space, civic responsibility and community participation. 

Before proposing solutions, however, they wanted to understand the problem better. To begin with, Shwetha and a few others spent two days auditing waste at the ward's dry waste collection centre in 2018. The experience was eye-opening. "After trying to segregate mixed waste, in an effort to understand the different categories, we fell sick for two weeks. It made us think about the people who handle waste every day for a living," she recalls. More importantly, it showed them how little most residents knew about what happened to their waste after it left their homes.

Some people mistook us for salespersons and shut their doors on us. Others were irritated by our persistence.

The same year, they launched a campaign with the distribution of pamphlets explaining three-way segregation into wet, dry and reject waste (sanitary waste, sharp objects, construction debris), going door to door to 70 households. Residents were encouraged to put the pamphlets on refrigerator doors or other visible spots in their households so that segregation would become a daily habit rather than an occasional effort.

"Some people mistook us for salespersons and shut their doors on us. Others were irritated by our persistence," Shwetha says. They worked closely with sanitation workers, asking them to identify households that continued to hand over mixed waste. In every such instance, members of the group would visit the home in question and explain the importance of segregation.

Not everyone appreciated this intervention. "Many people were offended by our involvement," Shwetha says.

Realising that awareness alone would not be enough, the group sought support from the BBMP’s health inspectors. “We requested ward officials to simply enforce preexisting laws and assured them that we would support them on behalf of the community. Until we approached them, we were also unsure if government officials would work alongside the public. But they were very cooperative,” notes Shwetha. Soon, sanitation workers stopped collecting mixed waste from the street altogether.

The residents did not take this well. But the presence of BBMP officials during the collection hours, along with WoW’s team members and sanitation workers, made them comply.

Also read: ‘What river?’: How Mumbai’s neglected Mithi punishes those who live on its banks

A change in attitudes

“The residents used to call the waste collectors ‘kasa’, which means waste. It was very inhumane. To bring about a change in their attitudes, we made sure all the residents know the names of the collectors and only call them by their respective names,” Shwetha says.

After WoW’s early street-level interventions, it took nearly six months for segregation to become a regular practice.

Manohar, a waste collector with the BBMP, notes that every morning, when they whistle to call Bengaluru’s residents to take out their garbage, they’re told to segregate it, but hardly anyone listens. “Only a few like the people in this street understand our troubles,” he says. 

In 2018, only about 40% of households were following the practice of three-way waste segregation. Today, that figure stands at nearly 90%, according to Shwetha and BBMP officials. 

Also read: Trash threatens to swallow Chennai up. This citizens’ initiative won’t allow it

From kitchen waste to compost

Segregation was only the start. As more households started separating waste correctly, the volume of collected wet waste increased substantially. The women soon found themselves facing another question: if they had managed to segregate waste at source, could they also process it within the neighbourhood?

They attended workshops and met with communities across Bengaluru, such as the Solid Waste Management Round Table (SWMRT), SwachaGraha Kalika Kendra, Hasiru Dala, and The Indian Ploggers Army, who were already pioneers in community waste management. “Lucikly, we did not have to go elsewhere to learn; the city has more than enough role models,” says Shwetha.

If they had managed to segregate waste at source, could they also process it within the neighbourhood?

From the learnings imparted by these groups, WoW concluded that lane-level composting was the most practical solution. The BBMP-appointed waste collectors were then trained in the layering techniques required for composting. 

During the summer and festive seasons, the street generates nearly 30 kg of wet waste each day. On a regular day, the figure is closer to 20 kg. With a monthly processing capacity of 750 kg, the composting system produces around 300 kg of manure every month. “Residents use it in terrace gardens, and some of it is sold to farmers on the outskirts of Bengaluru,” says Swathi, a core WoW member.

This composting journey, however, was not without setbacks. "When we tested the compost during the early stages, we found traces of lead, despite careful segregation," notes Swathi.

The women began investigating the source of this contamination. Eventually, they discovered an unexpected culprit: many residents lined kitchen counters with newspapers while chopping vegetables, and then disposed of the paper along with the wet waste. The lead-based ink from the newspapers had found its way into the compost. Once the issue was identified, residents were advised not to throw newspapers along with the wet waste, thus resolving the problem.

Also read: Can composting be the solution to expanding landfills in cities like Bengaluru?

Turning sustainability into community ethos

As the composting initiative matured, the group's focus gradually expanded. They started organising health camps for sanitation workers, conducting repair workshops, and campaigning against single-use plastic in nearby temples and markets. They run a rental cutlery bank, which residents can dip into during family functions, instead of buying plastic alternatives. "To reduce the use of disposable plastic decorations during celebrations, we collect leftover fabric from tailors and turn it into decorative materials," says Malini Nijagal, the Vice-President of WoW.

They also expanded their outlook beyond the lane and started Whatsapp groups for all 17 blocks in ward 177, with volunteers from each street. WoW now has 18 core members.

Perhaps the most visible symbol of the neighbourhood's transformation is a place that once represented the problem itself—a roadside dumping site, next to a dilapidated building. No matter how often it was cleaned, people continued to dump mixed waste there.

Rather than clearing the site over and over, the women decided to tackle the root cause. Along with the BBMP, they came up with a detailed plan to renovate the building. One part was reimagined as a ‘Vishranthi Kendra’, a centre providing shelter, a changing room, and a toilet for the sanitation workers. The other part became ‘Namma Hasiru Gnana Kalika Kendra’ (Our Green Knowledge Learning Centre),  where school children, residents, and institutions can learn about sustainable practices.

The transformation of 17th B Lane began not with a government scheme or a major investment, but with decisions made inside kitchens and homes. Every segregated vegetable peel, every rinsed milk packet and every household that chose responsibility over convenience reshaped not only the street's waste management system, but also its civic culture. 

Waste collectors were recognised as skilled workers whose labour made the neighbourhood's change possible.

In the process, residents' interactions with sanitation workers changed, too. Waste collectors were recognised as skilled workers whose labour made the neighbourhood's change possible. By bringing together residents, sanitation workers and BBMP officials into the same conversation, these women replaced a transactional relationship with one built on dignity, trust and shared responsibility.

Edited by Neerja Deodhar and Aathira Konikkara

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Welcome to the Good Food Movement’s Climate Crisis Dictionary—your online guide to environmental phenomena and the science behind them. 

Urban Heat Island (noun)

Coined in: 1929

Coined by: Albert Peppler, German meteorologist (though amateur British meteorologist Luke Howard recorded the phenomenon as early as 1810)

TLDR: Urban areas in many parts of the world are becoming warmer than surrounding rural areas, because of the way urban infrastructure traps heat.

The longer explanation

The weather, or how hot it feels, is regulated by patterns of heat transfer within the Earth's atmosphere, largely through radiation and convection. It may help to know that everything, at all times, radiates heat (you included). What differs is how much heat is radiated, and in which direction. For instance, during the day, the heat coming from the sun is far stronger than heat emitted by the Earth’s surface. But during the night, the outgoing heat from the Earth's surface is greater, and warms the surrounding air. That's what keeps the Earth warm at night.

Convection transfers heat by directing the movement of air from warmer areas to cooler areas. Think back to the concepts of land breeze and sea breeze covered in geography class years ago—that is convection at work. The rising of warm air leads to cloud formation and rain. These clouds also intercept and reduce the radiation being received and emitted back by the Earth. 

Our cities, through the ways in which they are built and the things they build over, upset these mechanisms. They increase the amount of heat absorbed and retained in the atmosphere, and curtail avenues for the city to cool itself.

There are three major aspects of cityscapes that feed into this. First, natural resources like tree cover and water bodies are sacrificed in expanding cities. Green cover and water bodies play key roles in cooling the environment through mechanisms like evaporation and transpiration, and their absence robs us of a pleasant city to live in.

Second, the contribution of anthropogenic (human-caused) heat. Some of this is direct: the heat emitted by factories, air conditioners, and vehicle exhaust, to name a few. There is also an indirect contribution by the materials we use for buildings and roads (concrete and asphalt, respectively). These are dark surfaces that absorb enormous quantities of heat. To cloak our cities in concrete and asphalt is no different from wearing a full-sleeve black shirt on a hot summer day. Our roads and buildings absorb more sunlight than soil would, and re-radiate it into the air once night falls. The marked increase in nighttime temperatures that is observed in urban heat islands can be attributed to these building materials.

Third, tall buildings, a characteristic of most rising cities, block the cooling effect of winds. Helpfully termed as ‘urban canyons’, these parallel rows of skyscrapers direct both wind direction and speed. They are also additional surfaces for the heat to be absorbed and reflected.

To cloak our cities in concrete and asphalt is no different from wearing a full-sleeve black shirt on a hot summer day.

Together, these factors create a city that is anywhere between 1-10°C warmer than its surrounding rural areas. This touches our daily lives, and the ease with which we move through the city. It changes what it feels like to step out at noon: how much your eyes scrunch up when you're standing on the footpath, the temperature of the wind from the bus's window seat, and how tired you are by the time you reach your destination.

What this means for humans

A natural question to have is, 'is my city an urban heat island?'. The nuanced answer is, yes and no—every city is a heat island, but not every part of the city is part of the island. Cities have hotspots, or areas which are hotter, and cooler patches. A better question could be, 'is my neighbourhood an urban heat island?'.

Spotting these is intuitive if you understand how urban design is trapping heat. Densely packed areas, like industrial estates, will trap more heat. Parks and lakes bring down the temperature. A study quantifying this phenomenon in Chennai had astounding findings: at the same time that the Chennai airport was a merciless 43.3°C, the Guindy National Park was a pleasant 23°C. 

It is this understanding that leads us to the 'ideal city', one that is liveable. Officially termed as 'blue-green infrastructure', it is the vision for a climate-friendly city that ensures natural drainage systems, adequate cooling, and clean air. The approach is to add adequate green and blue elements into the grey cities we have come to inhabit. 

The implementation of these blue-green solutions is tricky, especially in India, where most cities grew organically and without prior urban planning. So, solutions have to be designed around existing infrastructure. Green roofs (growing plants on roofs) and cool roofs (applying reflective coatings to roofs) are examples of such interventions, with the latter being more cost-effective. Moving towards more liveable cities will mean realigning governance, shares Nidhi Bhatnagar, an urban designer based out of Bengaluru. This includes changing how much open space to mandate when construction is undertaken, streamlining monitoring mechanisms and ensuring accountability.

But Bhatnagar stresses that neither governments nor citizens can approach greener cities without empathy. Our cities hold multiple realities, and not everyone experiences the city in the same way. Some can afford to travel in air-conditioned vehicles on a hot afternoon or live in neighbourhoods lined with decade-old trees. Some depend on the bus and live in densely-packed informal settlements with tin roofs. Recognising this asymmetry in how heat touches people is central to solving for it—or we shall not be solving for those who need it the most.

Bhatnagar stresses that neither governments nor citizens can approach greener cities without empathy.

Amir Bazaz, a professor at the Indian Institute of Human Settlements (IIHS), also highlights the citizen's role in this movement. "No single entity can solve all problems," he says. We have to work through multiple avenues, build partnerships, and work from multiple fronts. To him, the problem is not that our cities are unplanned, it is that we have not nurtured a symbiotic relationship with them. If one is willing to live in the city for all that it offers—livelihood, freedom, and more—then one must be willing to give back to it. We have to, at a personal level, examine the impact of our choices and lifestyle on the city that supports us.

Illustrated by Jishnu Bandyopadhyay

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Editor’s note: Urban farmer Simran Moorjani is the founder of Simbiosis, a regenerative farm on the outskirts of Mumbai, where she grows tomatoes and salad leaves while maintaining a symbiotic relationship with the land. In this column, she reflects on the realities of farming—sometimes with humour, sometimes with candour, always with curiosity.

On a hot April morning during the COVID-19 lockdown, I sat squatting on the terrace of my apartment building, staring at my plants in disbelief. I’d forgotten to water them the day before, and they all looked miserably limp. I’d assured my mother that they’d been dutifully watered, of course. So when she came upstairs for her evening walk and saw them dead, I knew that would be the end of me. In a panic-fuelled jugaad move, I took a big bucket and threw a tumbler-full of water into each pot. 

Like everyone else who was homebound, I, too, had a long list of chores to finish everyday, from washing the dishes, to sweeping the floor. Watering plants was as dreary a chore as any, until that particular morning: I waited, and watched, and continued to watch—in disbelief—as each plant slowly came back to life. Within an hour, the plants looked somewhat energetic again; their leaves went from limp and lifeless to turgid and alive.

The relief I felt was immense. But I also felt another thing—curiosity. How quick these plants were to react to me, or my absence for a mere 24 hours. I began to observe them more each day. I noticed new leaves unfurling on the Monstera, a little each day, until a glorious, glossy new leaf emerged. I observed the jasmine go from tiny buds to proud, fragrant blooms. I watched the chilli plant’s fruit go from green, to yellow, to orange, to gleaming red. The terrace became a place of infinite wonder, and my haven during those months. 

The sight of earthworms wriggling in the potting mix made me as delighted as the first shoots pushing their way through the earth.

But there was only so much fun to be had if I couldn’t actually taste the fruits of my labour (pun entirely intended), and so, I gathered a few empty pots, some soil, and seeds of spinach and tomato. From resenting having to make trips to the terrace, to rushing upstairs the moment I woke up in the morning, my routine had entirely changed. The sight of earthworms wriggling in the potting mix made me as delighted as the first shoots pushing their way through the earth. I waited, impatiently, for a pair of leaves to turn into a bush. Nothing in this life has excited me the way that growing my own food has.

Around this time, I began watching gardening videos on YouTube, and even took an online masterclass by Ron Finley—a fashion designer to professional athletes, and the original ‘Gangster Gardener’. He made growing food sound like the coolest thing. "Take the power back," he insisted. "If it can hold soil, it can grow food." I took that advice to heart, and soon enough, I was turning old shoes, tin cans, takeaway containers, and just about anything else I could find into makeshift planters. Every spare corner became an opportunity to grow something. 

Knowing what you don’t know

In those early days of experimentation, some plants thrived, some more failed, and a few vanished entirely, thanks to pests, the weather or my own inexperience. The few successes I’d earned, however, were enough to make me forget the many losses that accompanied them.

How have we normalised this way of existing, so detached from that which nourishes us—mind, body and spirit?

What quickly became evident was just how little I knew. How had I gone through 25 years of my life not knowing that growing your own spinach can be so easy, and that it can be harvested in as little as 30 days? How did I not know that ferns unfurl, cucumbers climb, pumpkins conquer ground at unimaginable speeds, and that ginger magically multiplies underground? Oh, and those green things popping out of an old potato are not fungi? They’re just roots—called the ‘eyes’ of the potato—looking for a place to anchor themselves. 

How have we normalised this way of existing, so detached from that which nourishes us—mind, body and spirit? 

Also read: Tomato truths: What this novice farmer learnt and unlearnt about the fruit

Scratching the novice farmer’s itch

Simbiosis, or the adventures on the piece of land I call my farm, began in the summer of 2023. To me, farming is gardening—without the limitations of a pot. It’s watching your plants grow to their full potential, spreading their canopies as wide as they can, throwing roots as far as they want to, with no plastic walls holding them back. It felt like a natural progression after three years of rooftop farming in Mumbai, which left me with an itch to test out theories and ideas on a bigger, more substantial scale. It also marked the first time I felt I was good at something, like this was a pursuit that I should allow to consume me whole.

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It was my good luck that I had access to space where I could scratch the proverbial itch—a piece of land my family has in the hill station of Lonavala, near Mumbai. The only trouble with this land was that it was entirely razed of all its top soil.

It also marked the first time I felt I was good at something, like this was a pursuit that I should allow to consume me whole.

Top soil is the good stuff, the loose two to 12 inches of soil that’s rich in nutrients and organic matter, and that hosts almost all biological activity, making it the essential foundation for growing just about anything. In its absence, we had to build our own—and that was the most intimidating step. Soil formation is a process that takes thousands of years; how could I mimic it, or something like it, in a matter of a few months, or even years? 

Having your lasagna, and eating it too

The vision with any regenerative farm is to mimic the forest floor, a place where everything grows with zero human intervention. A forest floor is less like a lawn, and more like a living system that auto-generates compost. Layers of fallen leaves, twigs, fruit, and organic matter settle over each other, with a steady supply of new additions while older layers slowly return to the earth. Undisturbed and untillled, the forest nourishes itself, and the ecosystems that live within it. 

We used rice straw (our carbon source) instead of twigs and leaves, and chicken manure and home-made compost (our nitrogen source). Combined with the existing soil on the land, we stacked alternating layers as high as we could go—a process that is aptly known as lasagna mulching. We let this ‘lasagna’ slow-cook through one summer and monsoon, and just as the weather started to improve, we sowed our very first seeds.

Not just ‘a phase’

I had the courage to cultivate in only eight beds that first season, and when the crops grew as beautifully as they did, I started dreaming bigger dreams. During this time, I noticed a recurring, reassuring fact: plants want to grow. A seed’s life’s purpose is to grow, flower and fruit. To reproduce, and to spread itself as wide as it can. All we have to do as farmers is provide the conditions for its success: darkness when sown, sunlight when it germinates, a steady supply of water, and some food. Besides that, a plant can truly do everything on its own. It’s a lesson I apply to many situations and contexts, trying to surround myself—as much as I can—with environments, work, and people that feel conducive to my growth. 

A first season is pivotal to a new farmer. It’s a test of one’s knowledge and instincts, and a map for the projects that can be scaled up in the near future. It’s also a juncture to ask yourself the tougher questions: to ascertain if farming is just a phase—a fleeting infatuation—or a life you want to commit to. 

For me, there was only one answer.

It’s also a juncture to ask yourself the tougher questions: to ascertain if farming is just a phase—a fleeting infatuation—or a life you want to commit to.

Life, too, has its own seasons

Two years ago, during my first monsoon season, I was desperate to maximise and make productive the farm I was putting all my financial resources into. I pushed myself to grow all year round, come what may. The summer was alright, with gourds and cucumbers giving fruit, but I’d made big plans for the rains. In June, I tried to sow a diverse set of seeds across raised beds. We’re on a hillside, 950 m above sea level. We get battered in the monsoon with strong rains and even stronger winds. 

Turns out, I’d focused on water retention so much, I forgot to plan for how the water may escape. At the height of the monsoon, the beds turned into little mucky pools, and the stagnant water suffocated everything that was growing inside the soil. Plants were uprooted in storms, and two papaya trees even broke in half. 

I’d spend entire days on the farm, getting drenched in the rain, and shivering on my way back. This was in tune with the fast-paced, corporate rhythms of city life, where days and months seem to blend into each other. It took falling seriously ill for me to learn that there is a time to work hard, and there is a time to rest. Work at the farm is, after all, intertwined with harvest cycles and the climate.

Maybe life, too, should be lived in seasons.

The lessons time teaches

One of the more critical decisions I’ve had to take is minimising my financial expectations from the farm thus far. One day, it’ll be all I do, but until then, I’m aware I need to learn more. I need to try more things, I need to fail some more. None of this is possible without the luxury of time, and the cushioning from a day job. 

Though I’m no expert in financial investing, I have witnessed the power of compounding come to life on the farm, from widespread barrenness to nurturing even those seeds which have naturally tumbled into the soil.

My brother, who is an avid investor, speaks of investing as a way to prepare for the future. He preaches about the power of compounding like it’s a gospel. Though I’m no expert in financial investing, I have witnessed the power of compounding come to life on the farm, from widespread barrenness to nurturing even those seeds which have naturally tumbled into the soil. I see the work we’ve undertaken adding up—in the presence of earthworms and termites—and multiply at rates I didn’t think were possible.

In a fast-spinning world where the most frightening of news events, like the depreciation of currencies and blockages in world trade, feel intangible and unknowable, farming offers a comforting contrast. It encompasses wins and losses that I can touch, see, smell, hear, and taste. That’s why I grow food—it makes me feel real.

Carousel Photos by Simran Moorjani

Cover Art by Pearl D'Souza

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The only time I saw Fr. Bolmax Pereira was at his last rites in Chicalim’s St. Francis Xavier Church.

A steep, tree-lined road leads to this 400-year-old church in western Goa, where he served as the parish priest from 2019 until his death in May this year. As I make my way, I see an elderly woman walking across me; she is flanked by three others. Once we reach, I ask her, in passing, why she came all the way. It was evidently a difficult walk, and one she wasn’t necessitated to undertake. She looks me in the eye and says with conviction, “It’s Fr. Bolmax. There was no way I wasn’t coming.” 

Before I am able to continue our conversation, we’re split into different fast-moving, crowded lines to see the well-regarded and widely admired clergyman’s body encased in a glass casket. A parishioner is fixatedly wiping it, despite it glistening reflectively. The busloads of well-wishers arriving to the church grounds spoke to the many ways in which Fr. Bolmax touched hundreds of lives.

Apart from being a parish priest and Assistant Professor at the St. Joseph Vaz College in Cortalim, he had a doctorate in Wetlands Ecology, was the convenor of the Diocesan Commission of Ecology, a farmer, a social and environmental activist, and a tiatrist (practitioner of a folk theatre form in Goa). He was awarded the Goa State Biodiversity Board Appreciation Award for Biodiversity Conservation, and the Karmaveer Chakra Award (Silver) by the Indian Confederation of NGOs (iCONGO) in partnership with the UN, for his efforts in environmental conservation, grassroots activism and social service. 

As I reach the front of the line, I accidentally step on a bouquet of flowers; the floor near his casket is teeming with them. I make my way out, and notice that their scent wafts beyond the four walls of the church. 

‘A quintessential Goan’

“He was like a father to us in all ways,” says 22-year-old Rutik Parab. A recent graduate from the St. Joseph Vaz College, Fr. Bolmax taught him Botany for four years. “If you'd meet him, you’d instantly know he was a good person. Any student could approach him with any problem—even a financial one—and he would help them out. He even sided with the students over the Principal,” he adds. 

He was a quintessential Goan. “The closest to what Konkani poet Bakibab Borkar wrote: ‘someone who could feel the land within him’,” says Nandini Velho, a wildlife biologist to whom Fr. Bolmax was a friend, guide and mentor. They met as volunteers for ‘Amche Mollem’, a citizen-led movement to protect the Mollem National Park and Bhagwan Mahavir National Park from three mega-infrastructure projects that would critically fragment the forests.

His most important contribution was that he would stand up—be it to politicians, or meeting forest officers, or conducting tree and mangrove plantation drives, or going to the site of deforestation.

Amche Mollem is known for its sustained, multipronged approach that brought together Goans from different walks of life through conventional and unconventional ways. While the non-profit Goa Foundation fought the legal side of the battle, Fr. Bolmax played a pivotal role in shaping its socio-political and cultural fronts. “There are many things he took on, from farming to coming up with the idea of flash mobs (to raise awareness about environmental issues in Goa). But his most important contribution was that he would stand up—be it to politicians, or meeting forest officers, or conducting tree and mangrove plantation drives, or going to the site of deforestation. He also wrote a letter to the Chief Minister through the Diocesan Commission of Ecology, to talk about ecological issues in Goa,” Velho says. 

Also read: Bean to bar: A Goan chocolatier’s experiments in cacao farming

A man of, and for, the community

Fr. Bolmax frequently questioned the powerful, and held them to account. It was perhaps the loudest aspect of his demeanor. In a 2023 interview, he responded to a question often asked of him: why was a parish priest engaging in activism and politics? “As a Prophet and a teacher, I need to teach my people everything they need to know. Be it about society, nature, politics or economics. It is about life. And life cannot be separated. Politics is running our life. That [talking about politics] is my role as a Prophet and a teacher. Not because I know more than people, but because we tend to put politics in the back of our mind,” he responded earnestly. 

During the COVID-19 pandemic, the village of Chicalim was faced with two questions: How long would it be before the fields could be cultivated again, and would the village have to deal with food scarcity in the meantime? With farm hands and labourers having returned to their own villages, most of Chicalim’s fields lay fallow. And with the lockdown looming over this almost 13 sq. km village, many were worried about food security.

“The Chicalim Youth Farmers Club (CYFC) came about because we all worried about our sustenance. It was a way for the youth to connect with Goa’s land and soil,” says Alisha Pereira, the club’s treasurer and a parishioner at the St. Francis Xavier Church. The club she refers to was established by Fr. Bolmax. His connection with the land was forged during his childhood, when he was involved in cultivating paddy in his village, Quepem. “He always said he was a proud farmer,” Pereira says.

In the second half of 2020, Fr. Bolmax spoke with villagers who owned sizable fields in the village, in a bid to bring together the youth of Chicalim. “You’ll learn how to plant paddy,” he told them. In their first season, the club planted cluster beans, and the next summer, they cultivated two local varieties of rice. Fr. Bolmax put them in touch with Goencho Xetkar, a small group of farmers promoting Goan paddy cultivation, who also rent out necessary farming equipment. “He was there with us throughout the process, not merely during the sowing and harvesting. A lot happens before the Ukadya Xheet (parboiled rice) reaches your plate. Post-harvest, you need to dry the grain, clean it, and finally boil it,” says Pereira, who adds that the priest helped formally register the club. 

The club is an example of the impact Fr. Bolmax left behind, and the institutions whose setting-up he shouldered—particularly causes involving the youth.

In the last six years, the club has expanded substantially, as more local farmers invite Chicalim’s youth to cultivate their land. It now rents tractors and ploughing machinery from the State Agriculture Department, and the members have partnered with local schools and colleges to transplant saplings. They farm without chemical fertilisers, opting for natural alternatives instead. The harvest is shared among members, the landowners and mentors. The club is an example of the impact Fr. Bolmax left behind, and the institutions whose setting-up he shouldered—particularly causes involving the youth. “He had the ability to be the heartbeat of many people, especially the youth,” notes Velho. 

Also read: Basanti Devi’s boots are made for walking

A legacy that will carry forward

Ferdin Sylvester, co-founder of the One Earth Foundation, who is pursuing a PhD in mangroves and climate change, recalls Fr. Bolmax’s sense of humour with fondness. They crossed paths in 2023, during a One Earth Foundation project called Waves of Change, wherein Sylvester kayaked from Keri in North Goa to Galgibaga in the South over 22 days, cleaning up mangroves along the coast. “One of the best things to come out of that expedition was (meeting) Fr. Bolmax,” he says. During subsequent visits, the duo would plan and conduct mangrove restoration drives and other activities to conserve Goa’s shoreline protectors. Like forests and farming, mangroves too were a focus area for the priest, who wished for the Narrow-Leaved Kandelia (Kandelia candel) species to be declared as the state mangrove tree of Goa, taking inspiration from Maharashtra which recognised the White Mangrove Chippi (Sonneratia alba) in this manner. It is said that Fr. Bolmax could often be spotted wearing a hand-painted t-shirt that read ‘Plant more mangroves.’

“He was the kind of leader who led from the front, and also believed in decentralised leadership. He encouraged people, especially younger people, to become leaders,” Sylvester says. According to him, Fr. Bolmax was able to cut across party lines, making allies of activists, students, the church and government authorities.

He tells me about the mangrove nursery the priest wanted to create at the church, and of the time they went scoping out land in Cortalim for mangrove replantation. “He was always full of ideas and never backed down from supporting others’ ideas. He would always say ‘Ami Koroyo’ (we will do it) and find time to make it all happen,” Sylvester adds.

Like forests and farming, mangroves too were a focus area for the priest, who wished for the Narrow-Leaved Kandelia (Kandelia candel) species to be declared as the state mangrove tree of Goa

It is strange to get to know a person after their death. To me, Fr. Bolmax is a mosaic of the memories and stories held close by the people who love and respect him. I see his legacy in the environmentalists and youth he worked alongside. Their grief around his death has strengthened their resolve to continue fighting for Goa’s soil, water, air and all its creatures. His death has made their voices more resolute when they now say, “Ami Koroyo.” 

Cover Art by Jishnu Bandyopadhyay

Also read: In this Konkan coast town, women rock the boat with their mangrove safaris

The war in West Asia engulfed Israel, Palestine, Lebanon, Syria, and the Persian Gulf for nearly five months, and its devastating impact on human life and ecology has reverberated far beyond the region. Aside from livelihoods, global gas supplies and trade, another key economic outcome is pinned on the war: the hopes of billions of people counting on bountiful harvests and affordable meals.

Since March 2026, the war choked the Strait of Hormuz, a narrow, critical maritime trade route through which much of the world’s energy reserves travel, including oil, petroleum and natural gas. The Gulf region is a key producer of both LNG (liquefied natural gas), and nitrogen fertilisers like urea. In fact, a third of the global supply of fertilisers also passes through the Strait—making the region fundamental to agricultural prosperity. As a result, the war exposed the faultlines in a fertiliser economy contingent on a geopolitically sensitive bottleneck. 

Urea is a synthetic nitrogen fertiliser. Natural gas is industrially burned with hydrogen to synthesise ammonia, and then the ammonia is reacted with carbon dioxide to form urea. It contains 46% nitrogen by weight, making it the most concentrated solid nitrogen fertiliser. It is also India’s most widely and diversely used crop nutrient, with farmers applying over 40 million tonnes of the fertiliser to fields of cereals, oilseeds and vegetables, annually. The far-reaching impact of the war stalled the passage of LNG through the Strait of Hormuz, making imports uncertain and slashing the domestic production of urea. The crisis could not have struck at a more precarious time in India’s crop calendar; farmers are looking at a compounded setback with a below-average monsoon prediction ahead of the kharif season (courtesy the Super El Nino), and cuts in fertiliser and fuel.

Feeding a young republic

The synthesis of urea was actually a serendipitous accident: In the 1700s, scientists successfully isolated this organic, nitrogen-rich compound from urine, through which it is naturally excreted from the body. In 1828, German chemist Friedrich Wöhler conducted an experiment to create a different chemical called ammonium cyanate. But when he heated the substance, the compound crystallised into urea. The discovery was also revolutionary because it disproved the ‘vital force theory,’ demonstrating that an organic compound could be made in a laboratory from inorganic chemicals. 

Urea would become a key player in agrarian economies like India. After Independence, India was overwhelmingly powered by agriculture, but lacked technological infrastructure. In the 1950s and 1960s, we relied heavily on food imports, particularly wheat shipments from the US under the Public Law 480 (PL-480) programme, a concessional food aid scheme. With memories of famine still fresh and food shortages a persistent threat, fertilisers were seen not merely as agricultural inputs, but as strategic tools for achieving food security and self-sufficiency. 

With memories of famine still fresh and food shortages a persistent threat, fertilisers were seen not merely as agricultural inputs, but as strategic tools for achieving food security and self-sufficiency. 

The first major state-owned fertiliser factory was inaugurated at Sindri in present-day Jharkhand in 1952. It produced ammonium sulphate and later became the country’s first producer of urea and ammonium nitrate-sulphate. In many ways, this plant became the blueprint for India’s future fertiliser boom. It carried the hope of a young nation, reeling from colonialism, and trying to internally generate the tools to feed its growing population. Others soon followed at its heels. The Fertiliser Corporation of India was established in 1961. Large state-linked enterprises such as Rashtriya Chemicals and Fertilizers, IFFCO, and KRIBHCO emerged as central to agricultural policy. Plants were built across the country to keep meeting the domestic demand for fertiliser. 

Also read: The grave personal cost of pesticide use

In a headlock

The Green Revolution of the late 1960s transformed Indian agriculture—and also laid the foundation for several anxieties that would propel it for generations. High-yielding varieties of wheat and rice, supported by irrigation, mechanisation and chemical fertilisers, dramatically increased foodgrain production and helped the country reduce its dependence on imported grain. But this agricultural productivity came with a new dependency that would prove difficult to wean off. The new crop varieties were bred to respond to heavy doses of nutrients, particularly nitrogen, which was supplied through urea. As farmers chased higher yields, nitrogen fertilisers became central to crop production, gradually displacing traditional nutrient sources such as farmyard manure, compost. Mixed and intercropped farming systems gave way to monoculture farms and plantations. 

While urea supplements soil nitrogen (N), phosphatic and potassic (P&K) fertilisers deliver phosphorus and potassium. These are the three critical macronutrients for soil health and plant growth: nitrogen promotes lush leaf and stem growth, phosphorus is important for early seed and root development, and potassium boosts plant immunity. India introduced its Nutrient-Based Subsidy (NBS) scheme in 2010, subsidising P&K fertilisers to make them affordable, while encouraging a balanced soil application of crop nutrients. However, urea has been excluded from the purview of this scheme, and its prices kept artificially low.

Over decades of subsidised fertiliser use, urea has acquired an almost talismanic status on many farms, based on the assumption that more nitrogen means more grain.

A key reason for urea's dominance is that it remains extraordinarily cheap. A 45 kg bag has been sold at a government-fixed price of Rs. 242 since 2018, despite repeated spikes in global fertiliser and natural gas prices. Because farmers are shielded from the true cost of nitrogen, urea is often cheaper relative to other fertilisers supplying phosphorus and potash, encouraging its overuse and contributing to India's persistent soil nutrient imbalance. Over decades of subsidised fertiliser use, urea has acquired an almost talismanic status on many farms, based on the assumption that more nitrogen means more grain, even though research shows that balanced fertilisation consistently outperforms nitrogen applied alone. The average NPK application ratio in India was 9.8:3.7:1 in the 2024 kharif season, which far exceeds the recommended average ratio of 4:2:1 for Indian agricultural lands.

Urea journeys through the soil like smoke. Part of India's dependence on urea stems from the fact that much of its soil’s nitrogen is lost before crops can use it. Urease breaks down urea into carbon dioxide and ammonia, which  can escape into the atmosphere through volatilisation (the process by which chemicals escape from the soil into the atmosphere in gaseous form). Nitrogen can also be washed away from the root zone into groundwater, with crops often unable to access a substantial share of the fertiliser applied. With nitrogen-use efficiency estimated at only 33–35%, farmers often respond by applying more urea, believing additional doses will help secure higher yields. The result is a cycle in which losses and overapplication reinforce the crop's dependence on a steady supply of the fertiliser. 

The costs of overuse extend beyond the farm. When excess nitrogen escapes from fields, it does not simply disappear: elevated nitrate levels in soil and water have been linked to health risks such as methemoglobinemia or ‘blue baby syndrome’; in infants, a condition that reduces the blood's ability to carry oxygen. Some studies have also associated long-term exposure to nitrate-contaminated water with thyroid disorders and certain cancers.

Also read: Cover crops: A means to renew soil health without using chemicals

Warring with urea

The blockages in the Strait of Hormuz highlighted a less visible vulnerability in India's food systems: their dependence on imported gas. Urea production relies heavily on natural gas as a feedstock, and the Gulf accounts for a significant share of India’s LNG and urea imports. For example, India imported over 46% of its natural gas consumption in 2023-24. India produced 306 lakh metric tonnes of urea in 2025 and 71% of its import requirements were met by West Asia. In the past, urea shortages have forced farmers to line up outside fertiliser outlets.

As disruptions compounded in the Strait, India's domestic urea production dropped by nearly a third in March 2026, falling from around 2.4 million tonnes to 1.6–1.8 million tonnes. Production rebounded the following month, but the disruption underscored the fragility of the country's fertiliser supply chain.

For now, the disruption has been largely absorbable. Government buffer stocks, diversified import sources and the ability to draw on existing inventories have helped cushion farmers from immediate shortages. However, even the temporary dip was significant enough to prompt the government to float a global tender, eventually securing roughly 3.7 million tonnes of imported urea.

With India being the world’s second-largest user of fertiliser after China, higher import costs and delayed shipments have created an uncertain climate around the availability of both fertilisers and their raw materials, and a ‘food security time-bomb’. The term ‘domestic production’ paints an illusion of self-sufficiency, and obfuscates a reality where much of this fertiliser, generated at home, depends on imported intermediary products.

Also read: What's lurking in our food?

The Indian Council for Agricultural Research (ICAR) has encouraged states to consider ammonium sulphate as an alternative source of nitrogen, particularly for paddy cultivation. Unlike urea, which depends heavily on natural gas and remains tied to volatile global energy markets, ammonium sulphate can be manufactured domestically, as well as imported from a wider range of countries, and has a lesser conversion lag (unlike urea, ammonium sulphate does not need to be hydrolysed; its ammonium contents can be directly absorbed by the soil). It also replenishes the soil’s sulphur deposits. This encouragement from the state came long before the war, emphasising that dependence on a single fertiliser can become a strategic vulnerability—which is what Indian farmers are grappling with today. But scientists caution that simply substituting one chemical fertiliser for another will do little to address the deeper problem of nutrient imbalance in Indian soils. It might create a loophole that will take another crisis to expose.

Scientists caution that simply substituting one chemical fertiliser for another will do little to address the deeper problem of nutrient imbalance in Indian soils.

The debate raises a larger question about what food sovereignty really means. For decades, India has measured self-sufficiency through grain production and fertiliser output. But the events in the Strait of Hormuz reveal the limits of that definition. A fertiliser bag stamped ‘Made in India’ may still depend on imported gas, imported minerals and shipping routes vulnerable to geopolitical conflict. True food sovereignty may lie not only in producing fertilisers at home, but in reducing dependence on external inputs altogether: rebuilding soil organic matter, diversifying cropping systems, integrating livestock, recycling nutrients and harnessing biological nitrogen fixation—bringing back the ancient wisdom of farming. The lesson from the war may not be merely that fertiliser supply chains need safeguarding. A more holistic model of food sovereignty may require rebuilding soil fertility in ways that are more resilient to global conflicts unfolding thousands of kilometres away.

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On a Sunday evening, as the sunset’s glow faded over the Elathur lake in Tamil Nadu, a group of visitors gathered for what seemed like an ordinary nature walk. Darkness settled across the water, and thousands of birds appeared in waves across the sky. They circled above the lake before descending onto the branches of dried trees—sentinels rising from the Elathur’s waters. These trees, planted decades ago, had become dense roosting grounds for resident and migratory birds like Egrets and Rosy Starlings. There were no streetlights illuminating the scene, nor paved promenades leading to it, allowing the rhythms of the birds and the landscape to take centre stage. 

Stories about conservation efforts often begin with a crisis: a forest is encroached upon, a wetland is threatened by development, or a species edges closer to extinction. The response to these crises usually follows a familiar pattern: resistance, and attempts at restoration. It is for this reason that the Elathur lake in Erode district stands out; its rejuvenation did not begin with a disaster waiting to unfold, but rather because of citizens who paid attention.

A homecoming to Erode

The health of the lake today is, in a sense, tied to the homecoming of one individual six years ago. Deepak Venkatachalam, an IT professional and naturalist, worked in Chennai before the COVID-19 pandemic. The devastating 2015 floods that brought the city to a halt prompted him to get involved in environmental causes. Soon after, he and a group of like-minded individuals started Suzhal Arivom (which translates to ‘know the environment’), an initiative focused on awareness, climate education and ecological documentation. Their work includes the study of fragile ecosystems, such as the Pallikaranai marshland in the south of Chennai.

In 2020, during the lockdown, Deepak returned to Erode, where he grew up. A visit to his wife’s home near the Elathur Lake altered his understanding of the landscape. 

Spanning a maximum of 90.3 acres, it is a naturally formed, rainfed lake that has filled to its full capacity only thrice during the last 25 years. It receives water from around 21 villages on its upstream. For long, it served as an irrigation tank for the farmlands surrounding it. To nature enthusiasts who come from other parts of Tamil Nadu, it is a favoured birdwatching site. Ravindran Kamatchi, President of the Nature Society of Tirupur, says it was akin to a forest in 2008. “One could not see the other end of the lake, it used to have such dense tree cover. Sometimes, we used to get lost amid the trees,” he recalls. 

Ravindran rues that over the years, an estimated 90% of the trees surrounding the lake have been cut down. Despite this loss of green cover, it continues to be a rich habitat for flora and fauna. 

Deepak saw before his eyes birds whose sightings he associated with Tamil Nadu’s coast. “I was under the impression that birds like the Northern Shoveler, Northern Pintail, and Green-winged Teal would be found only in coastal areas. But here, we saw hundreds of Pintails right behind our homes,” he recalls.

Birds nested across multiple layers—on trees, certainly, but also on mudflats, grasses and shallow ground.

As someone who regularly documented birdlife through citizen science platforms, this stood out to Deepak. He also came across images shared online by ornithologists, including sightings of migratory ducks. Intrigued by the presence of rare species, Deepak chose to pay more attention and study the lake with the Suzhal Arivom team.

Also read: In this Tamil Nadu village, the palmyra has inspired a homecoming

A rich portrait of species diversity

A curiosity to explore lesser-known habitats in and around Elathur lake during the summer of 2020 led the group to the Nagamalai hillock. “The Sathyamangalam Tiger Reserve in Erode is located at the junction of the Western Ghats and Eastern Ghats—older than the Himalayas themselves—imbuing it with rich biodiversity. Nagamalai is a small hillock in this region,” says Deepak.

Since they’re professionals with day jobs, Suzhal Arivom had limited reserves of time to devote to the project. Instead of mourning what was not possible, they devised a focused approach. “Ecologically sensitive areas are lost everyday. We cannot address the issues concerning all of them. We have to choose our battles wisely, so we rely on a systematic, scientific process to decide where to act,” he explains.

For the next two years, in collaboration with local ecologists and bird watchers, they began an ecological and habitat study in Elathur and Nagamalai, conducting periodic field surveys and documenting biodiversity through platforms like eBird and iNaturalist (online repositories of information on natural life). They also participated in global citizen science initiatives such as the Asian Waterbird Census and the Great Backyard Bird Count. The Elathur Lake topped Tamil Nadu in the Great Backyard Bird Count, for the highest number of species at a birding hotspot in the state for two consecutive years (2024 and 2025).

What emerged from this process was a portrait of remarkable diversity: Elathur alone supported over 200 species of birds, including 64 migratory species, with 72 species recorded nesting within the lake. Another factor that stood out was how the natural habitat of the lake was conducive for various species: birds nested across multiple layers—on trees, certainly, but also on mudflats, grasses and shallow ground. Species such as Black-winged Stilts, Red-wattled Lapwings, Little Ringed Plovers and the Ashy-crowned Sparrow-lark depended on these open, exposed areas for breeding. In addition to its birdlife, as of 2025, the Elathur lake was home to 38 plant species, 35 butterfly and 12 dragonfly species, 12 reptiles, seven mammals, and a variety of amphibians, fish, and invertebrates.

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Nagamalai presented a complementary ecological profile. Its rich floral diversity attracted a wide range of insects and butterflies, forming the base of a larger food web. Apex species like the Bonelli’s Eagle were observed nesting consistently over several years, indicating ecological stability. Even incidental observations, such as spotting rare amphibians like the Gunther’s Toad during a sudden rain, added to the understanding of the hillock as a thriving habitat.

Suzhal Arivom’s documentation set off a domino effect, involving local bodies and the state government, changing the fate of the lake itself.

Also read: How Jayshree Vencatesan got Chennai to finally care for its wetlands

A sense of community ownership

When documentation efforts helped establish the ecological value of the lake, the need for community engagement arose, to ensure the lake’s longevity. For many residents, Elathur had always existed in the background. It was familiar, functional, but rarely remarkable. Nature walks emerged as a way to shift this perception.

Instead of conducting ticketed walks centred on jargon-speak and spotting birds with fancy binoculars, Suzhal Arivom decided to simplify things: they made them free of cost, and the people leading the walks spoke in local languages. They also introduced them to a bird identification app, which could be used on smartphones. As a result, the local residents began to witness and recognise the region’s ecology. Over time, this awareness evolved into participation.

Today, any change in the lake or hillock requires the consent of the BMC.

Since 2022, Suzhal Arivom has conducted over 50 nature walks, engaging more than 1,500 participants, including students and teachers. Among the walks’ most active attendees is Nagarajan P. “I have lived near this lake for almost the entirety of my life. But growing up, I never realised how rich it was in biodiversity until I attended these walks,” he says. 

This community participation took a more formal shape in November 2024, with the reconstitution of the Biodiversity Management Committee (BMC), comprising seven local representatives, including two women and two individuals from scheduled castes. Nagarajan became its Chairperson. 

“Under the Biological Diversity Act, 2002, every local body is mandated to establish a Biodiversity Management Committee (BMC). These committees are entrusted with preparing People’s Biodiversity Registers to document indigenous knowledge and resources, and to ensure the conservation and sustainable management of biodiversity in their respective regions,” observes Deepak.

The first major resolution passed by the BMC was to seek ‘Biodiversity Heritage Site’ status for both the Elathur lake and Nagamalai hillock. The Biodiversity Heritage Site conservation approach was recognised under Section 37 of the Biological Diversity Act, 2002, defining these sites as having “wild as well as domesticated species; high endemism; rare and threatened species, keystone species, species of evolutionary significance, wild ancestors of domesticated/ cultivated species; fossil beds” among other criteria. 

What may appear 'untidy' from a design perspective is, in ecological terms, essential habitat.

By late 2025, both were formally recognised, making them the state’s third and fourth such sites alongside the Arittapatti hillock in Madurai (declared in November 2022) and Kasampatty grove in Dindigul (declared in March 2025). Ecologist Reveendran Natarajan is of the opinion that the awarding of this status is more meaningful than if the site was declared a bird sanctuary. “That would have cut off the locals’ access to it. If natural ecosystems have to be protected, community ownership is necessary,” he says.

“Today, any change in the lake or hillock requires the consent of the BMC. The community, once a passive observer, now plays a central role in decision-making,” says Dhivyapriya S., a committee member who keeps record of all activities in the area. The will of the BMC, combined with Suzhal Arivom’s fight against beautification drives, has ensured that the lake does not fall prey to damaging practices.

Also read: In this Konkan coast town, women rock the boat with their mangrove safaris

A ‘non-anthropocentric’ project

What distinguishes Elathur from other lake revival/rejuvenation initiatives, Deepak asserts, is not the interventions undertaken, but rather what has been left untouched. A conscious decision was undertaken to ensure it does not conform to more conventional models of restoration which prioritise human activity and leisure. For instance, there are no concretised walkways, no decorative lighting, no engineered islands. Instead, its mudflats, marsh vegetation and natural ecotones (vibrant biodiverse transitional zones between land and water) have been retained.

Notably, desilting activity—typically undertaken to increase a lake’s capacity—has come to a halt. Documentary filmmaker Janardanan R., who has been documenting the biodiversity in the lake and nearby hillock for close to two years, even spotted the Eurasian spoonbill here in 2025—indicating the natural recovery of silt in Elathur, and how this has encouraged the arrival of newer species. 

Indigenous plants have been introduced along the lake’s edges, creating a potential seed bank for the future. “What may appear 'untidy' from a design perspective is, in ecological terms, essential habitat. Even when we planted trees, we made sure the ecotones were not disturbed,” says Deepak.

Individual choices, once seen as being inconsequential, are now part of a broader pattern of conservation. For instance, Ravikumar P, Treasurer of the BMC, underwent a transformation: from being unaware of the rich biodiversity around him, to actively caring for it. “Our fellow villagers used a part of the lake as a cremation ground. When my grandmother died, we decided not to cremate her there,” he says. Though it may seem like a small decision, it set off a ripple effect, with others following suit. The declaration of the lake as a Biodiversity Heritage Site further protects it from such previously accepted practices.

As the birds return each dusk to an unaltered landscape, the lesson is clear: conservation is not always about ‘adding’ more; it is often about knowing when it is best to leave nature alone.

Edited by Neerja Deodhar and Aathira Konikkara

Cover photo by Harishanker KP

Carousel images by Sundaramanickam, Deepak, Jagan, Ravindran Kamatchi, Janardanan and Suzhal Arivom

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A food forest is a farm unlike any other. It is a comforting space where I feel rich, not because of material wealth, but because of what surrounds me.

Here, in Tamil Nadu’s Hosur, where we’re guardians of an edible ecosystem spanning five acres, the peak of summer brings with it a luxury I cherish: we harvest a variety of fruits, grown naturally without compromise or artifice, allowing us to taste mangoes, jackfruits and mulberries the way they were meant to be. 

By providing respite from the heat, a food forest can rewrite the feelings we associate with summers. In me, the season evokes gratitude for a generous bounty of produce, because it is the most important season, marked by the highest yield of the year. It calls for an observation of changes taking place inside the forest, inspecting crops and trees to understand what is lacking, ensuring a steady supply of water, preparing the earth for the rain, and planting diverse species. 

Letting the forest breathe

Farming never comes to a halt in a food forest. It produces throughout the year. But even the mighty food forest needs a little pause, to stretch and to breathe. Summer is the right time for this. It is not just a season for harvest—it is a crucial point when the forest rewilds and welcomes new additions.

Even the mighty food forest needs a little pause, to stretch and to breathe.

About a month before the monsoon, when the heat starts to ease, we embark on the planting of new varieties. Planting saplings at this time of the year gives them a good headstart. We also grow hibiscus and other flowering plants, to welcome pollinators such as bees, birds and bats. Many species of birds, such as Red-whiskered Bulbuls and sunbirds, have built their nests in the trees’ canopies. We did nothing to attract them; the ecology here is inviting by itself.

The floor of the forest becomes a carpet of dry leaves shed by trees in their mature state, which we use to make mulch. The leaves are stored in drums and returned to the soil a year later as naturally fertile, no-cost manure—making it ecologically sensitive and cost-effective at once. We usually use the previous summers’ mulch for the crops that we grow the next. This process helps to maintain the soil’s moisture and an optimal temperature, as well as keeping the roots hydrated at all times. 

There is a palpable difference in the temperature within a food forest, and the temperature you’d experience outside its boundaries. Thanks to its compact design, the crops grow in close proximity and provide shade to each other, enabling them to endure the heat while also maintaining a specialised microclimate. 

Also read: Turn left for Mumbai's concrete jungle. Turn right for its thriving food forests

Water, water, everywhere?

The most challenging aspect of farming during the summer is ensuring there is enough water for crops. The heat induces exhaustion in plants, making them weak, tired, and wilted. Yet irrigation is no easy task. We dig contour channels and swales—paths that direct rainwater and allow it to be collected efficiently. This process becomes challenging after the monsoon, when the soil turns loose. During the summer, the dry texture of the soil makes it much easier to work with. 

Rainwater collected during the previous monsoon, stored in ponds or tanks, is released during the summer. This is why pre-monsoon preparation—building channels and storage—is crucial. We also carry out drip irrigation, which involves gradually releasing water directly to the root zone (the soil surrounding the roots) through pipes or porous hoses. This is done to ensure that the water level reaches the crops according to their needs and capacities. 

Also read: A man dreamt of a forest. It became a model for the world

The impact of climate change

There have been years when I noticed crops worn out, and yields far below what was expected. Last summer, our jackfruit trees offered 60% less yield than the usual rate. This is evidently a huge loss, but I am unable to pinpoint a precise reason for it. Initially, I wondered if it was because of the rise in temperatures; but the jackfruit is a summer fruit, and it is hard to believe that this could be the only cause for such extensive losses. This was neither to do with the summer, nor a phase of low growth. I believe that climate change was the culprit. 

The extreme heat in the summer months may feel like a curse, but for an organic farmer like me, it is a blessing in some ways.

There was a similar change in our mango trees during the last winter, which was colder than usual. Mangoes, being summer fruits, were impacted by it. Lychees, on the other hand, thrived; they are early summer fruits, and the cold suited them well. Each crop responds to changing climate patterns in its own way. 

The extreme heat in the summer months may feel like a curse, but for an organic farmer like me, it is a blessing in some ways. For one, we do not use chemicals to tackle pest attacks; we rely on organic alternatives, of which heat is one. Pests often find it hard to withstand heat. Thus, summers bring a significant decrease in the rate of pest infestation and reduce damage to crops. 

It is easy to blame summers for deleterious effects on farming cycles, but we should first remind ourselves that the root cause is human interference. I do not curse summers—I see them as a blessing. 

—As told to Sreekanth K.

Also read: How an Alappuzha coir exporter nurtured a one-acre forest

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In its native home of the Amazon, cacao is not traditionally cultivated as a monoculture crop.  

It thrives within richly-layered agroforestry systems whose underlying framework is the essence of the rainforest itself. Cacao trees grow under the canopies of taller species: think rubber, hardwoods, banana and other fruits. In filtered shade away from the harsh sun, with natural humidity, and amid biodiversity that keeps pests in check, the cacao reaches its full potential. This intercropped approach not only protects the delicate plant, but also sustains soil health and encourages wildlife. 

Far from the conditions of industrial plantations, where single-crop farming often depletes land and increases vulnerability, Amazonian cacao flourishes as part of a complex ecological web.  

Its conditions are somewhat mirrored in Dodamarg, in Maharashtra’s Sindhudurg district on the Goa border. Dodamarg’s leafy hills are known for their interlaced biodiversity of dense forests and waterfalls; the taluka is home to the Tillari Conservation Reserve. It is also the backdrop for chocolatier Alvinia Desouza’s innovative experiments in growing her own cacao, enabling the creation of an end-to-end processed, bean-to-bar chocolate brand. 

From crafting to growing

The craft and profession 43-year-old Desouza is trained in is removed from the land, while still being embedded in global food systems. Long before Goa, there was Emmental, Switzerland. Desouza spent six years at Bäckerforum Aeschlimann, a traditional, four-generation-old Swiss bakery, where she eventually went on to manage the chocolate department almost single-handedly. Here, precision ruled: chocolate, which arrived from reputed Swiss houses like Felchlin and Läderach, was melted, tempered, paired, moulded, perfected. 

“But a chocolatier,” she clarifies, “is not a chocolate maker.” 

Desouza spent six years at Bäckerforum Aeschlimann, a traditional, four-generation-old Swiss bakery.

This realisation crept in slowly. Working with couverture (premium-quality chocolate) felt increasingly like working with a finished language. There was craft, yes, but very little authorship. In 2014, driven by a quest for more, she began flying across Europe on stolen weekends to learn more about the then-nascent bean-to-bar movement. In a small shop in Manchester, UK, Desouza stumbled upon a delicious single-origin chocolate. She was shocked—and delighted—to know that it came from close to home: Kerala. 

This was good Indian cacao, in England. She returned to her native Goa with a phone number and a question she couldn’t shake off: If Indian cacao was this good, why weren’t more people working with it? 

Alchemising cacao 

The phone number belonged to Luca Beltrami, an Italian engineer working closely with Indian cacao farmers through his company, GoGround, in Kerala. Desouza’s perspective shifted when she learnt of Beltrami’s process: he bought pods rather than beans, and fermented the beans contained in them himself. It is in this fermentation, she realised, that chocolate is truly born. 

“If you get the fermentation wrong,” she says, “no talent in the world can fix the chocolate born out of it.” This new wisdom is at the heart of her 10-acre farm at Dodamarg, where she harvests her cacao crop, ferments it and turns it into chocolate bars and other crafts sold at Desouza’s Dodā Atelier, launched in December 2025. 

The April harvest tastes different from the August one, because monsoon moisture changes everything, from drying to the development of flavour.

The very first harvest, in 2025, yielded barely 100 pods—each lined with a few dozen seeds. Only a year later, she produced nearly 300 kg of beans across two harvests: April–May, and post-monsoon in August (cacao typically takes 3-4 years to bear fruit). 

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Commercial chocolate, she explains, is built for consistency. Mixed bean sizes, bulk fermentation, single roasting temperatures, alkalisers like potassium or calcium carbonate to mute acidity, sugar and emulsifiers—all this equals predictability. Consistent results, every single time. Craft chocolate is the opposite, in the way it accommodates variations in bean sizes and weather-based differences in fermentation. The April harvest tastes different from the August one, because monsoon moisture changes everything, from drying to the development of flavour. Climate change, too, plays a role. 

“No two batches are the same,” Desouza says. “And that’s the point.” 

Also read: Climate change in my cup: Why India’s cocoa and coffee production is at risk

The lay of the land

In 2018, Desouza invested in ten acres of land at the foothills of the Western Ghats near the Tillari Conservation Reserve. She grew up in Goa’s Calangute, so she wasn’t unfamiliar with the terrain. But the land she purchased was in abject neglect, having been literally abandoned by its previous owner. So severe was the state of this land’s disarray, that it was in its unhindered, wilding state and even caught fire once.  

Far from Goa’s centre, the price of the land was comparatively lower. The only reassurance Desouza had was that the surrounding areas—said to drink up water from the Tillari Dam and other sources—were known to be quite fertile.

She began with working on the foundational layer of the soil and canopy structure that the cacao would grow with and within, and proceeded with numerous nitrogen-fixing crops. Around the same time, she embarked on a deep study of permaculture, and sought guidance from the Indian Council of Agricultural Research (ICAR) as well as the Cocoa Research Centre, Vellanikkara in Kerala’s Thrissur. The support of Dr. V. Arunachalam, Principal Scientist, Horticulture, ICAR-CCARI (Goa) was pivotal to the first steps she took in cacao farming, Desouza mentions. In 2020, when the COVID-19 pandemic hit, Desouza plunged into the study of the land, taking rigorous online classes and in-person workshops by Clea Chandmal, a well-known permaculturist in Goa. 

Today, Desouza’s farm is home to 20 country chickens for eggs, four ducks, six geese, and 15 turkeys—not for the dinner table but rather for the snakes that make frequent appearances. Two cows and two donkeys graze the land instead of petrol-fed brush cutters, fertilising the soil as they go. “It’s an ecosystem,” she shrugs. “The planet is happy, the soil is happy.” And, by extension, so is the cacao.

Also read: A hunt for Goa’s wild ‘monsoon greens’: Foraged veggies that fed generations

A patiently nurtured farm

For a cacao tree to grow healthily, the soil that it is planted in should be deep, well-drained and humus-rich. Red laterite soils are often suitable, but it can thrive in other soil types as well. Regardless, it is important for the soil to be fertile and full of nutrients, as well as capable of holding water, since cacao needs near-weekly irrigation. 

Permaculture teaches us, ‘slow it, soak it and store it’. We did just that.

“I closely attended to the earth, leaning on my learnings from permaculture. With hired help, I dug a pond for water harvesting because the land was quite arid and barren; it would recharge the groundwater level. Before I could actually plant saplings, we dug trenches which would slow down the heavy rainfall our region receives. Permaculture teaches us, ‘slow it, soak it and store it’. We did just that,” she shares.  

In June and July of 2020, she planted trees that are native to the area, which would provide essential shade to the cacao. Added to the mix were Malabar neem, mango and silver oak. “When the lockdown started to ease, I bought a lot of Gliricidia sepium, as I knew it would improve soil fertility, prevent erosion, and provide organic nutrients for the soil,” she adds. Her farm boasts of banana, rubber, nutmeg, areca nut, jackfruit, and turmeric, among other crops. Coconut, which had already been growing on the land, continues to thrive.

Experiments with cacao 

What Desouza has undertaken is novel and experimental, even as India thrives in cocoa production. In fact, the country’s cocoa bean production was 27,600 tonnes in 2024, up from 19,000 tonnes in 2017.

Though Goa’s humid climate, with well-distributed rainfall throughout the year, makes it a suitable home for cacao trees, much of India’s production of the crop is concentrated further down south, in Karnataka, Andhra Pradesh and Tamil Nadu. Owing to this, there is no network of farmers and traditions to lean on. With Goa’s long dry spells, heat and often heavy rainfall, the cacao needs careful management. Despite this, Desouza sees potential for the crop in Goa. In an effort to encourage its cultivation, she spends time reaching out to other farmers, making a case for growing it in rotation with their other crops. 

With Goa’s long dry spells, heat and often heavy rainfall, the cacao needs careful management.

The journey for fellow cacao cultivators in the state has been turbulent. Sahakari Spice Farms, a Panjim-based plantation, swapped it for coconut, which yielded better results. “The1970s saw farmers in Goa diversifying their crops, leading to the growing of cocoa and areca nuts as intercrops. But eventually, this was discontinued, as there was no knowledge of the after-process. Also, people were not really aware of how valuable the crop could be,” ICAR-CCARI’s Dr. V. Arunachalam says.  

Tanshikar Farms, in the Netravli village, has 200–250 cacao trees, and they process their pods onsite. Much of the chocolate is on sale as retail products, and the rest of it is used for consumption on the farm: in their restaurants, in desserts and shakes. “Goans really didn’t value cacao much as it was quite cheap, and we were unaware that it could command a high price. Then, two years back, its prices grew tenfold and cacao was suddenly very precious,” recalls Chinmay Tanshikar, who has been cultivating cacao trees for two decades, harvesting 6–7 quintals annually.

In her visits back home from Switzerland, a young Desouza frequently spent time tracing the origin of cacao. Where Switzerland taught her discipline, precision and a respect for process, Goa taught her where chocolate could bloom: in the soil, sun, microbes, and time. 

Also read: Why kokum, a beloved souring agent, hasn’t evolved into a commercial success

Edited by Neerja Deodhar and Anushka Mukherjee

Carousel Photo Credit: Dodā Atelier

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