Long before dawn breaks in the villages of Tamil Nadu, a determined group of women begins its journey to the Cauvery. With fish crates tied to their scooters, they ride through narrow paths and dusty roads in the Dharmapuri district towards the river, which is more than a source of water or livelihood to them. Their very lives move to the rhythms of the Cauvery—a companion, guide and shaper of identity.
These resilient, hard-working women, from the Sembadavar and Meenavar communities, have set off in the early hours of the morning to fish. Their profession, linked to their caste, has given them a deep understanding of the Cauvery’s flow, season and moods. With hands shaped by decades of practice, the women—now in their 40s and 50s—cast their nets and wait; much of this work is driven by instinct, memory and respect for a river that has nurtured them for generations. Here, the learning happens by observing, as younger women accompany their elder female relatives to work, who pass down the more technical skills in an informal, everyday manner. Their methods remain traditional, resembling their ancestors, and the main change in their functioning is institutional rather than technological: many fishers are now part of cooperative societies, making them eligible for government support and subsidies.
Much of this work is driven by instinct, memory and respect for a river that has nurtured them for generations.
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In the river’s middle stretch (the Dharmapuri and Krishnagiri districts), they find catfish, particularly butter catfish (Ompok bimaculatus). Further downstream (the Erode and Salem districts), the catch largely comprises species introduced into this riverine ecosystem, with the Nile tilapia (Oreochromis niloticus) being the most common, followed by the Olive barb (Systomus sarana) and the Mozambique tilapia (Oreochromis mossambicus). Aside from the monsoon, which represents a lean season to the fishing communities, these species are available year-round, with daily catch rates fluctuating seasonally.
At the riverbank, some women step into round, hand-crafted boats called coracles and glide into the calm waters, often just as the first light touches the hills. In the past, these boats were made from wood and other natural materials. Modern fisherfolk use FRP (fibre-reinforced plastic) coracles, which they purchase with their own funds, or obtain through government subsidy schemes. These modern versions of the traditional round boats are more durable, lightweight, and easier to maintain, while staying true to the purpose of the older wooden design.
At the riverbank, some women step into round, hand-crafted boats called coracles and glide into the calm waters, often just as the first light touches the hills.
The day does not end at the riverbank; after fishing, they travel to the local market where each woman sorts, scales and slices fish with expert precision against the backdrop of tiled stalls. Here, the fisherwomen transform into processor-vendors. One of them watches over tubs filled with live fish, ensuring they stay fresh for customers. Another, sharpening her knife, works swiftly and efficiently, preparing the day’s catch.
Even as men from their communities participate in fishing, the women have mastered net mending, another skill passed down from mother to daughter. Under the shade of trees, they can often be found sitting together, repairing fishing nets by hand. This is delicate, careful work that requires patience; each knot they tie is customised for effectiveness amid the river’s depth and current.
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Over the past decade, learning to drive scooters has given them a greater degree of autonomy and mobility in a space typically governed by men. This translates into the confidence they feel about their labour, which is often held back by a lack of financial support, fair prices and recognition. They continue to persist, forming self-help groups, taking part in local cooperatives, and finding ways to speak up and support each other. Many offer coracle boat rides to tourists at nearby waterfalls—a stream of regular work, even when catch rates are low. Another avenue to amplify earnings is by cooking the fresh catch into meals with local spices and traditional recipes for travellers, in makeshift stalls or near their homes by the riverside.
The bigger hurdle before them is climate change, which has altered fishing patterns, rendering them unpredictable. The overall catch has declined, especially for native high-value species, leading to reduced earnings for fishers. Changes in rainfall patterns, including unseasonal and intense rains, disrupt fishing schedules by creating unsafe river conditions, while prolonged low-water periods limit boat movement. As a result, the number of effective fishing days has decreased, making the livelihood more uncertain and vulnerable.
The Cauvery has a long history of dam construction spanning nearly a thousand years. To date, about 97 dams have been built along the river. As a result of extensive upstream regulation, water availability has steadily declined over time. The lower stretches of the river are the first to be affected, where the fishing operations are closed. Reduced river flow has consequences for both fisheries and livelihoods: lower water levels alter fish habitat and migration patterns, which affect the composition and availability of fish species. Indigenous (native) riverine species decline under such conditions, while hardy exotic species, which can tolerate low-flow and disturbed environments, tend to increase.
The bigger hurdle before them is climate change, which has altered fishing patterns, rendering them unpredictable.
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Against this backdrop, the fisherwomen of the Cauvery are forced to adapt and persevere. They’re adjusting their fishing practices by changing their fishing zones, targeting whatever species are available and using more durable boats and nets that can handle changing conditions.
To label them as labourers would be to underestimate them; they are keepers of a fragile ecosystem and the guardians of its future. Their work is inseparable from the ebb and flow of the Cauvery: every fish caught, every basket mended, every tide studied is an act of resilience. As we look towards a future shaped by sustainability and social justice, these women deserve to be seen not just as background figures in a fishing economy, but as central leaders in riverine life in rural Tamil Nadu.
Authors: Anjana Ekka, V. L. Ramya, Sangeetha M. Nair, Roshith C.M., Vijay Kumar, S.K. Manna
Acknowledgement: This compilation of photographs and field observations was documented by the research team as part of the institute project funded by the Indian Council of Agricultural Research (ICAR).
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Editor’s note: When he was alive, Good Food Movement had the privilege to meet and learn from P. Narayanan Unny—a rare farmer who dedicated his life to preserving a single, precious grain. After his passing, we cherish the opportunity to tell his story.
ON A PADDY field in the agrarian town of Chittur in Palakkad, which has long been christened as the rice bowl of Kerala, a handcrafted watchtower remains an unassuming presence. From this modest shed, fashioned out of bamboo and palm leaves, a farmer kept vigil over his crops against perils lurking in the silence of the night. Its compact size stands in sharp contrast to the significance it held for P. Narayanan Unny, a man who built a legacy as the guardian of a rice variety staring extinction in the face.
So central was this symbol to Unny’s vision that the image of a man seated in a shed, with a lantern by his side, was his visual of choice to represent his life’s work: the deep red ‘Navara’ or ‘Njavara’ grain, which has an earthy taste, matures in a strikingly short period of 60 days, and remains peerless within Kerala’s abundant paddy-growing culture.
An exceedingly delicate crop whose stems can be weighed down by dew, it has been grown mostly for self-consumption across smallholding farms in nine districts of the state, aside from earning a valued place in Ayurvedic practices. Navara’s medicinal properties have been attributed to elevated concentrations of phytochemicals, especially flavonoids, which support anti-inflammatory and immune system modulation functions. It also contains protein, dietary fibre, and vitamins and minerals—nearly double the iron that white rice does.
Amid these realities, Unny committed eight of the 18 acres of his farm to protecting Navara, which is said to have a 2500 year-old history.
Over the last 50 years, the overwhelming preference for high-yielding hybrid paddy varieties, the fragmentation of landholdings, out-migration of farm labour, and high production costs coupled with poor market visibility contributed to the variety’s vanishing footprint. Amid these realities, Unny committed eight of the 18 acres of his farm to protecting Navara, which is said to have a 2500 year-old history. This makes it the largest organic farm dedicated to the grain worldwide. He sustained efforts to prevent its erasure for 27 years, starting in 1998 until his death in 2025.
Thanks to him, the grain now lives on, protected by a hard-earned Geographical Indication (GI) tag, even contributing to the country’s exports. Unny’s work has also spurred research on the medicinal rice variety and its potential as a safe food for diabetic patients because of its low glycemic index.
IN OCTOBER 1996, 39-year-old Unny wrote to the Chittur taluk office with a request to update a detail on his ration card: he wished for his profession to be changed from business to agriculture. Seeking an official marker of his newfound identity as a farmer crystallised the commitment he was making. While he knew—and loved farming—as a way of life that had been in the family for two generations, this was not the path that he had initially chosen.
For a large part of his adult life, Unny, along with a few of his friends, ran a computer dealership for HCL Technologies. He thrived in the role, quickly progressing from handling HCL’s business in Palakkad district to managing it across North Kerala. It would seem that Unny’s life moved to a familiar rhythm, as he settled in Kozhikode with his wife Rema while helming a successful business. But all that changed when his father, M. Ramachandra Menon, passed away in December 1994. When Unny returned home to mourn this loss, the fields in Chittur that his father had nurtured urged him to stay back as their new steward.
Notably, he turned towards farming during a period when Malayali youth were moving away from it, migrating to other countries in search of lucrative prospects.
In reassessing his professional path at this juncture, Unny was retracing his father's footsteps. Menon was in the insurance business before a death in the family prompted his return to Palakkad. He came back to a land that did not have a proper house, or even a well to fetch water from. The farm bloomed under his care, bit by bit. In 1960, he designed an irrigation system that drew water from the Shokanashini (poetically named ‘destroyer of sorrows’) river in the vicinity. In another three years, he also built the house that Unny grew up in.
Menon was a well-established figure in Chittur. “Everybody here knew about Chandra Menon’s farm. That was a time when there were no means of publicity,” Unny said to the Good Food Movement. With his brother Kelukutty, Menon strived to develop one of the most experimentative farms in Palakkad. Kelukutty was one of Kerala’s earliest recognised experts on rice, working with the Regional Agricultural Research Station, an institution in Pattambi focused on studies and experiments concerning rice-based farming systems.
Kelukutty brought his knowledge of sowing techniques to the family’s farm. With his access to fertilisers and pesticides, the brothers tried to grow high-yielding varieties. Their farm was said to be the first in the region to have a tractor, as well as some of the first sugarcane and coconut plantations. Menon eventually abandoned the use of chemical fertilisers after reading a Malayalam translation of Masanobu Fukuoka’s One Straw Revolution, a book that inspired many farmers to turn to ecologically sustainable methods.
Over the course of many conversations with GFM, Unny’s words reflected a deep respect for his father's foresight and contributions. “Having been born and raised here, I have witnessed how my father, uncle, and grandmother worked hard and gradually built it all. I also like this very much, this way of life,” he said. On Menon’s passing, contrary to all the advice that nudged him to move away from the farm for good, Unny felt inclined to step into the life that his father had led. But this did not mean a careless emulation of his father’s ideas. “We wanted to make a living out of this. So we could not carry on with paddy cultivation just as before,” Unny said. He demarcated the next five years as a trial period, at the end of which he would determine whether farming could be a long-term pursuit.
The shift did not happen overnight. Unny spent another year in Kozhikode where he gradually drew the curtains on his business, bidding farewell to the loyal clientele that he had built. It was his wife Rema who held fort in Chittur, overseeing the upkeep of the family farm. “It was very tough. But she did it all without complaint. She even milked the cows when needed, if there was no one around to do so,” he said. Unny traveled home every weekend to offer his guidance.
Notably, he turned towards farming during a period when Malayali youth were moving away from it, migrating to other countries in search of lucrative prospects. “Rubber was the only paying crop at that time. This was in ’94. Even a cash crop like pepper was not doing well as it could not compete with the cost of Indonesian pepper,” Unny recalled.
The Kerala Land Reforms Act, 1963 was a pathbreaking legislation that challenged feudal land ownership and secured tenancy rights. Promoting equitable land distribution meant a significant reduction of the size of agricultural land holdings per family. Owing to the land ceiling enforced by this law, land owners in Kerala either abandoned farming entirely or looked towards cash crops that would ensure a high yield per acre.
Unny's explorations into profitability and whether agriculture could be a long-term career pursuit should have led him to some such cash crop. Instead, he decided to play to the major strength of Palakkad, a district that accounts for nearly 38.3% per cent of Kerala’s rice production.
To ensure that the labour put into cultivation was actually lucrative, he decided to focus on growing specialty rice—grains for which consumers were willing to pay more. Coincidentally, Unny’s business travels nudged him in the right direction. “When I was selling HCL computers, I used to travel to Malappuram and visit the Kottakkal Arya Vaidyashala.” It was at this renowned Ayurvedic centre that he noticed a palpable demand for Navara.
When Unny had to choose which varieties to cultivate, he proceeded with two red rice ones native to Chittur: ‘Palakkadan Matta’, whose popularity was consistent, and ‘Navara’. The latter, over the next two decades, would become nearly synonymous with his own identity.
NAVARA HAS NEVER been grown commercially. Its cultivation has been small-scale and use-based. Ayurvedic centres like the one Unny encountered use it in the preparation of poultices and pastes for the treatment of muscles and joints. Navara kanji, a rice gruel made from this highly nutritious variant, is served as an antidote to sickness. Since the grain’s consumption was limited, its cultivation was confined to small patches of land.
Yet even the Kottakkal Arya Vaidyashala was not cultivating Navara. It relied on external sources, issuing tenders for required ingredients including this rice variant. “Even basic working knowledge about the crop did not exist. We had to start from that point—of explaining what exactly it is,” Unny said. Thus Navara was on the brink of extinction on two fronts: both the seed and the knowledge of how to grow it were lost.
For Unny, it was non-negotiable that the cultivation of a rice variety of medicinal value had to be done the organic way.
When Unny commenced his search for Navara seeds, his first instinct was to approach the Pattambi Rice Research Station where his uncle Kelukutty worked. But they had nothing to offer. He made the rounds of Ayurvedic stores, only to find that the grains they were selling were not authentic. His next step was to identify farmers who were still growing Navara on its home turf. Though he did locate fields dedicated to it, they bore the residue of chemicals. For Unny, it was non-negotiable that the cultivation of a rice variety of medicinal value had to be done the organic way.
There was reason to be hopeful when Unny found that his sister’s neighbour was N. Anil Kumar, a senior official at the M. S. Swaminathan Research Foundation (MSSRF), an interdisciplinary institute focused on rural development that was established by the pioneer of the Green Revolution. Through his sister’s acquaintance with Kumar, Unny procured a bag of seeds from the foundation. But these seeds offered no results on his soil.
It was Kozhikode, the place where Unny’s business flourished, that became the turning point for Unny, the farmer. The MSSRF official directed Unny to a farm in a remote part of the district where he sourced a few kilos of black Navara seeds. Navara has two sub-variants, whose husks are either black or gold, though they both house the same red grain inside. Unny sowed the black seeds on 40 cents of land.
Though the seeds took root, all was not well. Since Navara was being grown alongside other paddy varieties, the intermixing of seeds was inevitable. Unny’s renewed goal was to grow Navara while ensuring that it retains all its unique characteristics. From 2000 onwards, he invested three years into producing pure seeds. “During this period, I had to discontinue the cultivation of other rice varieties for fear of contamination. As a result, a major portion of my holding was left fallow,” Unny shared in a note on Navara’s journey on his official website.
While the search for the seed took Unny across Kerala, the knowledge of its cultivation waited for him at home.
Navara is susceptible to intermixing with other crops not merely because of simultaneous cultivation. Unny was initially growing Navara on a piece of land where Palakkadan Matta had been previously cultivated. During one harvest season, he found that some Matta seeds that had shed onto the soil had grown alongside Navara, resulting in intermixing. One of the early lessons that Unny learnt was that if he wished to revive Navara with all its past glory, he had to reserve a parcel of land exclusively for the purpose through the year—a costly exercise given the fact that Navara’s life cycle on a farm lasts just 60 days.
While the search for the seed took Unny across Kerala, the knowledge of its cultivation waited for him at home. His grandmother had, in her lifetime, trusted her diary with the happenings of her ordinary life—how she spent her day, the wedding of a labourer on her farm, relatives’ visits, among details she considered notable. Unbeknownst to her, her diaries would become an archive on how to grow Navara. “There are diaries dating back to 1951. The cultivation of Navara is mentioned in two places,” Unny said. Simple entries, like this one from April 1973, which said, “One para (a regional measuring unit for paddy) of Navara grain was sent for grinding today,” became invaluable. Between home and the world, Unny managed to save Navara from the brink of oblivion.
FOR THE TWO months it grows, the crop demands constant attention, not necessarily because it needs constant intervention, but because the mildest miscreant—whether wind, rain or pest—can ruin the crop. The cultivation process mirrors that of other paddy varieties, except when its fragility demands modifications. For example, the hullers (machines to remove the chaff) that most rice millers used were too harsh on Navara. The rice demanded gentleness at each stage, and pushed Unny to look for rubber hullers that were otherwise obsolete. Some friends, some phone calls, and sheer providence connected him to a rice miller in Coimbatore who was willing to part with his rubber huller.
Medicinal rice varieties have a particular sensitivity to water. Far from withstanding flooding, the stems of the Navara crop can fall under the weight of dewdrops, reducing production and making harvest unviable. To ensure that such a delicate crop receives just the right amount of water is a tightrope walk. If it floods, hours of labour go into redirecting water from the fields to a drainage system. And if the summer rains fail, Unny banks on the irrigation system that his father left behind.
Far from withstanding flooding, the stems of the Navara crop can fall under the weight of dewdrops, reducing production and making harvest unviable.
But the biggest adjustment made for the grain’s water sensitivity is its cropping cycle. Kerala observes three seasons of paddy cultivation—Virippu (April to September), Mundakan (October to December), and Puncha (January to March), which roughly correspond with the Kharif, Rabi, and Zaid cropping cycles respectively.
In the initial years, Unny stuck to cultivating Navara during the Puncha season alone, since Kerala receives rainfall from both the South-west and North-east monsoons. But when he realised that its seed longevity (the duration for which the seed is viable and will germinate) lasts less than a year, he settled on two separate cycles of cultivation as the best course—one that concludes with a harvest for sale, and the other for the generation of seeds.
Pest management posed a dual challenge: Navara’s vulnerability to pests was amplified in comparison to other paddy varieties, and the efficacy of conventional organic farming solutions was diminished when applied to the crop. Unny experimented with marigold, tulsi, fish waste, and even modified butterfly-catching nets to deal with chazhi or common rice bugs. Gradually, Unny found a rhythm to cultivating Navara, and had a pool of regular customers who banked on his produce. Just as things stabilised on the farm, Unny found himself catering to some unexpected patrons: peacocks and wild boars.
They had started trickling in as early as 2006, but it was not until 2016 that they became a full-fledged menace. Both species, safeguarded because of their protected status, started feasting unabashedly on Unny’s rice, vegetables, and fruits. He joked about how their feasting was a testament to the quality of the food he was growing. Peacocks, especially, love Navara and attack it, in Unny’s words, with the precision of “professional armies”.
He found himself unable to fulfil orders and struggling to convince his customers that peacocks could really erode a farm's fortunes. The only solution was prohibitively expensive: layering the fields with fishing nets. Unny could only afford to cover 2.5 acres of the farm. While this worked initially, the solution was makeshift—the animals still had an advantage, and the rest of Unny’s produce was unprotected. He reflected with grudging admiration at the neatness with which wild boars ate coconuts: “It looks like someone has grated the coconut and discarded it near the tree,” he said.
When bitten into, it does not betray any moisture, and breaks in one clean click.
Despite these onslaughts, the slender, delicate Navara grows. In roughly 60 days, the husk becomes black (or golden in the other variant), signalling ripeness. When bitten into, it does not betray any moisture, and breaks in one clean click. When the husk is removed, it reveals a grain that is deep red, almost bordering on purple. When all three conditions have been fulfilled, Unny knows that the grain is ready for harvest.
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NAVARA WAS DRAINING Unny's pockets, and he needed to know if it could, eventually, refill them. With stray red rice varieties passing for Navara in the market, Unny was on a quest for due recognition for the variety that he was growing in all its authenticity. His priority was to understand the organic farming landscape, and to build a network that might help champion his precious grain. He kept an eye out for forums on organic farming, attending as many as he could.
His personal journey coincided with India’s buoyant efforts to promote organic farming. In 2001, India had launched the National Programme for Organic Production, opening up the opportunity for farmers to seek organic certification for their produce. Unny applied before INDOCERT, the country’s first certification body. He believed that it would appreciate and understand Kerala’s crop diversity more than a foreign body. By 2003, his farm transitioned fully towards organic methods and was officially certified in 2006.
Unny was simultaneously looking for avenues that would recognise Navara as a unique rice variety. After attending an agritech fair held in Chandigarh, Unny made the acquaintance of top officials with the Confederation of Indian Industry (CII), a non-government organisation representing interests of business enterprises. Agriculture is one of the CII’s key areas of intervention in its capacity as an advocacy group. Unny sought the CII’s assistance in patenting Navara. In October 2006, he hosted CII officials, some agricultural officers, a journalist, and a few local farmers for a meeting beneath a mango tree on his farm. It was foundational in fostering support for the patenting of Navara and Palakkadan Matta, and in assigning Unny as the representative of the region’s farmers for this process.
Soon, the CII arranged for an attorney, who advised the farmers to apply for a GI tag rather than a patent; the latter is a form of intellectual property rights that concentrate around one individual or company. A GI was more suitable for Navara since agricultural practices and heirloom varieties inherently belong to a community within a geography, rather than any one person.
Since the process for a GI tag mandated that applications must come from registered organisations representing producers’ interests, Unny and other farmers formed the Navara Rice Farmers Society in 2004, and the Palakkadan Matta Farmers Producer Company in the following year.
A GI was more suitable for Navara since agricultural practices and heirloom varieties inherently belong to a community within a geography, rather than any one person.
The Geographical Indications of Goods (Registration and Protection) Act scrutinises applications against three criteria to check eligibility: geography, history, uniqueness. Both rice varieties have been documented over 2,000 years ago and qualified against these criteria. Navara, notably, features in the Sushruta Samhita, an ancient treatise on medicine.
After three years, in November 2007, Navara made history. It became the first farmer-led initiative to secure a GI tag for a product. In 2009, Unny was felicitated by the Union Minister for Agriculture with the Plant Genome Saviour community recognition for his efforts to conserve and purify the grain.
NAVARA IS A rare grain. This is true not because it nearly faded from our world, but because even in its existence, it demands so much to give so little. While Palakkadan Matta yields 1500-2,000 kg of rice per acre, eight acres of Navara barely yield 150-200 kg.
Navara pricing is decided separately for nellu (grain with husk) and ari (raw grain without husk). Before it was awarded a GI tag, the average market price was Rs. 8 per kg. Today, it is Rs. 150 per kg. With GI tags, it also became illegal for unregistered sellers to claim that their product is Navara. Consumers could be confident that what they were buying was an authentic product, and producers could sell without having to compete with nefarious sellers. Farmers realised that this rarity must reflect in the price of the rice.
This is where Unny’s business acumen shone. He knew that he wanted a brand identity tied to the rice he produced. He was also certain that he did not want to sell through an agent. Unny's reasoning was simple: for an agent, Navara was just another variety. They would not be convinced that the grain should command such a high price. Unny trusted himself to sell the rice better, in the way that it deserved to be. The brand, of course, would bolster his identity, as the reviver of the grain. Within a year of attaining the GI tag registration, Unny launched his brand—Unny Navara Farm (UNF).
Unny was initially selling Navara for Rs. 250 per kg. Once it acquired the brand name of Unnys Navara Farm, he felt comfortable demanding a premium, raising the price to Rs. 396 per kg. The price remained constant for a decade until losses brought in by the peacock menace compelled Unny to hike it up.
It takes unshakeable resolve to see oneself through such challenges, and a warmth of character to not be embittered by them.
In the months where he was not tending to the crop, Unny could be found across Kerala, and even overseas, introducing people to the rice he revived. He would get himself invited to meetings with Kerala government officials and treat them to the special rice gruel prepared using Navara. 2011 onwards, he organised the annual Navara Utsav, an event to raise awareness on the rice variety. Notably, in 2014, M. S. Swaminathan was the Utsav’s chief guest, honouring a decade-long bond that Unny had built with the agronomist after running into him at an event in 2004.
In the way that Menon and Unny had in the past, Unny’s 46-year-old nephew, too, had initiated a shift back to farming shortly before his uncle passed away. While his training was left incomplete, Unny’s death has only steeled his resolve in preserving Navara and continuing to cultivate it.
Each of P. Narayanan Unny’s choices were difficult ones: the decision to choose farming, to choose paddy, to choose organic ways, and of all the varieties, to choose Navara. It takes unshakeable resolve to see oneself through such challenges, and a warmth of character to not be embittered by them. The man with the lantern became his own light.
Edited by Neerja Deodhar and Aathira Konikkara
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We live in a world where supermarket aisles and grocery stores are completely stocked, and agricultural production is higher than ever before. A vast variety of food is now accessible to us at our fingertips, as is a huge body of diet- and health-related research. At the same time, we also live in a world with ever-deepening socio-economic divides that restrict people's access to not only to food, but to essential, nutritious food.
And this has cascading effects.
Hidden hunger, like the name suggests, is a form of silent malnutrition that often goes unnoticed. Unlike starvation—which is an inadequate intake of food (calories)—hidden hunger refers to deficiencies in micronutrients that can happen despite adequate calorie intake. People may eat enough, or even too much in terms of calories, but still lack the nutrients their bodies need to grow, develop, and function properly.
Micronutrients include vitamins like A, B-group, C, D, E, and K, and minerals like iron, iodine, calcium, magnesium, and zinc. Our bodies need them in small amounts (milligrams or micrograms)—hence, micronutrients—but their absence can have disproportionately huge effects on our immunity, nerve function, heart function, cellular processes, bone health, metabolism, growth and development, and overall health. Severe deficiencies in one or more of these can result in cognitive impairment, poor immunity, impaired growth and neurological development, and in very severe cases, even death. Most of these micronutrients cannot be produced by the body (called essential micronutrients) and must be supplemented through diet.
Unlike hunger, which can be felt, hidden hunger rarely has clear physical manifestations, even as it attacks the very systems that keep the body going. But before action and intervention, one needs to understand the many interconnected causes at play.
Globally, around 800 million people suffer from chronic hunger. An estimated 2 billion people suffer from micronutrient deficiencies, of which, around 190 million are children of pre-school age. However, some of these figures are decades old and on-ground realities are likely to have changed, as deficiencies can remain undiagnosed. More recent estimates suggest that there may be as many as 372 million preschool-aged children and 1.2 billion non-pregnant women of reproductive age affected by one or more micronutrient deficiencies worldwide.
Over 80% of the Indian population—nearly half of the global hidden hunger burden—suffers from one or multiple micronutrient deficiencies, most commonly of calcium, iron, Vitamin D, folate (Vitamin B9), iodine, and Vitamins A and B12. This is despite being one of the world’s largest agricultural producers, renowned for culinary diversity. India is also home to the world’s largest number of undernourished children.
Vitamin D deficiency tops the chart, affecting 61% of the population. Iron deficiency affects around 54% of the population, especially pronounced among pregnant women, affecting 61% of this group. The National Family Health Survey-4 (NFHS-4) revealed that India has the highest burden of anaemia, globally: 58.6 % in children, 53.2 % in non-pregnant women and 50.4 % in pregnant women as recorded in 2016. Alarmingly, NFHS-5 data (2019-2020) revealed a worsening situation, especially among children.
Over 80% of the Indian population—nearly half of the global hidden hunger burden—suffers from one or multiple micronutrient deficiencies, most commonly of calcium, iron, Vitamin D, folate (Vitamin B9), iodine, and Vitamins A and B12.
Predictably, the burden of hidden hunger is not uniformly borne across India. Rural populations and economically disadvantaged groups often exhibit higher levels of deficiency due to limited access to nutritious foods, lower dietary diversity, lower awareness, and greater food insecurity—often determined by education, income, and occupation.
Cultural practices and gender norms—like the woman eating last in the family and often the least in certain households, or having restricted diets due to socially-determined ‘taboo’ foods—can further restrict access to nutritious foods. The resultant poor health is highly likely to impact education, work, and productivity across age groups, indirectly but consistently hindering the development of some groups more than others. Hidden hunger can create a vicious self-perpetuating inter-generational cycle, where micronutrient-deficient mothers cannot pass on sufficient nutrient stores to their children, impairing growth, brain development, and long-term health. Girls are especially vulnerable, growing up with a nutrient deficit in such cases, as biological factors like menstruation increase nutrient needs while social norms may limit their access to nutritious food; making them more likely to enter pregnancy malnourished and continue the cycle into the next generation.
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The problem of hidden hunger presents a paradox. While food quantity has kept pace with and fed the growing global population, boosted by the Green Revolution through high-yielding varieties (HYV) and chemical inputs, the quality has not kept up. Modern-day varieties of crops have been found to contain lower concentrations of micronutrients compared to the nutrient-rich traditional varieties from a few decades ago; this is especially true for staple crops like wheat and rice.
Excessive use of synthetic fertilisers, chemicals, and pesticides have degraded the environment and soil to a large extent, affecting soil micronutrient availability. Post-Green Revolution, Indian soils have also become deficient in micronutrients due to poor replenishment, and repeated, high-intensity cultivation over subsequent decades. Indiscriminate chemical inputs have altered soil biochemistry—like pH, organic content, moisture, microbial activity—and these factors determine how the nutrients are made available or ‘locked’ for the plant to access.
However, the soil is not the only problem: even in cases where the soil is healthy, there has been a notable decline in the nutrient content of the grains. While HYVs were selectively bred for higher productivity and stress resistance, that genetic prioritising of yield indirectly resulted in the crops losing the ability to load up nutrients properly. Subsequently, with each round of hybridisation, grains have ended up with lower concentrations of essential nutrients compared to traditional varieties. Globally, wheat varieties today have around 20-30% lower concentrations of minerals such as zinc, iron, copper, and magnesium compared to older varieties, a decline that has been monitored over a 160-year period. Maize and rice show similar declines.
Another contributing factor is the shift from traditional, nutritionally rich whole grains to modern staples such as wheat, rice, and maize—foods that satisfy energy requirements but are less rich in micronutrients.
In India, the essential and micronutrient content of cultivated varieties (cultivars) of wheat and rice have declined by 44-47% over a 50-year period. This is especially concerning as these two staples provide over 50% of the daily energy needs for the population.
Climate change and global emissions have a role to play here, as well. A study looking at 43 crops found a correlation between increasing atmospheric carbon dioxide levels with decreasing concentrations of protein, micronutrients, and vitamins in the grain. Called the ‘dilution effect’, plants take up and metabolise more carbon dioxide, and the result is a higher-calorie carbohydrate concentration, resulting in nutrient decrease (in protein, iron, zinc, and B-group vitamins) of up to 38%.
Another contributing factor is the shift from traditional, nutritionally rich whole grains to modern staples such as wheat, rice, and maize—foods that satisfy energy requirements but are less rich in micronutrients.
Furthermore, taste, convenience, and price points have also pushed the world towards a more refined- and polished-grain diet compared to a traditionally whole- or coarse-grain diet which offers greater health benefits. Refining often strips the grain of the outer layers that contain a significant amount of dietary fibre, bioactive compounds, and nutrients, leaving mostly the energy-dense, starchy parts for consumption.
A connected core driver in low- to medium-income countries (LMICs) like India is monotonous dietary patterns characterised by heavy reliance on cereals and insufficient intake of micronutrient-rich foods like legumes, fruits, vegetables, and animal-derived foods. Poverty, access to quality food, and hunger are closely related. Poor diet quality is consistently linked with micronutrient deficiencies, regardless of calorie sufficiency, and women are more susceptible to it.
Yet another paradoxical factor is the internet, or more specifically, social media. While the internet can be a great tool for awareness and learning, studies find that social media exposure can negatively impact people’s diets. Peer influence, combined with influencer marketing and easier access to fast food have resulted in increased consumption of unhealthy foods, poor body image, and unhealthy eating behaviours, with children being especially vulnerable. Fad diets now promote low-calorie processed foods high in sugar- and salt-content but lacking in nutrients, and skipping meals or certain kinds of food, thereby promoting restrictive eating patterns and a less diverse plate.
Addressing hidden hunger in India requires both, immediate interventions and long-term systemic changes that include improving diet diversity, strengthening nutrition awareness, and ensuring access to nutrient-rich foods. Food security needs to go beyond talking about sufficient calorie intake to ensuring nutrient security as well.
India has mostly viewed malnutrition as a food distribution or hunger problem, treating it through subsidies and meal programmes which do not address the real concern of deficiencies. The Mid-day Meal scheme, despite revisions, continues to offer a limited diversity of foods to students, limiting avenues for nutrient availability. Similarly, while the Indian Public Distribution System (PDS), one of the largest food security programmes in the world, has played a critical role in addressing hunger and undernutrition in general, major gaps in nutrient delivery remain, owing to the emphasis on subsidised ‘high-calorie’ staples.
The limited progress in reducing undernutrition can be partly attributed to governance challenges: the absence of a sustained, high-level national agenda to address malnutrition specifically, inadequate systems for regular monitoring through reliable data, and a fragmented understanding of malnutrition itself that is neither holistic nor complete.
Food fortification is a century-old strategy that has been widely adopted worldwide since the 1920s. India, too, has been taking steps to combat nutritional deficiencies with fortification since the 1950s: adding essential nutrients such as iron, folic acid, or vitamins A and D to commonly consumed foods. The FSSAI strongly mandates the fortification of ingredients like oils, salt, flours, rice, and milk, but the implementation remains largely voluntary. Around 11 states had rolled out a mandatory fortified rice programme, while private companies have chosen to fortify additional products like breads, biscuits, and butter. However, large-scale implementation in India has been uneven. Except for iodised salt, nationwide coverage remains limited. Additionally, in the case of iron-fortified rice, factors like packaging materials, storage conditions, moisture content, and temperature affect micronutrient levels deeply, leading to the recent suspension of the state scheme.
Several other recommendations have been made through multiple global studies. Improving agricultural practices through innovations, and the development of biofortified crops can help increase productivity while preserving soil health, and improving the nutrient content of crops. This would need to go hand in hand with encouraging the cultivation and consumption of a wider range of nutrient-dense foods, including fruits, vegetables, legumes, and animal products. Some emerging domestic initiatives are already working in this direction, seeking to fortify crops by developing cost-effective enriched biofertilisers.
Consumer demand also plays a role here, and it is often influenced by media and marketing. Public health campaigns that promote awareness about nutritious foods, balanced and diverse diets, and what is truly healthy, along with policies to limit misinformation, can help shift consumption, demand, and subsequently production, towards healthier alternatives.
India has mostly viewed malnutrition as a food distribution or hunger problem, treating it through subsidies and meal programmes which do not address the real concern of deficiencies.
Tying all this together would require a strong policy backing to ensure proper execution and implementation, drawing on robust science and successful global case studies. Recently, Indian experts recommended making Vitamin D fortification of edible oils mandatory, as the vitamin is fat soluble—something already in practice in several countries worldwide. Technically, this was already made mandatory, but implementation seems to have lagged behind with only 69% of all edible oil in country fortified in 2020-21.
Several countries have successfully tailored interventions to address the undernutrition problem. Guatemala successfully addressed night blindness in children by fortifying sugar with Vitamin A, Bangladesh and Peru have been rolling out fortified rice, and South Africa has mandated the fortification of maize.
Hidden hunger cannot be eliminated solely by increasing food availability. It remains a multi-system issue tied to agricultural policy, public health, food environments, education, and socioeconomic conditions. While the challenge itself is not unique, India’s scale, diversity, and complexity make it so, contextually. It requires a transformation of food systems that prioritises quality alongside quantity, while maintaining a very strong national-level plan for policy implementation.
Looking at these changes, I wonder if the narratives of dead soil and artificial food systems depicted in dystopian science fiction novels are all that far-fetched. In a world where food production has reached unprecedented levels, the persistence of hidden hunger is a reminder that abundance alone does not guarantee nourishment; that full plates do not necessarily translate to healthy bodies.
For many, our tummies are full, but our bodies are starving; for others, there’s not even that.
Also read: Food fortification 101: Can foods built in with nutrients, counter malnutrition, deficiencies?
Edited by Anushka Mukherjee and Neerja Deodhar
Cover Art by Pratik Bhide
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Anyone who has spent time around livestock in the middle of the summer knows that animals feel the heat just as much as we do. With the palpable rise in global temperatures, now around 1.5°C higher than pre-industrial levels, and water becoming increasingly scarce, heat stress has become one of the most underestimated threats to dairy animals.
In countries like India, where nearly half of the milk production comes from buffaloes, high temperatures can have a serious impact on the health and productivity of these animals. While both cows and buffaloes struggle in hot weather, the latter seem to show stronger signs of heat stress, especially when exposed to direct sunlight.
Heat stress occurs when an animal can no longer release enough body heat to maintain a healthy internal balance. Once this balance is disrupted, a cascade of changes begins: feed intake drops, milk yield declines, and reproductive cycles become irregular. Over time, these effects translate into significant economic losses for farmers. That is why spotting the early warning signs is crucial.
Heat stress occurs when an animal can no longer release enough body heat to maintain a healthy internal balance.
A buffalo’s normal body temperature is slightly lower than that of cattle. However, their dark skin and relatively sparse hair mean that they absorb much more solar radiation under direct sunlight.
The bigger challenge for buffaloes is to keep themselves cool; compared to cattle, their sweating capacity is poorer. In fact, they have nearly six times fewer sweat glands. Since sweat is one of the main ways for mammals to release excess heat, buffaloes reach heat stress much sooner when temperatures and humidity rise.
Researchers often assess heat stress using the Temperature–Humidity Index (THI), which combines temperature and humidity into a single measure. While cattle generally start experiencing heat stress when the THI climbs above 72, buffaloes show signs of heat stress at a THI of around 68–69.
These differences become visible in buffaloes through their behavioural and physiological responses.
Also read: Water buffaloes: A historical look into their role in agriculture
One of the first manifestations of heat stress is a change in the animals’ behaviour. This is where buffaloes and cattle react quite differently. As buffaloes cannot sweat effectively, they instinctively search for water to cool themselves. You will often see these big, crescent-horned animals happily wallowing in ponds, puddles, or muddy patches, or sluggishly ambling into the shade. It is their way of beating the heat, keeping their body temperature down while conserving energy by limiting their movements.
You will often see these big, crescent-horned animals happily wallowing in ponds, puddles, or muddy patches, or sluggishly ambling into the shade.
Cattle have a distinct reaction. Instead of immersing themselves in water, they tend to stand more and lie down less. Standing exposes more of the body surface to air, which helps heat escape. They may also cluster around fans, shaded areas, or ventilation points. Another early indicator in cattle is a drop in dry matter intake, which soon affects their physical state, and therefore, the milk production.
Also read: Decoding buffalo behaviour: Why the domesticated beast wallows in water
Alongside these visible behavioural changes, heat stress triggers several physiological responses, too. Increase in rectal temperature and respiration rate are common among cattle and buffaloes. However, respiration rates often rise more rapidly in buffaloes, as they rely more heavily on panting to compensate for their limited ability to sweat.
Buffaloes may also experience higher levels of oxidative stress during periods of extreme heat. This occurs when high temperatures, often combined with humidity, overwhelm the animal’s natural antioxidant defences. The resulting imbalance can damage cells, lipids, proteins and DNA.
Also read: River versus swamp buffaloes: The role of domestication in adaptation
The good news is that there are practical ways to reduce the impact of heat stress, particularly for buffaloes. Providing shade, fans, sprinklers or access to water for wallowing can dramatically aid their comfort and health. Adjusting feed and diet composition during hot periods can also help animals cope better with high temperatures.
Farmers can also monitor heat stress using a few simple methods: One is measuring respiration rate by counting breaths per minute. Another is the panting score, which ranges from 0 (normal breathing) to 4 (severe panting with an open mouth and tongue extended).
For many farmers, the difference between a productive season and heavy losses is determined by how soon these warning signs are recognised. The simplest yet most effective way is to ensure the upkeep of buffaloes, maintain milk production, and safeguard the livelihoods that depend on them.
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Editor’s Note: To work in ecology science and biodiversity conservation in India is to undertake the work of a lifetime. For many, but especially women, this work is as much a career as it is a calling, with challenges that pertain to the job itself—such as reasoning with authorities—as well as their personal journeys and identities. In this series, the Good Food Movement highlights female scientists, activists and community builders whose visions and labour have ensured forests, wetlands, and species across flora and fauna live another day.
At one point during our hours-long conversation about saving the Kosi river and conserving forests in Uttarakhand, Basanti Devi pauses to reflect on her seven decade-long life. “What would I have done, if not for this? What purpose would my life have served, if not helping to solve some of these crises plaguing our society?” she asks, as a faint smile crosses her face. My response to her reflection doesn’t matter.
Devi is a petite woman. Age, it seems, has shrunk her further. But there’s a largeness to her warmth: The first time we spoke over the phone, in July 2025, she was worried about where I would sleep, if and when I visited her in Pithoragarh (where she lives now)—because she only has one room, “with a tiny bed.” A few weeks later, when we spoke again, her inimitable sing-song Kumaoni inflection reflected concern as she warned me about the incessant, untimely rains, the resultant landslides, and the traffic snarls that had brought the hills to a crawl. “Come after a few weeks, when it is better to travel,” she advised.
On the day we finally meet, the weather swings back and forth like a pendulum between sunshine, cloudiness and drizzles. It feels like a fitting backdrop to a meeting with a woman whose own life has been marked by periods of extreme darkness and light.
Devi, a widowed child bride who later became a Gandhian social worker, is the recipient of the Nari Shakti Puraskar (2016) and the Padma Shri (2022), honoured for her effort to empower women, educate children, and protect forests and water sources. The most significant of her life’s projects is the revival of the Kosi, an important tributary of the Ramganga in Uttarakhand’s Kumaon region.
Much of Devi’s work unfolded while she was affiliated with the Lakshmi Ashram in Kausani. Founded in 1946 by Sarla Behn (Catherine Heilemann), the ashram educates and organises women in the hills, encouraging self-reliance and care for water, forests and land. The awards were conferred upon her after she had already left the ashram where she had worked for most of her life. Even at that juncture, these national honours evoked pride at her, for this was recognition for decades of focused, dedicated work.
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Devi was born to Kunwar Singh Samant and Tulsi Devi in Digra, a small village tucked in the hills of Pithoragarh, in 1958. At the time, life was simple but bound by custom: at age 12, when she could barely make sense of what the institution meant, she was married off. She had studied till Class 4 but dropped out, because continuing schooling would have meant walking several kilometres from the village she was married into. For girls in her generation in Pithoragarh, travelling such far distances to earn an education was out of the question.
Questions of grief aside, widowhood was cruel to Devi.
The boy she was married to was a Class 11 student. A little over two years later, he passed away; they’d never spent time together during this brief marriage. “For the first two years, he was away for his studies. In the third year, he was away for a teacher training programme in another village in the district. Then, news of his ill health arrived. He had a fever and died,” she says, describing the illness with no expression or emotion, as if the words had been uttered often.
Questions of grief aside, widowhood was cruel to Devi. Her mother-in-law accused her of being a witch; someone else called her a man-eater; and most others cursed her. She was blamed for her husband’s death and kept at a distance, often going days without food or fresh clothes. The world around her, already narrow, seemed to close in further. When life became unbearable, she decided to return to her parents’ home. “At least I’d be fed some food,” she recalls telling herself.
A few months later, “one Bubu (a grandfatherly figure) suggested I visit the ashram.” His physically disabled granddaughter lived there, and he thought it may help Devi, too. “He told me, ‘Do you want to live the rest of your life like this? Go there, study and learn.’” That’s exactly what she did, and never looked back.
Kasturba Mahila Utthan Mandal, or Lakshmi Ashram as it is better known, was founded in Kausani a year before India attained independence by Catherine Heilemann, better known as ‘Sarla Behn’. Sarla was a Gandhian dedicated to advancing the Mahatma’s constructive programme in the remote villages of Uttarakhand.
Described by historian Dr Shekhar Pathak as “a nursery for social activists” in the foreword to Sarla’s autobiography A Life in Two Worlds (translated from the Hindi by David Hopkins), the Ashram was the first basic education school in the Himalayas. When Devi arrived at its gates in the late 1970s with her father, she was immediately captivated by the atmosphere. At the time, around 40 girls lived there, and they were taught by 10 teachers. By then, Gandhian Radha Bhatt had taken over its leadership.
Once forced to drop out of school as a child bride, Devi had become a catalyst for change, helping educate and empower hundreds of women.
“Girls were studying, farming, working so hard,” Devi recalls, sitting in her small room and poring over old news clippings and photographs. Among them is a sheet of paper scribbled over with short sentences written by girls she once trained and educated: “Basanti didi bahadur hain, himmati hain.” (Basanti didi is brave and courageous.) “Didi karmath hain”. (Didi is relentless in her work.)
It was part of an exercise facilitated during her years at the Ashram, and she has preserved it carefully ever since. After she had settled into the institution, Radha Bhatt instructed her to take up kadhai-bunai (handicraft work including knitting, weaving and embroidery) and oversee other activities. Mentoring young girls was one of her responsibilities. “This sheet of paper is my life’s reward,” she says with pride.
Life at the ashram revolved around self-reliance: growing vegetables, keeping cows for milk, making woollen bedding and clothes, and taking turns to graze cattle, cut grass, and collect firewood from the forest. Grain was carried up from the market and ground at the watermill in the valley. As Sarla Behn wrote in her autobiography, the idea was to combine daily labour with learning so that girls grew in both skill and knowledge.
Devi became a pivotal force when Radha Behn put her in charge of addressing families in 200 villages, to convince them to send their girls to school. She went door to door to do just that, and later began opening Balwadis (children’s centres) across villages. Once forced to drop out of school as a child bride, Devi had become a catalyst for change, helping educate and empower hundreds of women. These women later became homemakers, teachers, joined the police force, and took up other public roles. “Some of them still call regularly to check up on me,” she says with a smile.
Also read: How Rahibai Popere built a seed bank with a mother’s grit and love
In his seminal book, The Chipko Movement, Dr Pathak traces the first environmental people’s movement of India, highlighting the smaller organising efforts that shaped—and continue to influence—bigger, influential ones. Among these is the tale of Khirakot, a small village in the Kosi catchment just before Kausani, where Devi felt the first stirrings of activism that would define the rest of her life.
In the early 1980s, Khirakot was being eaten away from within. A talc mine run by a contractor named Rampal Singh Katiyar had begun spilling waste into the villagers’ fields. The dust and debris smothered crops, and the sturdy banj trees (Quercus leucotrichophora)—the oaks that held the soil and water together for centuries—began to wither. Even the village road caved in, claiming the lives of animals, and disturbing the flow of the river Kosi.
The Kosi winds through the districts of Almora and Nainital in Uttarakhand before descending into the plains of Uttar Pradesh to meet the Ramganga. Its basin stretches from low valleys at around 330 metres to ridges rising above 2,700 metres. For generations, it has sustained life in the region, providing water to drink, fields to irrigate, fish to catch, and a place for final rites.
Amid this crisis, the men stayed silent but the women refused to look away. Malti Devi, who was leading Khirakot’s women, reached out to Lakshmi Ashram for help. Radha Bhatt had put Basanti Devi in charge. What followed were petitions, the confrontation of officials, and even taking down men in fake police uniforms. The mine was shut down. The banj forests slowly began to heal, at least at the time.
The Ashram continued its work, helping banj forests in the Kosi valley and strengthening women’s role in forest management.
Basanti Devi would later head to Danya, the Ashram’s field office about four hours away from Kausani, for almost two decades–to continue her work with local communities on education, eradication of alcoholism, and conservation of water, forests and farmland (jal, jungle, zameen).
During the 20 years Devi spent in Danya, the Kosi kept thinning. Illegal mining was part of the problem, but there was more. Climate change, reckless construction, expanding farmland, tree felling and unplanned roads had slowly chipped away at its strength, leaving the river more fragile than ever before.
In the early 2000s, Radha Bhatt asked Devi to make a return. “Basanti,” she said, “you must return now. The forests need saving, the Kosi needs saving. Women must be organised again. Just as you mobilised people in Danya, you must do the same here. The Kosi is drying up.”
Around that time, Devi read a newspaper report about the depletion of water resources across the hills. She soon began to see the strain firsthand during her visits, one of which was to Layshal, a few kilometres from Kausani in the surrounding hills.
Devi’s effort faced strong resistance from conservative villagers who refused to allow women to participate in social or public work.
The forests closer to the villages had already been stripped, forcing women to walk deeper into the forested slopes each day in search of firewood. The same women who had once fought to save forests during the Chipko Movement were now, unknowingly, contributing to the depletion of forest resources. “They were cutting the banj trees for firewood,” Devi recalled, “without realising that banj is the lifeline of the forest.”
Ecologists note that the banj oak’s deep roots draw water from far below the surface, helping retain soil moisture and sustaining the springs that feed rivers like the Kosi. Across the western Himalayas, hydrologists have long warned that natural springs are drying up as groundwater recharge declines. In Kumaon, the rapid spread of chir pine at the cost of the water-retaining oak has further weakened the soil’s ability to hold water, leaving rivers like the Kosi more prone to danger.
Devi recounts a long wait of seven days to meet Layshal’s women; she would show up at the crack of dawn, only to find that they had already departed to cut wood. On the eighth morning, she embarked on the forest route herself, climbing through damp leaves and mist, when she finally crossed paths with them.
This encounter marked the beginning of a long debate with the women. In their exchanges, Devi spoke about her travels over two decades to countries like Bangladesh, Bhutan and Nepal. In parts of those countries, too, she told them, forests had been degraded, water sources had dried up, and greenery had disappeared. But once communities began protecting and regenerating forests, water returned to streams, rivers and springs, and the forests slowly turned green again.
She told the women that if they were willing, she would help them form a ‘Mahila Mangal Dal’ so they could protect the forest instead of wiping it out, using only dry wood for fuel instead. “Protecting the forest,” she told them, “could even bring water back to the Kosi, keep the forest healthy, and help feed animals.” The Mahila Mangal Dals went on to protect the interest of women in all spheres of their lives, including supporting the wife and children of a man charged with life imprisonment, whose crimes the villagers were hesitant to report—exhibiting how community ties could hold together a village in tough times.
Devi’s effort faced strong resistance from conservative villagers who refused to allow women to participate in social or public work. Many husbands and in-laws were irate. “Who is this woman?” they scoffed. “She has no home or family of her own and lives in an ashram, and now she’s turning our women against us.” The accusation followed Devi from village to village.
Building a movement against tree cutting was a slow process. Gradually, the women began to understand and joined Devi, persuading—and sometimes arguing with—their families to support the effort to protect their forests. Now in the winter of her life, Devi struggled to recall the finer details of the movement she had once helped shape. But with a little prompting, the memories returned.
Government officials, she says, would cut green trees from forests and sell the timber outside the village, even selling river water to large hotel establishments. “We stopped them—sometimes with force,” she says. “We imposed fines. If the forest wealth belonged to our region, its benefits should also remain here.” The women confiscated the timber, used it in the village, and the income generated was spent on welfare activities undertaken by the Mahila Mangal Dal.
Also read: Sasbani’s 'fruits' of labour: Reviving hope in rural Uttarakhand
For over a decade and a half, Devi helped organise large awareness marches that brought together women, men, elders and people from the ashram, drawing more villages into the effort to protect forests and water. Wherever they went, she urged people to hold soil from the Kosi forests in their palms and take a pledge: “Until now you protected us, but from today we will protect you.”
The oath included a promise not to cut young, living trees—“not baanj, not buransh (Rhododendron), not kharsu (Quercus semecarpifolia).” If wood was needed for a wedding or to build a house, she told them, they would go together to the Forest Department and seek permission to cut only cheed (pine), never green oak or buransh, because these held the soil and water together.
“If women like Sarla Didi, Radha Didi, and Basanti Didi hadn’t done what they did, walking from village to village, talking to people, mobilising women, we wouldn’t have a reason or even the confidence to keep doing this work today,”
The day the oath was taken, Layshal’s women returned home carrying their sickles and ropes, promising never again to cut live wood. In time, the movement spread to more than 200 villages across the region.
In 2010, the Friends of Lakshmi Ashram–a Denmark-based organisation that provides guidance and financial support to the ashram–sent out an update that affirmed Devi’s ability to understand and organise people as well as win them over. Lone Poulsen, who took over the administration of the organisation in 1991, wrote that over six years, “Basanti Behn had been working tirelessly across the Kosi valley, from its source to Someshwar”.
Also read: How Jayshree Vencatesan got Chennai to finally care for its wetlands
At Lakshmi Ashram, 48-year-old Shobha Bisht, one of the women now carrying forward the legacy of the institution, reflects on the scale of what came before her. “If women like Sarla Didi, Radha Didi, and Basanti Didi hadn’t done what they did, walking from village to village, talking to people, mobilising women, we wouldn’t have a reason or even the confidence to keep doing this work today,” she says over the phone from Kausani.
For Bisht and other Ashram residents and leaders, these women are both mentors to look up to, as well as a North star to lead them in the right direction as they keep up the fight for forests and water, and women’s self-reliance. “Everything that we do today is defined by the work that has been done before. We persist because they did; we follow in their footsteps,” Bisht adds.
After six decades in activism, Devi returned to her home in Pithoragarh’s Aincholi in 2015 to care for her ailing mother. And though she would continue to go back to the Ashram occasionally, this marked the end of her active service. She takes out pictures from photo album sleeves with utmost care, going down memory lane and speaking of some of the people from the photographs with childlike excitement. “Maybe this is what I was meant to do. That’s why my life turned out the way it did,” she reflects.
Entirely self-aware of her advancing age, Devi laughs easily at her own fading memory. “I forget things these days,” she says, waving a hand as if to brush the thought away. But what she has built over the decades casts a long shadow and won’t be forgotten. Her organising effort, spread across hundreds of villages, rivers and forests, runs deep in the hills of Kumaon.
Edited by Neerja Deodhar and Anushka Mukherjee
Art by Jishnu Bandyopadhyay
All photographs by Priyanka Bhadani
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Buffaloes are a defining presence across India’s agrarian landscape. But their pervasiveness in the region for over three thousand years has done little to curb misconceptions about them. By their sheer size, massive horns and a steady gaze, buffaloes paint an imposing picture. Indian mythology, too, portrays the buffalo as a fierce character, among its most well-known depictions being that of the vehicle of Yamraj, the Hindu god of death.
This perception of the buffalo as an aggressive creature, however, does not hold true. Domesticated buffaloes are gentle by temperament. In fact, they can be shy to the point of being easily startled, triggering a defensive response. The bovine’s nature calls for patient management from its caretakers.
Also read: River versus swamp buffaloes: The role of domestication in adaptation
In fact, they can be shy to the point of being easily startled, triggering a defensive response.
Whether they are in a season of migration or in a state of blissful immersion in water, buffaloes move around in groups. This formation is not scattered but strategic. The herds, led by a dominant female, are matriarchal in structure. A buffalo gives birth after a gestation period of about 300-340 days. When they sense an approaching predator, they are known to form tight, cooperative circles to protect young calves. Their defensive instinct is also palpable in aquatic habitats. Although they usually swim at a leisurely pace, they can accelerate in short bursts to evade perceived danger.
Female calves stay with their natal herd for the rest of their lives. Young males, on the other hand, leave the matriarchal herds at the age of three and join a bachelor herd that usually numbers around 10. It is only during mating season that a bull enters a female herd, using its strong sense of smell to find the receptive ones in the group. A bull does not exert dominance over a female herd, making its exit after mating.
Buffaloes are most known for their physiological dependence on wallowing in water, owing to the presence of fewer sweat glands in their bodies, and therefore, a high predisposition to heat stress. Lack of access to a terrain that facilitates the buffalo’s need to wallow and stay cool has serious repercussions on its health. In a situation of heat stress, buffaloes lose their motivation to graze for food and consume it, since these are activities that produce heat. Researchers have found that buffaloes reduce their food intake by 9-13% under hot conditions. This also has a profound impact on the yield and quality of milk. A study conducted on the Murrah breed found that heat stress reduced the milk fat content by 0.26% during the summer season.
Female calves stay with their natal herd for the rest of their lives.
Since they are a species naturally prone to a daily routine of grazing and wallowing, buffaloes do not respond well to confinement. A loose housing system—an expansive space where buffaloes are free to explore their environment—stimulates their natural behaviour, and keeps them content.
Also read: Decoding buffalo behaviour: Why the domesticated beast wallows in water
For buffaloes living on farms, close communication with humans is a part of their daily routine—a result of domestication and evolution. The buffalo’s temperament during milking has a direct correlation with the yield. If they register a negative human interaction during the process, they may respond with restless gestures. A factor of severe distress in a buffalo is early separation from its calf.
The first few hours after a buffalo has birthed a calf are critical in ensuring that the two develop a bond, becoming the key to the newborn’s survival. The absence of the calf negatively influences the production of oxytocin in buffaloes, a natural hormone that stimulates milk production. Given the high sensitivity of this species, even a subtle change in the environment during the milking process suppresses the release of oxytocin in the buffalo which then struggles to discharge milk.
The first few hours after a buffalo has birthed a calf are critical in ensuring that the two develop a bond, becoming the key to the newborn’s survival.
Many farms have responded to this problem by resorting to injecting the buffaloes with oxytocin, to speed up milk secretion. But unsupervised repeated dosage of oxytocin can result in long-term deterioration of animal health, which includes fertility disorders. Its rampant misuse in the Indian dairy industry led to an order from the Union Health Ministry restricting its manufacturing rights exclusively to the public sector.
The behavioural pattern of the buffaloes, a species so central to India’s dairy economy, deserves further study so that they may be understood better and looked after with sensitivity.
Also read: Water buffaloes: A historical look into their role in agriculture
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Editor’s note: To know Rama Ranee is to learn about the power of regenerative practices. The yoga therapist, author and biodynamic farmer spent three decades restoring land in Karnataka, envisioning it as a forest farm in harmony with nature. In ‘The Anemane Dispatch’, a monthly column, she shares tales from the fields, reflections on the realities of farming in an unusual terrain, and stories about local ecology gathered through observation, bird watching—and being.
Agriculture is commonly considered to be the domain of men. The role of women farmers, on the other hand, is perceived to be peripheral or supportive. Contrary to this belief, on-ground realities tell us that it is women who hold the key to sustainable agriculture and the conservation of agrobiodiversity and sustenance in these times of climate change, which pose a serious threat to food security.
Anthropological findings show that prehistoric women catalysed the transition of agriculture from hunter-gatherer-led subsistence to settled farming communities when they became seed gatherers. They learnt how to domesticate the plant species whose seeds they procured. They were the first researchers—‘ethnobotanists’ who developed the knowledge to identify native flora for food, medicine and fodder.
In 10,000 B.C., prehistoric women were probably involved in tilling, planting, and harvesting crops with hoes, flint sickles, and digging sticks, as well as grinding harvested grain, a study of their skeletal remains reveals. The practices prevalent among women in some of India’s own remote rural communities today are reminiscent of this study pertaining to the early Neolithic era in Central Europe. By the Iron ages, the hoe had given way to the plough, marking a technological shift facilitating large-scale cultivation.
In contrast to the catapulting of agriculture into an industry characterised by mechanisation, monocropping, hybrid seeds and the use of chemicals, cultivation was not merely an economic activity for early agriculturalists. The fecund earth receiving the potent seed and bringing it to life was viewed with awe as a spiritual phenomenon. Planting was an act of worship. Veneration of the Earth Mother—Ila, Gaia, the source of all life—was deeply embedded in early religious expressions and art, as the figurines of the Indus Valley civilisation indicate.
Echoes of these beliefs are evident in rituals associated with agriculture in our traditional societies. In matrilineal or matriarchal societies, women are not just caretakers of land, they embody the spirit of the Earth Mother as nurturers. For example, Mother Goddess Mei-Ramew and her lore endure among the Khasis of Meghalaya.
The success of a farm rests on the wide range of tasks performed by women. A study by Oxfam suggests 80% of all economically active women in India are farmers, of whom 33% constitute the agricultural labour force and 48% are self-employed. They complement and support the efforts of men at different stages of the growth cycle of crops; herd and care for livestock; and significantly, keep alive landraces of grains, thus preserving agrobiodiversity. These landraces are the dynamic repositories of gene pools, most critical for food security and nutritional adequacy.
In observing women in the communities surrounding Anemane—at work in fields and in their homes—I saw their contributions beyond what data and studies can reveal.
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Madamma drives her cattle over the hills to graze them in the Kalkere Forest of Karnataka’s Bannerghatta, adjoining her family’s one-and-a-half-acre farm, as she has done for the last 42 years since she was 28. Her day begins at the crack of dawn, milking cows, cleaning the cowshed along with her husband, cooking the morning meal, and ends at sundown, after housing the cattle, milking the cows again, and preparing the evening meal.
Tilling was the man’s job; everything else—applying compost, de-weeding, transplanting paddy, harvesting, threshing, and winnowing—were chiefly her tasks.
Herding is her passion and what she knows best. Growing up in Gummalapura, a village 40 km away from the Tamil Nadu border, 6-year-old Madamma was sent to the forest to herd the family’s buffaloes and cows until she turned 15, when she was married off. In her spare time, she slit bamboo for incense—a cottage industry that flourished in the area, contributing to the family income.
In Bannerghatta, her husband’s rain-fed field supported ragi intercropped with legumes, and marigold during the rainy months. A strip of wetland was taken on lease for paddy cultivation. Tilling was the man’s job; everything else—applying compost, de-weeding, transplanting paddy, harvesting, threshing, and winnowing—were chiefly her tasks.
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The produce barely sustained the family, and cash was scarce. Summer offered opportunities to earn. Madamma took on work like dredging soil at sites where wells were being dug for a sum of Rs. 8 per day, and signing up to be day labour at a nearby vegetable farm for Rs. 7 a day; the latter gig was possible only after her children had grown old enough to be on their own. After 13 years, with their meagre savings, the couple bought a few cows, a buffalo, and a bullock cart. Thus resumed her task of herding. The milk was sold and the herd grew. After a few more years, a cottage with a sheet roof was added to the original thatched hut. At present she has 15 cows.
A study by Oxfam suggests 80% of all economically active women in India are farmers, of whom 33% constitute the agricultural labour force and 48% are self-employed
At 74, Madamma still wakes up at 4.30 am, cleans the cattle shed, milks cows, and dispatches it to regular customers without fail, every single day: 25 litres in the morning, and 20 litres in the evening. Before the sons were married, the household chores and cooking were entirely her responsibility. Now, she has the support of one of her daughters-in-law and son, and occasionally her grandchildren too, to bathe the cows once a week.
After years of drudgery, abuse at the hands of her husband, and upheavals within the family, Madamma’s bones are giving way. Her legs ache constantly, yet she stays strong and committed to her home and land.
Also read: Friends of the soil: A farmer’s key allies hide backstage and underground
Rangamma Sr. decided to shift, lock, stock, and barrel, from her village in Tamil Nadu’s Dharmapuri district along with her daughter and brother, to whom the daughter was married, and set up home in Karnataka’s Kasaraguppe. Her expertise was wild edible greens. Even at 80 years of age, she foraged, walking a 2 km stretch from her village to the next, and at times to various tanks in the vicinity in search of tubers like Gotti Gedde or Lesser yam (Dioscorea esculenta). She would return with her basket overflowing with more than 30 varieties of greens, enough to make her trademark Berike soppina saaru, a spicy extract of wild greens and legumes, for her own household as well as seven neighbouring ones. Rajappa, our senior staff at Anemane and an expert forager himself, was inducted into the art by Rangamma, his grandmother, at a very young age.
Her daughter, also known as Rangamma, was 36 when they moved. Her physical abilities and skills are legendary in the local community: the land was unkempt and overgrown with bamboo thickets which she cleared and terraced, bunding it with rubble, on par with men—her neighbours. The husband tilled the ragi field and left the rest to his wife, devoting himself to religious pursuits. His only requirement: a spotlessly clean dhoti and garments!
Rangamma Jr. had brought with her Sanna kaddi ragi and Dodda kaddi ragi, two local landraces from their village which were drought-resistant crops that matured in six months and thrived in dry land. That is what she cultivated along with same (little millet) and navane (fox millet), four kinds of legumes, hucchellu (Niger) and a handful of vegetables. The millets and legumes were intercropped for optimum yield.
Her legs ache constantly, yet she stays strong and committed to her home and land.
The women’s day would begin with the first cock’s crow at 3 am; grinding ragi on the chakki and cooking lunch by 6 am; and then onwards to the field. Ten cows had to be milked and calves tended to, besides the bullocks that were used for tilling. Cutting and fetching 10 headloads of grass from the valley below was a daily chore. The older son and three younger children, Rajappa and his sisters, shared these duties. While the older siblings grazed the cattle in the forest, Rajappa, caring for 50 chickens at home, was tasked with cooking for the evening—a skill that Rangamma insisted that boys should learn. Later she taught her grandson Ananda, too, but exempted his sister from household duties!
Her method of saving seeds was to rub chili powder and castor oil on them, place them in paddy straw baskets, and bury them in the rick, placing them strategically at a level that would be accessible when it was time to sow. Sticks were stuck as markers for the seed baskets. They were well preserved with no pest infestation.
Rangamma Jr. continued to work well into her 80s, initially as a daily wage earner after the sons sold the land, and in her own home garden when they shifted to Bannerghatta, dying peacefully at 95.
Parvathamma was an able assistant to her aunt and mother-in-law to be. As a girl of 10 she would draw water from the well, help with the cattle and fetch headloads of ragi bundles and grass, finally inducted into the more challenging and multifarious tasks of raising crops after her marriage to Rajappa at 15.
Also read: Raised by nature: Bonds with farms, forests help children grow holistically
Pregnancy was hardly a time of rest and respite in those days. When she was nine months pregnant, Parvathamma remain engaged the whole day, applying headloads of compost to the fields. Then she came back home to deliver her child with the neighbour’s assistance.
The self-possession and insights with which these women managed the health and well-being of family and community with available resources is a lesson unto itself.
The self-possession and insights with which these women managed the health and well-being of family and community with available resources is a lesson unto itself. It speaks of a life of harmony and integration. There are many learnings embedded in their lives: the grit and determination of Madamma under very difficult and trying circumstances, to protect her land and dignity; the knowledge of local ecology and agrobiodiversity of Rangamma Sr.; the immense power and energy Rangamma Jr. brought to create what we may now recognise as an integrated, zero-waste, circular farming system while conserving heritage seeds, mentoring at least two generations and breaking gender stereotypes through personal example.
Their legacy is inspiring for me, as an urban woman who embraced regenerative farming. The role of women farmers is diverse and multi-dimensional—at the bedrock of sustainable agriculture and the health of the planet.
Also read: In forest bathing, an invitation to heal by being one with nature
Artwork by Khyati K
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Across Asia’s farms and wetlands, the water buffalo is an unmissable presence, standing knee-deep in ponds, hauling ploughs through rice fields, or returning home at dusk to its shed. The animals we loosely call the ‘water buffalo’ in India are actually categorised into two distinct types—the river buffalo and the swamp buffalo. They differ in their genetics, appearance, histories and the roles they play in agriculture.
Both belong to the same species (Bubalus bubalis) but thousands of years of domestication in different parts of Asia have prompted them to evolve into animals suited to very different livelihoods. One became a master milk producer, forming the backbone of large dairy economies. The other evolved into a powerful draught animal, indispensable in the floodplains and rice fields of South and Southeast Asia.
Scientists believe the two types represent the different domestication pathways of wild buffalo populations thousands of years ago. River buffalo domestication likely began in northwestern India around 5,000–6,000 years ago, while swamp buffalo domestication occurred later in the China–Indochina region.
The river buffalo evolved primarily in the Indian subcontinent and constitutes nearly 70% of the world’s water buffalo population. Over centuries of interactions with humans, it became closely associated with dairy farming. Today, most of the world’s buffalo milk—from India’s village dairies to mozzarella production in southern Europe—comes from river buffalo breeds.
The swamp buffalo, on the other hand, emerged further east, along the Indochina region and parts of Southeast Asia. Instead of dairy production, these animals became indispensable draught animals in wetland agriculture, especially in paddy cultivation. In countries like Vietnam, Thailand, and the Philippines, swamp buffaloes are still used to plough flooded rice fields where tractors often struggle to move through the mud.
Also read: Water buffaloes: A historical look into their role in agriculture
These two distinct animals are fascinating examples of how a single species can adapt and evolve according to different landscapes and human needs. In regions where dairy economies flourished, buffaloes were bred for milk. Where wet rice agriculture dominated, strength and endurance mattered more. River buffaloes became milk specialists, and swamp buffaloes, the hardy agricultural workers.
These two distinct animals are fascinating examples of how a single species can adapt and evolve according to different landscapes and human needs.
Although they belong to the same species, river and swamp buffaloes are genetically distinct. River buffaloes typically have 50 chromosomes, while swamp buffaloes have 48. This difference is the result of a chromosomal fusion that occurred in the swamp buffalo lineage.
To put it simply, imagine two separate chromosomes in the river buffalo ancestor gradually joining end-to-end to form a single, larger chromosome in swamp buffaloes. Instead of carrying the same genetic material on two smaller chromosomes, swamp buffaloes carry it on one fused chromosome. Because of this, their total chromosome count drops from 50 to 48, even though most of the underlying genetic information remains largely the same.
Farmers in parts of Asia have occasionally crossbred them to combine desirable traits.
Such fusions occur when two chromosomes join end-to-end during evolution. Over generations, this fused chromosome becomes stable and inherited as a single unit. The genetic material is still largely the same; it is just packaged differently.
Interestingly, the two types can still interbreed. Their offspring usually have 49 chromosomes and are generally fertile, though sometimes with reduced reproductive efficiency. Farmers in parts of Asia have occasionally crossbred them to combine desirable traits.
Also read: Decoding buffalo behaviour: Why the domesticated beast wallows in water
The most striking difference lies in productivity.
River buffaloes are the foundation of the global buffalo dairy industry. India alone hosts over half the world’s buffalo population, and most of them belong to river buffalo breeds such as Murrah, Nili-Ravi, and Jaffarabadi. They produce between 1500 and 2500 litres of milk per lactation and can remain productive, calving and yielding milk, for up to 20 years. Their milk is rich in fat and protein (7-10% fat, nearly double that of typical cow milk), making it ideal for products like ghee, paneer, khoya, and cheese.
Swamp buffaloes, by contrast, produce very little milk—often just enough for their calves. Their value lies instead in physical strength. In flooded rice fields, their wide hooves and sturdy build allow them to move through thick mud without sinking, pulling ploughs through soil that would stall machines.
Also read: Mumbai's Nagori dairies are a living archive of milk, migration and memory
While a buffalo lounging in a village pond may look like just another bhains, it might belong to one of two very different worlds. So next time you encounter a buffalo, pay attention. Both animals play an important role in the journey of your food from the farm to the plate.
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Editor's note: Every farmer who tills the land is an inextricable part of the Indian agriculture story. Some challenge convention, others uplift their less privileged peers, others still courageously pave the way for a more organic, sustainable future. All of them feed the country. In this series, the Good Food Movement highlights the lives and careers of pioneers in Indian agriculture—cultivators, seed preservers, collective organisers and entrepreneurs.
On a Sunday morning in September 2025, in Teertha—a small village about 30 km from Karnataka’s Hubli region—Bibijan Halemani makes her way home. A man sitting near a corner store asks her, “Will you buy mekke beeja (maize seeds) this time?”
Before she can respond, another man has a ready answer: “They have won a prize. She can.” Halemani smiles and continues walking.
“People are talking about the prize now, but until recently, they had little faith in our self-help group (SHG),” she says. The prize she speaks of is the Equator Initiative Award, won by the Bibi Fatima Self-Help Group for community-led biodiversity conservation, meaningful work in food security, and creating jobs for marginalised women.
“Recognitions like these make it difficult to dismiss our [women’s] work,” she says. However, it isn’t the first one. In the last seven years, the SHG has received several recognitions; of these, the one that first changed the way people looked at them was Deccan Herald’s Changemakers Award in 2023.
As the 40-year-old reaches the SHG’s community seed bank, started in 2018, which is next to her house, two sparrows are chirping around in the verandah. “You’ll always find sparrows here. They love seeds.” As she opens the door, the birds rush in, happily flying in circles near the roof.
With earthy-red hand-paintings across the white walls and millet husks all around, the seed bank stands out from the line of houses surrounding it. Near the entrance, three rows of baskets full of millets—from the popular kodo and foxtail, to the lesser known browntop–greet us. Next to them, some millet foods such as sevai (vermicelli noodles) and beaten millet rice flakes are displayed on a wooden table where Halemani keeps tea and snacks for visitors. As we enter, the wall opposite the door is lined with various colourful seeds and millets in small glass bottles, along with the awards that the SHG has won.
Within ten minutes of meeting Halemani, three phone calls have already interrupted the conversation. Her busyness is also reflected in her way of talking: fast and to the point. But life wasn’t always like this for her, she recalls.
“About 20 years ago, if someone had told me this is what I will be doing, it would be a little surprising,” she says. For Halemani, ambition came with constant reminders of her gender identity. “The women in my family didn’t really have the option to study a great deal, or work—or even step out of our homes,” she says. Today, her work routinely takes her far away from Teertha, her hometown and address after marriage, to Delhi and Maharashtra.
A ghost ship, carrying dreams of a different life, often makes its presence felt in Halemani’s world. In her late teens, she developed a deep interest in politics and social work. “I just wanted to do something for society,” she says softly. When she completed her degree in Politics, Hindi, and English, her sole focus was on doing a Bachelor’s in Education to fulfil a dream she had stubbornly kept alive. “I always wanted to become a teacher,” she says.
Although acutely aware of the restrictions that had always been imposed on her, she hoped that this could be possible. However, her parents saw no point in further education or work, and got her married off as soon as she turned 20.
For Halemani, ambition came with constant reminders of her gender identity.
In 2004, soon after her wedding, Halemani tried to chase after this dream and applied to become an Anganwadi teacher in her village–despite a lack of any support. “But people in my village were opposed to my application, likely driven by internal politics and a bias against educated women. They made sure the position went to a woman from another village. After that, I gave up on the idea,” she says.
After marriage, her movement and access to public spaces shrunk further. Her days mostly revolved around cooking for many, tending to the cattle, and making manure out of cattle dung. During this time, she observed farming more than ever before—from what people chose to cultivate, to the problems farmers faced. One such observation was the disappearing presence of millets from plates and fields. “After 2007, not many were growing millets. Farmers were switching to maize, cotton, and rice,” she says.
In 2017, when the NGO Sahaja Samrudha came to her village to talk about farming challenges, men and women were both encouraged to come to the meeting; this marked her introduction to sustainable farming. “They noticed that women were more active and vocal during the meeting, and approached us with the idea of a self-help group focused on promoting millet farming,” Halemani explains. Seated next to baskets of millet grains, she adds, “It changed our lives.”
Also read: In Leh’s harsh terrain, farmer Urgain Phuntsog is a true ‘mitti ka aadmi
Halemani and 14 other women from Teertha came together to form the Bibi Fatima Self-Help Group in 2018. This was uncharted territory for them all. “People don’t have much land here. Some women would travel to faraway places to earn money. A few from our SHG used to catch a bus at 6 in the morning on chilly, winter days to wash utensils at a resort for just Rs. 300 and return only in the evening. They would fall sick, but still work,” Halemani says.
For years, Teertha’s women tried to find different sources of income. “We have to work constantly,” she says. In 2004, a few women, including Halemani, started an SHG to put aside a portion of their earnings and save it for a rainy day, but it had limited success, and they had to close it three years later.
When the Bibi Fatima SHG was formed, for the very first time, the women had guidance and mentorship. They didn’t really know much about biodiversity conservation or food security, but through training programmes organised by Sahaja Samrudha, they started connecting their lived experience and observations with scientific knowledge.
When the Bibi Fatima SHG was formed, for the very first time, the women had guidance and mentorship.
The initial years also brought scepticism and stigma, as members of the SHG were often scoffed at. “If I carried a shoulder bag, some people would mock me, saying that I am ‘showing off’ my work. Now the same people are congratulating us,” Halemani says.
In particular, she remembers how disrespectfully the women were treated at a local bank when Halemani and her peers wanted to apply for a bank account for their undertaking. The manager, peeved at Halemani for taking a phone call, mocked her—an anecdote that resonates with many women, especially those who aren’t educated, and who feel hesitant to enter banks.
Also read: How Rahibai Popere built a seed bank with a mother’s grit and love
“Siridanya (millets) are not new to us. We have been exposed to them even as children, but I didn’t know of their benefits to health or the environment. Now, I am able to talk to others about millets and make them aware, too,” Halemani says with a smile—the first in this conversation.
Most farmers in and around Teertha had long left behind millet cultivation by the time Sahaja Samrudha put forth its idea. “Farmers were not finding it profitable. The process of cleaning millets after harvests was an issue for many,” she says.
The situation in Teertha was a microcosm of what was underway across Karnataka. By 2017, the abandonment of millets became a growing issue spurring state-wide concern. During the All-India Co-ordinated Project on Small Millets in April 2017, H. Shivanna, the Vice-Chancellor of the University of Agricultural Sciences, Bengaluru, said that over the preceding decade, Karnataka had lost nearly 2.5 lakh hectares of millet-growing fields to acacia and neem. He added that 40% of the area that was under millet cultivation had been replaced by horticultural crops, which meant that the state had just about 9.5 lakh hectares dedicated to growing millets.
Where once millets had disappeared from the fields in and surrounding Teertha, in present times, farmers are cultivating them across about 2,000 acres of land.
To address this gradual decrease, and after consecutive droughts between 2013 and 2017, the Karnataka government focused on reviving production. They also organised awareness programs and promotion campaigns in and around Bengaluru. In 2017, the National Organic and Millets Fair was held to bring together stakeholders in millet production and to connect farmers to markets. The government also pushed for 2018 to be declared as the ‘National Year of Millets.’
However, when it came to rural Karnataka, it was SHGs such as Halemani’s that heralded millet production. The Bibi Fatima SHG took flight in 2018. In the first two years, the women went to different taluks around Teertha to visit farms and meet farmers, explaining the cost benefits that come with growing millets and informing them of training and welfare schemes on offer. A particular advantage of growing millets is the crops’ ability to adapt well to different environmental conditions, especially changing monsoon patterns—a change that farmers are taking notice of. “In recent times, it rains heavily during the non-rainy season, and we barely get rain when we are supposed to,” Halemani says.
Yet, farmers remained sceptical. They wouldn’t come to the meetings or show much interest. The SHG then started giving farmers Navdanya kits–free packs provided by Sahaja Samrudha that consisted of nine kinds of millets that can be grown in a one-acre field. Gradually, more farmers showed a willingness to experiment.
As awareness grew and millet cultivation became more lucrative, more farmers joined the group. “We started with 20 to 25 farmers, but now we have a network of 5,000,” she says. This growth has largely been the result of the sharing of personal testimonies and success stories. Where once millets had disappeared from the fields in and surrounding Teertha, in present times, farmers are cultivating them across about 2,000 acres of land.
To address the gap between harvests and processing—the cumbersome cleaning of the grains—the SHG set up a millet processing unit in Teertha in 2022, with the help of Sahaja Samrudha, the Indian Institute of Millets Research (IIMR), Hyderabad, and CROPS4HD–an international project set up to transform food systems. The unit is run completely by the women. The SELCO foundation also provided them with solar power for their unit, which helped them manage their electricity expenses. The Millet Foundation, Bengaluru, trained the women in operating the unit, where they now earn Rs. 500 for each day of work.
Halemani gets up to reach for the millet baskets, holding a few grains of the browntop millet—small and polished, shining soft-golden in the light. “See, it has to be cleaned and properly processed for it to look like this,” she says. Processing is crucial in removing the inedible parts and increasing the bioavailability of nutrients. “Once we collect the seeds from the farmers, germination determines their quality. Those that germinate at least 80% are stored as seeds in the bank, and the rest are processed to make millet rice,” she explains.
Farmers from about 15 villages get their grains processed at the SHG’s unit, where small quantities are undertaken for farmers’ consumption, as well as purchases in bulk for the market. In 2024, about 50 metric tons of millets were processed. The most palpable impact of this ease of processing is an increase in the household consumption of millets, Halemani says. “When we started, no one in our village was eating millets, but now at least 25% eat millet rice daily,” she adds.
To expand their reach, 53 SHGs came together in 2023 to form Devdanya Farmer Producer Company, a farmers' producer organisation (FPO) which is co-led by Halemani. About 500 individual farmers from the Kundagol and Shiggaon taluks are part of this initiative. In its first year, the FPO registered an annual turnover of Rs 58 lakh. After excluding all expenses and paying taxes, it made a profit of over Rs 1.4 lakh. “In 2024, our annual turnover increased to Rs. 1.5 crore,” Halemani shares.
While Devdanya was set up to promote millet products such as health drinks, sevai, and rice, it was also intended to remove the middlemen between farmers and markets. “The rate for millets is set by middlemen, and if these rates are too low, farmers are disincentivised from growing these crops. Through Devdanya, we buy the millets, help farmers process them, and ensure they have enough for household consumption.”
Also read: Babulal Dahiya makes every grain of rice count
Building a community seed bank has been a core project of the SHG since its very inception. When they were looking for a place to set it up, Halemani offered the space next to her house, which belongs to her family. “After about a year of creating awareness about sustainable farming and distributing Navdanya, we began to receive seeds in return. If we gave 10 kg of seeds, the farmer had to give us 20 kg back. That’s how the community seed bank started,” she says.
Initially, it received only millets, but as the harvests expanded, so did the seed bank. Today, it is home to 350 varieties of millets, oil seeds and pulses. These include 74 varieties of ragi, 10 of foxtail millet, 25 of little millet, two of proso and browntop, one of barnyard and pearl each, as well as 25 varieties of pulses and 80 of vegetables. Currently, the SHG recognises 30 farmers as seed producers.
The core idea behind the seed bank, Halemani shares, has been to increase farmers’ access to indigenous varieties and provide them free of cost. They can usually find what they require here, depending on the season. With the climate crisis looming, the group has prioritised seeds which can withstand extreme environmental changes––mainly millets.
However, it hasn’t been an easy path for the SHG. Building a relationship with farmers was an exercise in time and patience. Sometimes, the SHG wouldn’t receive the seeds they had lent, and farmers would return millet seeds that wouldn’t germinate. “There were also times when we didn’t have the seeds that farmers needed, so we used our savings to buy them. There have been challenges, but isn’t that how life is?” says Halemani.
Though this may seem marginal, it is a triumph for a community-oriented seed bank in India, where farmers who run such institutions often rely on their own funds or meagre donations.
The community seed bank has been widely recognised for its focus on indigenous seeds, food security and the promotion of sustainable farming. “In 2024 we made transactions of up to Rs.14 lakhs, but in 2025, we made about Rs.10–11 lakhs because we faced some technical issues with the machines that processed millets ,” Halemani explains. They only make an estimated 10% of profit on their earnings, as they have to bear the cost of labour, rent and other expenses. Though this may seem marginal, it is a triumph for a community-oriented seed bank in India, where farmers who run such institutions often rely on their own funds or meagre donations.
At around 1 PM, Halemani generously extends an invitation to join her family for lunch and refuses to hear anything other than yes. As we sit down, she first brings a plate of millet sevai, with milk and sugar on the side. It’s a simple, wholesome meal, popular in Uttara Kannada. The sugar is sprinkled on the sevai, and milk is poured on top. Then come rice, sambar and sandige (sun-dried fritters). “We eat jolada rotti (rotis made of sorghum), but I didn’t think they’d be familiar to you,” she says. As we dig in, another member of the SHG, who is also Halemani’s relative, joins us. “She was the first to be a part of the group,” Halemani explains, nodding towards Shehanajabi Halemani, 42.
Shehanajabi has made a living from tailoring for a long time, but considers working at the SHG as her first and primary job. “Since the SHG was established, there is some work or other which keeps us busy, so the opportunities to earn have increased.” Shehanajabi adds, “We also help farmers and the environment, so the work feels fulfilling.”
For many women in and around Teertha, dreams have felt like a luxury that they don’t have access to.
When asked if she had a dream for her life while growing up, Shehanajabi shrugs and smiles as she looks into the distance. For many women in and around Teertha, dreams have felt like a luxury that they don’t have access to.
As we make our way back to the seed bank after lunch, we are in the company of another SHG member: Prema Prabhakar Bollina, 28, who is with her two-year-old daughter. Bollina got married when she was a teenager and is now a mother to two children. “I wanted to study. I think I could have become a teacher,” she says, with a big smile that stubbornly stays on throughout the conversation. Before she joined the SHG in 2019 and began working at the seed bank, Bollina was a domestic worker. As one of the few women in the area who is educated, she largely works at the bank, undertaking administrative tasks like registering transactions. “Earning recognition has changed the way people look at us. It has also made us independent,” she says.
Earlier that day, Halemani proudly showed photographs of her children: a 20-year-old son, who is studying law, and an 18-year-old daughter, who is pursuing a paramedical degree. “Ever since they were children, I told them education is vital to make something of their life,” she says. Even as their own dreams may have been made inaccessible, Halemani, Bollina and other women in the SHG are fiercely protecting the aspirations of their children.
Edited by Neerja Deodhar and Anushka Mukherjee
Art by Jishnu Bandyopadhyay
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