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.
“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.
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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.
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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
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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.
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.
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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 4:1:1 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.
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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.
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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.
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.
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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.
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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.
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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
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.
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.
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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
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.
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?
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
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
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.
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.
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Edited by Neerja Deodhar and Anushka Mukherjee
Carousel Photo Credit: Dodā Atelier
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What happens once we press the flush valve in our bathrooms? In our heads, the waste swirls down into a deep, black void of no-place. We exit the bathroom, and all is forgotten. In reality, the journey that this wastewater embarks on is far less contained—often spilling out of underground pipes into open drains, leaking into the soil, or flowing directly into the rivers that run through our cities.
For many privileged urban Indians, this system remains invisible or beyond our sight, encountered only as the occasional overflowing drain during the monsoon, or the persistent stench along a riverbank. Yet India produces approximately 1,20,000 tonnes of faecal sludge daily, from just urban households. Add to this waste from hospitals, neighbourhood clinics, pharmaceutical manufacturing, and agricultural run-off and animal waste washing in from peri-urban farms—far more waste than we can comprehend. The end result is a potent cauldron in which bacteria from different sources can interact, alongside nutrients, antimicrobial drugs and their derivatives.
Pathogens in such wastewater can develop stronger resistance to the very medicines used to treat them, owing to the diverse microbial atmosphere they are swimming in, which encourages such evolution. Water has, in fact, played a significant role in the rise and spread of antimicrobial resistance (AMR). These potential superbugs, which have developed resistance to multiple antibiotics, can then re-enter our cities—and bodies—through contaminated sources and the water extracted from them.
Surprisingly, agricultural run-off from peri-urban belts is the biggest culprit, contributing to nearly 80% of the antibiotic load entering urban sewage systems, says Dr. Rajesh Mishra, Director, Centre of Cellular and Molecular Biology, Hyderabad. “Animals and fields are primed with antibiotics to boost yields, which laces both groundwater and mixes with urban sewer pipelines. Improper disposal of antibiotics from households and hospital discharge also plays a role,” he adds. Troublingly, antibiotics are only partially absorbed by the body. Residual amounts (ranging between 30% - 90%!) are excreted through urine and feces—making the simple swing of a household flush valve neither innocent nor insignificant.
But it is difficult to single out the offender in this complex web. Untreated pharmaceutical effluents released into rivers also find their way directly into households as well as into sewage. Near Himachal Pradesh’s pharma hub Baddi, for instance, researchers found ciprofloxacin levels in the Sirsa river to be nearly 1,500 times higher than acceptable limits, likely due to industrial discharge. Another 2022 study by Toxics Link detected antibiotics such as ofloxacin, norfloxacin and sulfamethoxazole in rivers including the Yamuna, Gomti, Zuari and Cooum at concentrations two to five times above proposed safety limits.
Troublingly, antibiotics are only partially absorbed by the body.
Hospital sewage should ideally be treated before being released into sewer pipelines, says Dr. Atya Kapley, geneticist and Vice President of the Organisation for Women In Science for the Developing World. In reality, it contains faecal waste from large numbers of patients, many of whom are actively undergoing antibiotic treatment. This means that both antibiotic residues and bacteria from infected bodies enter the same sewage system together. A 2019 study examining effluents from a hospital in Mumbai found that the wastewater harboured an extraordinary diversity of antibiotic resistance genes and proteins—including carbapenemases, which confer resistance to last-resort antibiotics used for severe infections.
While this is a global concern, India has lacked detailed, location-specific data relevant to how AMR develops in wastewater. Two recent landmark studies attempt to address this gap. The first comprehensive map of resistant genes and microbes in the country’s largest metro cities of Mumbai, New Delhi, Chennai and Kolkata’s wastewater (conducted in 2026) demonstrates that although the dominant bacteria and microbial composition vary across cities, resistance mechanisms remain largely similar.
For example, the bacterium Klebsiella pneumoniae—associated with illnesses such as pneumonia and urinary tract infections—appeared more frequently in samples from Chennai and Mumbai. Klebsiella pneumoniae is one of the bacteria that produces highly versatile enzymes, which reduce the power of carbapenem antibiotics, used as a last line of defence.
Pseudomonas aeruginosa, which is linked to bloodstream and catheter-related infections, was more commonly detected in Kolkata. Yet across all the cities studied, researchers consistently found similar ‘resistomes’: the genes that help bacteria fortify their cell walls, neutralise antibiotics, or pump the drugs out of their cells.
The second study (conducted in 2025) analysed urban sewage microbiomes across six Indian states, collecting samples from hospital discharge as well. The study specifically examined samples from the Delhi-NCR region to study how compounds might appear downstream in the Yamuna river. They detected 11 widely used antibiotics spanning seven drug classes. Kanamycin appeared in 67% of samples and azithromycin in 56%. This speaks to how widespread the use and prescription of these antibiotics has become.
Also read: Typhoid lurks in India’s water. Why are antibiotics failing to stop it?
In an ideally planned and run city, wastewater follows a closed path, moving from homes and hospitals through underground sewers into treatment plants, where contaminants are removed before the water is released back into local water bodies and reused. But in much of urban India, this pathway is incomplete. By the time these different streams of wastewater converge, they have formed a nutrient-rich microbial concoction, ripe for bacteria to become stronger.
“Bacteria are extraordinarily diverse, with different cell walls and built-in defence systems that help them survive hostile conditions. When exposed to toxic substances like antibiotics, bacteria adapt: some develop mutations that make the drug ineffective, while others acquire resistance genes from neighbouring microbes, learning new ways to survive,” says Dr. Kapley.
Urban sewage systems then, are not just passive reservoirs where AMR accumulates, but where novel pathogens emerge.
In wastewater, antibiotics are frequently present in low, sub-lethal concentrations, which don’t kill microbes but push them to evolve resistance, says Dr. Karthik Tallapaka of the Centre for Cellular and Molecular Biology, the co-author of the 2026 watershed study mapping the persistence of AMR in urban sewage. "Add to this heavy metals and trace elements like mercury, boron and copper, which leach from pharmaceutical effluents and are also naturally present in soil, helping co-select for AMR,” he adds.
Very often, bacteria pack multiple useful genes together on the same mobile DNA element, which allow them to build and sustain resistance to multiple threats at once. For instance, one plasmid (a small circular DNA molecule that is home to genes with a survival edge) may carry resistance to a heavy metal like mercury, a chemical agent like a disinfectant and antibiotic resistance all in a single packet.
Polluted water kills weaker bacteria, and only bacteria carrying the stronger, whole packet, survive. And because the AMR gene is stored in the same packet, it survives too (even if antibiotics may not be present in that stream of wastewater at that time), continuing to persist in the environment as an AMR carrier. Similarly, disinfectants, fertiliser residue and personal care products also release chemicals like triclosan and parabens that exert selective pressure. These chemicals, present in low, sub-lethal concentrations in the water, kill some bacteria and encourage mutant, resistant strains to rise. For example, Chennai is a significant hub of industrial sulphur manufacture and use, present across its rubber and fertiliser sectors, which led to high concentrations of sulphur being found in the city’s wastewater.
The resistome is a vast universe where resistance is constantly being rapidly exchanged and conferred. This happens mainly through antibiotic-resistance genes (ARGs) of antibiotic-resistance bacteria and mobile-genetic elements (MGEs, or genes that are supple and can ‘jump’ from one place in a genome to another). Urban sewage systems then, are not just passive reservoirs where AMR accumulates, but where novel pathogens emerge.
Can wastewater treatment plants (WWTPs) help reduce the intensity of AMR? WWTPs were originally built to remove visible and harmful pollutants like debris and large amounts of organic waste. Technology has advanced since then, but WWTPs still cannot fully remove ARBs. “Wastewater contains nanogram or picogram levels of antibiotics: difficult to measure in general tests, but enough to trigger AMR,” Dr. Kapley says.
Even when sewage treatment plants kill a bacterium, it cannot always erase its genetic traces.
This is alarmingly the best case scenario. Most sewage in India never finds its way to a treatment plant (of which many plants, in turn, fail to comply with discharge standards). Only about 40% of urban domestic waste is treated, says Dr. Kapley, and nearly 40 million litres of untreated sewage is released into rivers and other water bodies every day. The consequences are deadly.
“Even when sewage treatment plants kill a bacterium, it cannot always erase its genetic traces,” says Dr. Tallapaka. Fragments of their DNA, including antibiotic resistance genes persist, which can then occasionally be scavenged and feasted upon by other bacteria. How often this actually happens in wastewater, however, remains one of the big unanswered questions in AMR research. WWTPs, then, are another cog in this circular system that redistributes resistance instead of being a disposal endpoint.
Also read: How drug-resistant tuberculosis is bringing life to a halt in India
Partially treated wastewater also circulates through cities in ways we may never notice. In water-scarce regions, treated sewage water is routinely reused for construction, flushing toilets, cooling industrial systems, watering gardens and irrigating peri-urban farms that grow vegetables, rice and fodder crops for dairy cattle. A spinach field on the outskirts of a city may be irrigated with canal water containing sewage laced with pharmacological compounds; a dairy animal may drink from a contaminated pond; fish may breed in rivers receiving untreated effluents. During monsoons, overflowing drains and flooded sewer lines can mix with groundwater and lakes from which water is later drawn for domestic treatment and supply. Even activated sludge—the dense, microbe-rich residue separated during wastewater treatment—is sometimes repurposed as fertiliser or dumped in open landfills, where resistant bacteria and ARGs may persist in soil and run-off, says Dr. Mishra.
The urban citizen (us!) encounters these pathways in everyday life. The exposure may come through, say, coriander washed in contaminated water and sprinkled raw onto street food, milk from cattle exposed to polluted fodder and water, or produce grown along riverbanks downstream of sewage discharge. A child playing in floodwater after heavy rain, or a resident living beside an open drain inhaling aerosolised wastewater particles, may encounter microbes shaped by these environments. Infants are especially prone to a compromise of long-term health. “Adults have years of immune experience behind them. Infants do not. So when a resistant bacterium enters a newborn’s body, it can meet an immune system that is still under construction, while treatment options become constricted,” adds Dr. Mishra.
Wastewater surveillance may become one of the most important tools in tracking the spread of antimicrobial resistance.
With manual scavenging of waste being a reality in India’s caste-segregated ecosystem, people on the margins—like Dalit communities—are on the frontlines of the AMR crisis, and that much more likely to be afflicted with disease. The burden of battling longer and more persistent infections also falls on a demographic that has little to no resources, engaged in labour that strikes at their dignity and who have few rights in India’s health economy.
Wastewater surveillance may become one of the most important tools in tracking the spread of antimicrobial resistance. “The first thing we need is baseline data,” says Dr. Tallapaka. “Using newer genome-sequencing technologies, we are now able to study sewage as a kind of biological snapshot of a city,” he adds. But much of what scientists are detecting appears to be novel. Establishing long-term surveillance systems could help researchers identify emerging resistance patterns and perhaps even provide early warning signs of future outbreaks. “Ideally,” says Dr. Tallapaka, “wastewater should provide a bird’s-eye view of whatever is happening in the [microbial] community.”
There are a host of reasons to better treat wastewater and sewage, from the preservation of aquatic ecosystems, to the bolstering of the health of communities who depend on a source of water, and its sustainable reuse in a warming world. The persistence of AMR is only one amongst many things at stake.
Also read: Add crisis to cart: Why instant delivery and antibiotics don't mix
Cover Art by Khyati K
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Editor's Note:The planet we inherited as children is not the planet we will someday bid goodbye to. The orchestral call of cicadas in the evenings, the coinciding arrival of the monsoon with the start of the school year, and the predictability of natural cycles—things we thought to be unchanging are now at risk. An altered climate, declining biodiversity and warming oceans aren’t distant realities presented in news headlines; they affect us all in seen and unseen ways. In ‘Converging Currents’, marine conservationist and science communicator Phalguni Ranjan explores how the fine threads connecting people and nature are transforming with a changing planet.
Nature does not understand calendars or supply chains. Animals and plants follow natural rhythms of seasonal–and even daily–changes. For a long time, our traditional food systems reflected this reality.
For centuries, coastal fishing communities organised their lives around these seasons. Fishers understood tides, winds, lunar cycles, and changes in fish catch not as scientific concepts, but as lived ecological knowledge. And the plate of the fisher and buyer was defined by it.
Now, most consumers know seafood only as a readily-available commodity, for purchase in fish markets, specialised online stores and quick commerce platforms, rather than a part of a seasonal ecosystem. As seafood becomes further integrated into highly commercialised supply chains, it is becoming easier to forget that seafood is marine life that also follows ecological rhythms. It is not an infinite resource.
Traditional fishing communities across the world possess a highly sophisticated body of Local and Traditional Ecological Knowledge (LEK/TEK) that has evolved through generations of interacting with marine ecosystems.
Indian fishers, too, demonstrate a detailed understanding of fish behaviour, when and where they are found, ocean currents, tidal and lunar cycles, monsoon dynamics, and weather forecasting based on environmental cues.
For large mechanised trawlers with freezers and strong engines, the concept of ‘enough’ is absent.
Before monsoon bans were introduced, they commonly reduced fishing activity during peak monsoon due to rough sea conditions, the limited capability of non-mechanised and artisanal boats, and seasonal ecological knowledge related to fish breeding and migration.
Periods when the sea was too rough were understood to be times when some fish should be left undisturbed to spawn and recover. This knowledge is still deeply embedded within local fishing practices today.
But at large, things have changed in recent decades. Fisher communities have observed long-term changes including irregular monsoons, as well as rising temperatures, rougher seas, shifting fish distribution, vanishing species, and declining catches. They attribute declining fish catches not only to climate change, but also to overfishing. Artisanal boats, typically small, low-capacity ones meant for fishing, were built locally with limited capital investment and technology, to be operated in relatively calm coastal waters. By design, how much fish the average artisanal boat could catch and transport fresh was limited. But for large mechanised trawlers with freezers and strong engines, the concept of ‘enough’ is absent.
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When natural rhythms are disrupted, fish populations can shift or dwindle. Common examples include tuna, pomfret, sardines, hilsa, Bombay duck, and some shellfish. Breeding cycles can becoming unpredictable. Additionally, some fish may breed less frequently than others, needing more time to replenish populations, contributing to the declining catches consistently reported by fisherfolk.
In this context, seasonal fishing bans have become a fisheries management tool grounded in the principle that fish populations need uninterrupted breeding periods to replenish themselves.
Fishing bans are not new. India introduced monsoon trawl bans beginning in the 1980s, with Kerala pioneering one of the earliest formal seasonal bans in 1988.
Today, coastal states implement monsoon fishing bans ranging from 45 to 75 days, which in theory coincide with breeding season. The timing and duration may vary between states along the east and west coasts, but artisanal and non-motorised boats are usually exempt from this ban; the focus is mainly on mechanised gear and larger boats like trawlers. In a way, these bans essentially give small-scale fishers a fair chance, as mechanised boats can harvest more and faster, leaving the small-scale fishers at a disadvantage.
Different species spawn at different times, but tropical monsoons play a major role in altering nutrient cycles, water temperature, currents, salinity, and food availability—all of which can create ideal conditions for breeding. Some species have been observed moving to deeper, farther spawning grounds, and their diversity and abundance in near-shore waters drops.
Seasonal fishing bans have become a fisheries management tool grounded in the principle that fish populations need uninterrupted breeding periods to replenish themselves.
In India, spawning peaks differ between the east and west coasts. Studies find that spawning peaks along the west coast between March to May, followed by a secondary peak in November to December. Off the east coast, spawning peaks in March to April. However, the annual fishing bans typically run from April to June along the east coast, and June to July end along the west coast, usually averaging 61 days.
Now, this variability poses a question: are these temporal fishing bans enough?
During spawning periods, some fish species aggregate in large numbers, making them an easier target to catch. Females release eggs into the water while males simultaneously release sperm to fertilise those eggs externally. Overfishing during these periods can remove too many spawning adults, thereby reducing the number of offspring, and eventually, future fish stocks.
Extraction has already tipped beyond a sustainable point. Globally, overfishing is rising by about 1% per year; the proportion of sustainably fished stocks, on the other hand, is decreasing steadily. Over one-third of global fish stocks are already being harvested at biologically unsustainable levels, where they’re extracted faster than they’re able to replenish. And while Indian assessments claim 91% of India’s fish stocks are healthy (population, fish size, and robustness), the ground reality seems to suggest otherwise.
Trawlers scrape and decimate the seabed, generating enormous bycatch, capturing juveniles, and damaging entire benthic ecosystems
The Blue Revolution, enacted during the 7th Five-Year Plan from 1985 to 1990, dramatically altered the playing field in India. Mechanised trawlers, diesel subsidies, export-oriented seafood markets, refrigeration systems, and global demand transformed fisheries into high-intensity commercial extraction industries. Artisanal fishers, who generally exert far less pressure on marine ecosystems, lose out the most.
Bottom trawling, in particular, has become a major ecological concern. Trawlers scrape and decimate the seabed, generating enormous bycatch, capturing juveniles, and damaging entire benthic ecosystems (found on or near the sea bed)—ultimately impacting the small-scale fishers’ livelihood, and resulting in continuing conflict between the two groups.
Local ecological knowledge (LEK), while important in charting out an effective strategy, is rarely factored into policies that frame a top-down regulatory system that impacts local communities as well. Indian fisheries policy remains more focussed on boosting productivity, and has significant gaps. Given the current state of overfished global and domestic stocks, the policy needs to incorporate fisheries biology and updated data from the field to meet sustainability goals.
India’s annual fishing bans still operate on the assumption that most commercially important fish reproduce during the southwest monsoon, which is not the case, and a standardised ban is limited in effectiveness. Studies further find that these bans can have unintended consequences and weak enforcement, leading to intensified fishing effort immediately after the ban and increased illegal, unreported and unregulated (IUU) fishing during the ban.
Seasonal bans alone are insufficient without proper implementation, gear regulation, and policies that account for socioeconomic realities. Small-scale fishers, while still able to access the waters legally, are left with limited means of income during this period, affecting their food security and livelihoods. Existing government support schemes like the Pradhan Mantri Matsya Sampada Yojana (PMMSY) and the Centrally Sponsored National Welfare Scheme for Fishermen seem to be insufficient or have a very patchy impact on-ground.
Fishers themselves believe that fishing bans should be supplemented with regulations on fishing gear, species, and practices to support sustainable fisheries.
Also read: Bugging out: Why declining insect populations in India spell doom for agriculture
Climate change is further complicating fisheries management worldwide. Rising ocean temperatures alter geographic distribution and spawning times, trigger plankton blooms, and impact oxygen availability. Marine heatwaves have become more frequent, and long-term warming is affecting breeding success, reducing biomass in warm waters, and shifting fish distribution toward cooler waters.
Marine heatwaves have become more frequent, and long-term warming is affecting breeding success, reducing biomass in warm waters, and shifting fish distribution toward cooler waters.
Studies have quantified that a 1°C increase in annual temperature can result in a 0.63% decline in fish biomass. Furthermore, every 0.1 °C increase per decade in seabed temperature can result in fish biomass declines by 7.22%.
Tropical marine fisheries are among the most vulnerable sectors because many species already live close to their thermal tolerance limits. Along Kerala’s coastline, the 2024 monsoon caused an unusual surge and mass die-off of juvenile sardines due to a combination of factors, including marine heatwaves and nutrient enrichment-related plankton blooms. With reduced food, larger fish were impacted, ultimately affecting fisheries.
Also read: Climate change in my cup: Why India’s cocoa and coffee production is at risk
India, with a total coastline of over 11,000 km has more than 3.5 million people depending on coastal fisheries for livelihoods. Unsurprisingly, India is also among the world’s largest fish producers, with production having doubled over the decade.
All of this just highlights the fact that the country needs a change: a robust fisheries policy that factors in science and sustainability, and responsible choices on the consumers’ part.
In recent years, several Indian initiatives have attempted to reconnect consumers with marine seasonality. Know Your Fish is a public awareness and citizen science initiative that shares calendars marking fish species that are okay to eat each month, factoring in breeding periods and harvesting techniques for India’s west coast.
InSeason Fish offers similar awareness around sustainable seasonal seafood choices, encouraging consumers to understand breeding periods, and responsible consumption, along both coasts.
These initiatives are significant because they shift responsibility beyond fishers and regulators toward consumers themselves, and consumer demand plays a major role in shaping fisheries pressure.
Restaurants across cities like Mumbai and Goa have become part of this conversation: some now highlight seasonal catches and calendars for diners to make a sustainable choice rather than relying solely on commercially dominant species which are already stressed.
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One of the biggest cultural shifts in recent decades has been the disappearance of seasonal food literacy. Seafood consumption was naturally tied to ecological availability, and harvest didn’t go beyond ‘enough.’ Modern supply chains have largely erased that awareness.
While many of us enjoy being able to eat our favourite seafood at anytime, anywhere, some of that privilege comes at great ecological and socio-economic cost to others.
Refrigeration, freezing, long-distance transport, and export markets make supply chains smoother, and create the illusion that every species could and should be available year-round. This constant demand encourages exploitative fishing practices, and pressure even during ecologically sensitive periods.
Through all this, we consumers often remain disconnected from critical questions the commercial seafood industry rarely prioritises, because year-round availability is more profitable. Is this species currently breeding? How was it caught? Is it a juvenile fish? Is it locally abundant this season?
While many of us enjoy being able to eat our favourite seafood at anytime, anywhere, some of that privilege comes at great ecological and socio-economic cost to others.
Edited by Anushka Mukherjee and Neerja Deodhar
Cover Art by Pratik Bhide
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Pandian D. stood barefoot at the base of a towering palmyra tree, its trunk rising like a pillar into the bright, sunny sky. He carefully tightened a rope loop around his ankles and began climbing the tree, moving upward in a quick, practised rhythm. Within moments, the 42-year-old had scaled to the top and balanced himself among its branches. As he emptied freshly tapped padhaneer (sweet palm sap) into a plastic pot tied to his waist, the light of the morning sun unfurled across the fields of Poorikudisai village in northern Tamil Nadu.
It almost seems unbelievable that until a few years ago, Pandian worked as a laboratory technician at a private hospital in Viluppuram, and had never climbed a palm tree in his life.
His parents had witnessed the physical toll it took on previous generations and wanted a different future for their son.
Across much of rural Tamil Nadu, traditional palm-based work, including climbing trees, tapping toddy, collecting sap, making palm jaggery and selling ice apples, came to be associated with poverty, physical hardship and social stigma. Although the palmyra was declared the state tree in 1988, the livelihoods associated with it have been steadily pushed to the margins, especially after toddy tapping was banned under the Tamil Nadu Prohibition Act, 1937. Harassment at the hands of the police, on mere suspicion, became common, and many climbers abandoned the occupation entirely, migrating to cities in search of work.
But in Poorikudisai, something unexpected has unfolded since 2021. Against the tide of migration, palm climbers have begun returning home to take up work that had long been abandoned by the youth. At the centre of this transformation is Pandian himself, whose journey from lab technician to palm climber mirrors the village’s renewed embrace of the palmyra.
Pandian was born into a family of palm climbers, yet he grew up deliberately shielded from the work his relatives and ancestors had undertaken. His parents had witnessed the physical toll it took on previous generations and wanted a different future for their son. Like many rural families, they believed that education offered the only route out of hardship.
Despite leaving his village behind for better career prospects, he remained deeply drawn to agriculture. As a child, he had watched his maternal grandfather cultivate paddy and oilseeds, and the memories of those fields stayed with him.
It almost seems unbelievable that until a few years ago, Pandian worked as a laboratory technician at a private hospital in Viluppuram, and had never climbed a palm tree in his life.
After marrying his wife Manimegalai in 2004, Pandian returned to Poorikudisai to begin farming full-time—against his parents’ wishes. Initially, he practised conventional chemical-based farming, following methods common across the state at the time. But his approach changed gradually after he encountered the writings of the late agricultural scientist G. Nammalvar, one of the pioneers of organic farming in Tamil Nadu.
Pandian later trained under both Nammalvar and natural farming expert Subhash Palekar, slowly transitioning towards organic methods, growing paddy, vegetables and oil seeds—just like his thatha.
Also read: This farmer builds his own tools—and upskills others, too
Farming sustained Pandian’s family for several years, until disaster struck: in 2016, severe floods were followed by a period of intense drought. Crops failed, wells dried up, and debts mounted rapidly. “We reached a point where we thought we may have to sell our land just to survive,” Pandian says.
That is when the palm trees on his land, standing tall and green, caught his eye in a renewed light. When everything had dried and withered, these palms symbolised hope for Pandian.
The palmyra palm (Borassus flabellifer) is uniquely suited to Tamil Nadu’s harsh climate. Deep-rooted and remarkably hardy, it can survive long dry spells with little human intervention. Between January and June, the peak harvesting season, climbers tap kallu (toddy), collect padhaneer, and harvest ice apples from the fruiting trees.
Despite having grown up around this knowledge and watching it in action, Pandian realised he knew nearly nothing about the practical skills required to earn a livelihood from palms.
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At first, he survived by fashioning small toys and whistles from palm leaves, which he sourced with the help of seasoned climbers. He sold these toys in Chennai’s organic markets, and the income was modest but enough to sustain the family through the drought.
He knew he could not continue indefinitely without learning to climb. By then, he was already 38. “I was embarrassed to ask someone to teach me to climb a tree at that age. So I just prayed to my ancestors and tried it,” he recalls. To his surprise, he did not need any help. “It felt as if my ancestors were guiding me every step of the way. Yet, it was also a physically exhausting process,” he says.
Palm climbing demands extraordinary endurance. The work places immense strain on the legs, back and hands. Isravel A., another climber from the village, explains the routine. To tap padhaneer or kallu, they will have to climb each tree thrice a day—during the morning, noon and evening. “I climb 60 trees daily. This work can be done only if we are mentally and physically fit. Without an afternoon nap, I cannot climb again in the evening.”
Palm climbing demands extraordinary endurance.
The risks are constant. Climbers frequently suffer cuts while slicing into the flower stalks to collect sap. More serious injuries, including severed nerves and falls from trees, can leave workers permanently disabled. Since most families depend on a single climber as the primary breadwinner, accidents often push entire households into crises.
Over time, Pandian began questioning why climbers received so little institutional support. Far from welfare schemes and insurance protections, there wasn’t even official recognition for their labour. He became increasingly aware of the politics surrounding toddy and palm products in Tamil Nadu. (In the past, the profession was associated with marginalised communities and backward castes.)
The distinction between kallu and padhaneer is deceptively simple. Freshly collected palm sap is innately sweet. If stored in plain clay pots, naturally occurring microbes ferment the liquid into kallu, a mildly alcoholic drink. When collected in pots lined with lime, fermentation is prevented, and the padhaneer remains unchanged.
Yet under the Tamil Nadu Prohibition Act of 1937, kallu was classified as liquor and banned. “In our village, the police would sometimes arrest people even for collecting padhaneer,” Pandian says. Fear and harassment drove many families away from the occupation altogether. Of the nearly 300 palm-climbing families once living in Poorikudisai, more than half eventually migrated elsewhere for work.
Rather than give up, Pandian decided to organise.
Also read: On Tamil Nadu’s coast, a living seed bank conserves 2000+ rice varieties
In an effort to understand the wider struggles faced by climbers across Tamil Nadu, he embarked on a 4,000-km cycle journey across the state in 2021, meeting palm workers from different regions and documenting their experiences. The trip ultimately led to the formation of the Tamil Nadu Panaiyerigal Padhukappu Iyakkam (The Tamil Nadu Palm Climbers Protection Movement).
Members meet every Saturday to discuss challenges, address legal cases and make collective decisions. The movement’s strict regulations prohibit adulteration of toddy or palm products. The collective also provides support when climbers face police intimidation or fabricated charges.
One of their biggest battles has been against middlemen. “For years, traders wanted entire villages to sell only through them. But we believed the people doing the hard labour should control the sale of their own products,” Manimegalai explains.
The collective also provides support when climbers face police intimidation or fabricated charges.
The collective began directly marketing padhaneer, palm jaggery and ice apples to consumers, bypassing exploitative intermediaries. They also launched events like the Panai Kanavu Thiruvizha (Palm Dream Festival) to rebuild connections between urban audiences and palm culture, educating them about the realities of the occupation.
Slowly, the stigma surrounding livelihoods built around the palmyra began to shift.
Palm-based occupations within Poorikudisai now operate collectively, with women shouldering an equally demanding share of the labour.
Unsold padhaneer is brought each evening to a common processing area called Panangadu, where Manimegalai boils it down into thick syrup before turning it into panangkarupatti (palm jaggery).
The process is painstaking. Fresh nectar cannot be stored for long without resulting in fermentation, so it must be boiled on the same day it was sourced. Once enough syrup accumulates, it is heated for hours until it thickens into a rich, caramel-like consistency. It is then poured into moulds carved into the floor and left to cool into solid blocks.
Even in selling their products, the women of the village make deliberate ethical choices. Rather than selling jaggery exclusively in bulk to those who can afford it, they package it in small quantities, making it accessible to everyone. “If someone buys huge amounts only to waste them, that disrespects our labour,” Manimegalai says. The profit is also shared among the members of the collective.
Also read: To Tamil Nadu’s fisherwomen, the Cauvery delivers catch and self-reliance
What started as a small collective in 2021 with 40 members has now grown into a state-wide movement with over 800 members. “In 2018, there were barely 30 climbers left in this village. Today, more than 150 families depend on palm-based livelihoods again,” says Pandian.
The revival has transformed not only incomes, but also the perception of dignity and autonomy for climbers. Many of those who have returned to their village are educated graduates who consciously chose to leave salaried jobs behind.
Many of those who have returned to their village are educated graduates who consciously chose to leave salaried jobs behind.
On good days during palmyra season, climbers can earn Rs. 250 from one tree—enough, they say, to live comfortably while remaining rooted in Poorikudisai.
Isravel himself once worked in the finance sector after completing his graduation. The 32-year-old finds his life as a palm climber far more freeing than the office-going routine of his past. “Here, I answer to nobody. I decide my own rates for my labour. I have control over my time and life. That freedom matters,” he says.
This freedom is ultimately the most significant part of Poorikudisai’s story.
Across much of rural India, migration is treated as an inevitable, a one-way movement away from villages towards cities. Traditional occupations are often portrayed as relics of the past, incapable of sustaining modern aspirations. But in this small Tamil Nadu hamlet, palm climbers are reimagining development.
Each morning, as they scale another tree against the rising sun, the palmyra continues to stand as both witness and companion to that transformation.
Edited by Aathira Konikkara and Neerja Deodhar
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As you make your way to the sprawling village of Madhopur in Bihar’s Nalanda district, you’ll be greeted by rows of pigeon pea (arhar) plants that line the road leading you through thriving green fields. An hour’s ride away from the state capital Patna, the journey is a refreshing contrast to urbanity: ducks quack about in little pools of water, haystacks lie by the side, cows and goats graze, and the walls of houses are fortified with cow dung.
Yet at Sunita Kumari's small home, it is all about mushrooms, not arhar dal. Inhabited by a family of four, with no room to spare, Sunita has earmarked a small area on her verandah for their cultivation in a makeshift, plastic sack-covered space. Several perforated plastic bags containing substrate (straw from paddy or wheat) are stacked on top of each other. Overlapping clusters of oyster mushrooms, shell-shaped with white gills, sprout from these bags in the months between October and April. Delicate and perishable, they must be consumed within a day or two, and sure enough, they find a ready market since they are rich sources of protein and minerals, as well as being easy to cook. Sunita is thus assured that she can sell her produce directly from her home.
For rural women with limited means in Bihar, fungiculture represents opportunity and a broadening of horizons. Among the various fungi grown in the state, the oyster mushroom remains the most preferred: it requires low financial investment, simple techniques, no soil or land—making it a woman-friendly enterprise that can be run from familiar, small domestic spaces.
Among the various fungi grown in the state, the oyster mushroom remains the most preferred.
Sunita, now 40, recalls her early days of economic hardship, when her husband’s pharmacy could not help meet the family’s needs. “With young children, there are always expenses at home. Now I have earnings of my own to spend on their education, and on myself,” she says with satisfaction.
If you arrive at Madhopur in the evening, the village lanes are abuzz with children playing and women chatting in groups. Sunita and other mushroom cultivators instead spend this time tending to their mushrooms, earning Rs. 500–Rs. 1000 per day, depending on the harvest. The following day, some of them will walk to the village haat with freshly harvested produce, while others will wait for their customers—and even vendors—at their homes.
Aside from oyster mushrooms (Pleurotus)—which are known locally as ‘dhingri’ and which dominate rural kitchens—the button (Agaricus bisporus) and milky white (Calocybe indica) varieties are also grown in Nalanda. Each calls for distinct methods of cultivation and preparation for meals.
Also read: The secret lives of fungi: The forest’s invisible architects of survival
For a long time, mushrooms were not consumed in Bihar. They are not part of the traditional cuisine, and have been perceived as “unclean” from a cultural and religious standpoint. But growing them has altered women’s perception of mushrooms as both an ingredient and source of nutrition. Routinely, families now turn oyster mushrooms into pakodas (fritters), or toss them in curd to make a refreshing raita. Their meaty texture, coupled with their unique, umami flavour, makes them perfect for a stir-fry with peas and onions, or even a simple curry. Bumper harvests are often pickled, too.
In the district’s Saril Chak village, women in nearly every household were knee-deep in oyster mushroom cultivation.
An estimated four thousand women are presently engaged in mushroom cultivation, experts say. The foundation for the district’s capacity was laid in the late 2000s, when Dr. Jyoti Sinha, an expert with the Krishi Vigyan Kendra (KVK) in the area, began training hundreds of women and assisting them in setting up small businesses. By 2010, fungiculture had found acceptance across many villages, and by 2012, Nalanda was on the state’s mushroom map. In the district’s Saril Chak village, women in nearly every household were knee-deep in oyster mushroom cultivation. Alongside Jyoti, it is said that the then District Magistrate Sanjay Kumar Agarwal and Sudama Mahato, Programme Director of the Agriculture Technology Management Agency (ATMA), were also responsible for recognising the potential of Nalanda and its women farmers.
Women associated with ATMA, who underwent training at the KVK, formed a self-help group to encourage others to join them. “One of the reasons why mushroom cultivation by women grew in Nalanda (and Bihar, by extension) was the wise selection of progressive women for training. If you train and support those who command influence, the message spreads to more women,” Jyoti says.
Also read: The fragile future of Guchi mushrooms
For some women, like Anita Devi, mushroom farming has meant a complete turnaround of their fates, but not without some resistance.
One half of an enterprising couple, Anita and her husband Sanjay Kumar—54 and 56 respectively—were graduates from Anantpur village who struggled to find jobs. In 2010, they took a leap of faith and devoted themselves entirely to mushroom cultivation. Even as she availed of the training being provided to women at the time, Anita faced taunts from other women in the village, who chided her for growing ‘gobar chatta’—wild black mushrooms that grow on cow dung cakes, which are unsuitable for consumption. The stigma surrounding mushrooms was so deep-seated that locals associated even healthy, carefully grown produce with toxic fungus.
A decade and a half later, their farm is an illustrative success story of fungiculture in Bihar, with a newly constructed home, large halls exclusively meant for cultivation, a hall for storing straw, and an air-conditioned room where mushrooms can be grown all year round.
Anita established a company in 2016, with the involvement of women from neighbouring villages. She enabled self-help groups and trained hundreds through ATMA’s rural livelihood programme, proving how the benefits and dividends earned from fungiculture have cascaded from one cohort of women to the next.
The stigma surrounding mushrooms was so deep-seated that locals associated even healthy, carefully grown produce with toxic fungus.
Consider the case of Sarita Sinha from the Kharuara village, who was able to uplift her family and assume the role of its sole breadwinner because of the know-how she gained from Jyoti. Until mid-March this year, the profit she has earned has been up to Rs. 23,000—the result of being an avid, curious learner. “I prepare the substrate in September, so the first flush of oyster mushrooms appears in 21-24 days. I use 400 bags, 200 each in two rooms hung from bamboo poles,” says Sarita. Always glad to help, she shares her knowledge with others from her village via a self-help group.
Saril Chak’s Nirupa Devi, considered a pioneer of mushroom cultivation in the state since 2012, continues to inspire. “I travelled to Solan and Murthal for training. Back home, I used to go from door to door, educating women about mushroom cultivation,” says Nirupa. She has experimented with growing button mushrooms—usually produced by large commercial units rather than individual farmers—harvesting over 20 kg, and selling them at Rs. 200 per kg.
Reflecting on her decade-long journey, she worries that women abandon fungiculture in the absence of subsidies.
Though women in Nalanda have widely embraced fungiculture, the work it involves is not easy: mushrooms are fragile, highly perishable and sensitive to the slightest of changes in temperature. They demand care, temperature and humidity control, and constant monitoring. And while large-scale mushroom farms like Anita’s benefit from dark, humid and temperature-controlled rooms, most local women have no choice but to work in accordance with weather conditions.
Mushroom spawn, or fungal mycelium, acts as a seed or starter culture to inoculate the bulk substrate, which is typically made from materials such as sterilised grains and sawdust, as well as agricultural waste. Bulk substrate is the nutrient-rich growing medium that the spawn grows in, and fruits from. Once cultivated, the spawn colonises the substrate entirely, threading through the soft, dark material before finally fruiting. In Bihar’s case, it helps that wheat and rice straw are readily available for use as substrate. But gaining access to good-quality spawn can be challenging sometimes, and a short-lived period of cool weather limits the women’s earnings.
Gaining access to good-quality spawn can be challenging sometimes, and a short-lived period of cool weather limits the women’s earnings.
As per Jyoti, a kilo of spawn inoculates 25 kg of straw, amounting to 8–10 bags, each of which yields roughly a kilo of mushrooms. Under government schemes, the KVK distributes mushroom kits comprising 1 kg of spawn, 10 food-grade polypropylene bags, 125 ml Formalin to sterilise straw, and 7.5 g of Bavastin fungicide.
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Sunita estimates she has purchased 25 kg of spawn this season. The oyster mushroom is highly productive, with a kilo of spawn yielding up to 10 kg of mushrooms in three batches over a typical cropping cycle, which takes up to two months. When they’re ready, she harvests 5–10 kg per day. If she spends Rs. 60–Rs. 70 per kg (on spawn, straw and plastic bags), she sells produce at Rs. 120-140 per kg.
Ideally, she should have harvested up to 250 kg of mushrooms from 25 kg of spawn, earning her a profit of Rs. 15,000–Rs. 17,500. But this season has brought lower profits than expected.
Also read: Katarni’s comeback: How an aromatic Bihari rice escaped obscurity
If the days were warmer this year, the nights were colder in January and February, resulting in a decline in mushroom production. The cold, dry westerly winds further dried up the pinhead—the earliest stage of the mushroom fruit. Germinated spores form small, pin-like structures before developing into edible mushrooms. Oyster mushroom cultivation specifically requires a temperature between 20-28° C, and humidity between 80-85%.
Cultivators rue the absence of moisture-laden easterly winds that could have benefited their little farms. In this part of India, fungiculture thrives if a balance of pachua (westerly) and purvaiya (easterly) winds blow during the winter, the women remark. “If the weather is cool, we will grow mushrooms every day,” quips Sunita, “But the weather is getting warmer, and we do not have the funds to invest in cool rooms with controlled temperatures.”
Fellow farmers echo the same concerns. Rekha Rani, for example, enjoyed a bumper harvest last year, but has suffered losses this season. Manjula Sinha, on the other hand, was able to cultivate only 3 kg of spawn—enough to fulfil her family's protein requirements.
Bihar now leads India in mushroom production, with Odisha and Maharashtra ranking second and third. This transformation has been powered by support from agricultural universities, the state government, and schemes like Jeevika (the Bihar Rural Livelihoods Project), which have equipped thousands of rural women with the skills, subsidies and technology to create entire livelihoods out of a food that they knew so little about until a few years ago.
Bihar’s mushroom cultivators are also showcasing ways in which reduced pollution, recycling and adopting organic techniques can be mainstreamed.
Part of the reason fungiculture has taken off in the state is the recognition that mushrooms can address protein deficiency in children in a meaningful way. “Under a KVK scheme, we introduced mushrooms at Aganwadi Kendras in Nalanda, telling them to spread the message in the entire village,” says Jyoti.
Knowingly or otherwise, Bihar’s mushroom cultivators are also showcasing ways in which reduced pollution, recycling and adopting organic techniques can be mainstreamed. Eco-friendly cultivation entails the recycling of wheat straw, paddy straw and other agricultural wastes to create substrate. Spent substrate also contains nutrients, making it suitable for use as organic compost–a rich, earthy mix that improves soil’s texture, nutrient profile as well as its ability to hold water.
The story of the state’s success in fungiculture is now inseparable from the beneficiaries of its early investments.
Carousel Photos by Kavita Kanan Chandra and Sarita Sinha
Edited by Anushka Mukherjee and Neerja Deodhar
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