Ngupetso Kapfo has worn many hats over his lifetime—government servant, carpenter, timber merchant. But none lasted long enough to feel familiar and instinctive. The work was steady, sometimes profitable, but it stirred a restlessness in him that did not leave him. The timber business felt neither economically nor ecologically sustainable, taking more from the hills than it returned. At that crossroads of his life, he turned uphill, to the mist.

Today, his kiwi orchard has grown to over a thousand trees and is two decades old. It grows on the slopes of Phek district in Nagaland, where clouds sit low and the air stays cool—producing around 75,000 kg of fruit every seas “Kiwis need the mist to grow,” he says simply. The fruit needs these high altitudes, cold winters, and slow seasons. It is here, among curling vines, that Kapfo found steadiness, and something close to joy.

Also read: No monkeying around on this kiwi farm

Mastering the fruit and the slope

Kapfo’s first encounter with kiwi came at the Pfutsero Horticulture Farm, not far from Phek, where he learnt about both the promise that the fruit held and the discipline it demands. “In 2007, I planted my first hundred saplings, beginning from the top of the slope and working my way down,” Kapfo says. He gradually expanded the orchard each year and the land revealed its rhythms to him. 

Much of that rhythm is shaped by pruning. “Pruning is one of the most important parts of ensuring a healthy yield,” he says. In summer, Kapfo trims the excess leaves and branches so that sunlight and air can circulate freely through the trees. In winter, the cuts are more deliberate. They help train the tree’s structure, spacing out branches and directing the plant’s stored energy toward timely flowering and better-quality fruit—especially important in Phek’s cold, short growing seasons. Years of working with wood have contributed to Kapfo’s intimate understanding of the trees; his arms move robustly and the light ‘dhak-dhaks’ of the shears echo in the hills. 

Nothing here is wasted—weeded plants, pruned branches, and organic matter are all used to build soil fertility.

From the beginning, Kapfo chose to farm organically. An NGO trained him in better soil practices, teaching him vermicomposting and ways to return all of the field’s produce into the earth. Nothing here is wasted—weeded plants, pruned branches, and organic matter are all used to build soil fertility. He also uses makhruvu, a locally found plant ground and mixed with water, to nourish the vines and keep pests at bay.

“Fertiliser is slow poison for men,” Kapfo says. “It may offer short-term gains, but it harms the soil, the farmer applying it, and the people who eat the food.” Organic farming, for him, is a way of staying true to all three. This circularity is aligned with Kapfo’s practised belief of mindful living . His orchard is now certified organic by the Nagaland State Horticulture Department. 

Also read: How lemon groves turned Manipur’s Kachai into a citrus empire

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Growing with the times

Earlier, Kapfo harvested the fruit by following his experience and instinct. Now, he carries a small but telling tool: a hand refractometer. He slices a kiwi, rubs a drop of juice onto the lens, holds it up to the light, and checks the sugar levels. If the reading is low, the fruit isn’t ripe enough. It stays on the tree.

In these hills, modern tools are not replacing traditional wisdom; they are sharpening it. Precision becomes a way to protect quality without chemicals.

He also demonstrates his grafting process. “I cut a two-knot branch to act as the scion [the desired portion to be grafted]. Don’t slice too close to the soil.” He makes incisions on the rootstock [the bottom portion of a grafted plant] and the branch—“Join it with tape and make sure to align both sides carefully so that the tree grows upright,” Kapfo adds.

He slices a kiwi, rubs a drop of juice onto the lens of the refractometer, holds it up to the light, and checks the sugar levels.

A fruit in demand, a hill still waiting

Kiwi cultivation has grown steadily across India, evolving from a niche segment to a highly desired product because of its nutritional benefits. By 2024, growing health consciousness, greater exposure to global food cultures, and improvements in cold-chain infrastructure had already accelerated kiwi consumption across metropolitan and tier-1 cities. By 2025, the market was valued at ₹54.4 billion. But domestic demand still far outpaces supply. Most kiwis eaten in Indian cities are imported, even as places like Phek offer the ideal conditions for their cultivation: high altitude, cool temperatures, and heavy rainfall.

Nagaland’s kiwi story began in villages like Thepfume and Thipuzu, with varieties such as Hayward and Bruno.The state produced 1650 tonnes of kiwi in 2023-24.  Yet farmers continue to face challenges and much of the harvest struggles to reach markets efficiently as a result of poor transport, lack of cold storage and small landholdings. What is grown with care often loses value after harvest.

Most kiwis eaten in Indian cities are imported, even as places like Phek offer the ideal conditions for their cultivation: high altitude, cool temperatures, and heavy rainfall.

Recent exchanges with New Zealand—the world’s leading kiwi exporter—have opened up conversations around better orchard management, post-harvest systems, and branding. But for farmers like Kapfo, the future still unfolds one season at a time.

Also read: In Uttarakhand’s Shama, kiwi cultivation has restored faith in agriculture

In his orchard, the vines curl slowly, the mist settles gently, and sweetness is measured drop by drop. Kiwi may be putting Nagaland on the global map, but here in Phek, it is still a deeply meditative act. It is visible in how Ngupetso Kapfo explains his process of growing, pruning, and waiting, and in the way he shuffles around the orchard, attentively tending to every tree. His work is a testament to slower, steadier ways of growing. In these hills, patience is not a virtue. It is the method.

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On a bright January morning in Tamil Nadu’s Kuravapulam village, Sivaranjini S. closes the door to her kitchen, picks up a spiral-bound notebook, and walks into the paddy fields adjacent to her home. Her husband, Saravanakumaran P., follows her into the fields, adjusting his blue rubber boots as he walks past a line of palm trees that mark the boundary of their land.

At first glance, this farm in the Nagapattinam district resembles any other paddy field in coastal Tamil Nadu. But a closer look reveals a mosaic of differences. Each small plot on the farm is devoted to a distinct variety of rice: some short and sturdy, others tall and swaying; some with slender grains, others bold; some still green, others gold and amber, ready for harvest.

Thriving amid farmlands that practice monoculture, it is an archive, a laboratory, a protest, and a wager on the future.

The couple moves methodically from one plot to the next, carefully noting the colour of the leaf sheath (the lower part of a leaf that covers the stem and protects it), the angle of the flag leaf (the final, topmost one), the length of the panicle (a loose branching cluster of flowers), the hue of the grain, and the presence of pubescence (fine hairs) on the husk. Every trait is diligently recorded in the notebook Sivaranjini carries.

Across two parcels of land, they are growing around 2,200 traditional rice varieties—a living seed bank whose treasures are cultivated, documented and regenerated every year. What began in 2015 with 177 varieties collected from their home state has, over a decade, grown into the Arivar Traditional Seed Centre, a self-sustaining collection of seeds from across India. Thriving amid farmlands that practice monoculture, it is an archive, a laboratory, a protest, and a wager on the future.

Seeds that survive the sea

The roots of this effort can be traced back to Sivaji R., Sivaranjini’s 75-year-old father, who has been farming in Karurpambulam, a village 2 km from Kuravapulam, for over five decades. Like many farmers whose approach was shaped by the Green Revolution, Sivaji cultivated high-yielding varieties (HYV) in the initial years of his career, supported by chemical fertilisers. The yields were high, and so was his income. He was also a rice merchant who procured HYVs from other farmers to sell to consumers. “I used to be very proud of the profit margins,” Sivaji recalls. 

But his perception changed in 1988, when local fishermen approached him with an unusual request: they wanted traditional rice varieties from the region that would remain unspoiled for three days at sea, unlike their HYV counterparts, which were more vulnerable to humidity and heat.

His consequent search for these traditional grains led him to rediscover several native varieties such as Soorakuruvai, Kallurundai, Kulivadichan, Poongaru and Panamarathu Kudavalai—hardy red rices commonly called ‘Karuppu nel’ (black rice varieties). Once grown regularly by farmers in his father’s generation, they were well-suited to the region’s ‘manavari’ (rainfed) conditions. Gradually, he started growing Soorakuruvai and Kallurundai on his land alongside HYVs. 

The 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami lent a new urgency to his efforts. When seawater inundated coastal farms, traditional salt-tolerant varieties, once dismissed as outdated, suddenly became crucial for restoring the land. During this period, he interacted with Nammalvar G., an agricultural scientist who played a pivotal role in kickstarting the organic farming movement in Tamil Nadu. At the time, Nammalvar was collecting traditional seed varieties to revive the affected coastal farms. Sivaji offered the Soorakuruvai grown in his farm for the cause. This meeting deepened his understanding of the impact of chemical farming, and the significance of traditional varieties.

A clear-eyed view of a natural disaster’s effects on soil health persuaded Sivaji to shift to a path of preserving seed variants that are intimately tied to the region. By the late 2000s, he had transitioned fully to organic methods. But his investment in seed conservation would start only a decade later, nudged along by his daughter and future son-in-law.

Also read: Babulal Dahiya makes every grain of rice count

A vision to achieve seed sovereignty

In 2012, Sivaranjini and Saravanakumaran got married and moved to Chennai, where he practised Siddha medicine (a Tamil Nadu-based traditional system of healing). Like any urban couple, they led a life of comfort.

In 2014, news reports of farmer suicides in Vidarbha unsettled Saravanakumaran. “Agrarian distress in India is complex,” he says. It is shaped by indebtedness, crop failures, volatile markets, water scarcity, climate change and institutional credit systems. Yet for Saravanakumaran, one element stood out: the increasing dependence of farmers on purchased inputs, particularly seeds. “Earlier, farmers saved a portion of their harvest as seed for the next season. That autonomy has been reduced. We felt seed sovereignty was central to farmer resilience,” he says. 

The quest for seed sovereignty drew him to his father-in-law’s experiments with indigenous rice. In 2015, he and Sivaranjini made a decision: they would systematically collect traditional paddy varieties, building on Sivaji’s thriving native ones, and conserve them on the family’s land. 

They bartered the traditional varieties of Tamil Nadu for seeds from other states like Orissa, Rajasthan, Kerala and Karnataka, gradually building a bank.

Giving up on urban comforts, Saravanakumaran, now 44, took up teaching at a Siddha college in Nagapattinam four days a week to ensure a steady income. The remainder of his time was spent on the farm. Sivaranjini, who is 35, joined her husband in dedicating her life to rice conservation efforts. Her day typically starts at 5 am, spending the early morning hours tending to household responsibilities before stepping into the farm. Since they choose to harvest manually, Sivaranjini must ensure that each variety is carefully dealt with by agricultural workers. 

The family travelled across India, meeting with several farmers through seed festivals, food festivals and farmers’ networks. They bartered the traditional varieties of Tamil Nadu for seeds from other states like Orissa, Rajasthan, Kerala and Karnataka, gradually building a bank. Recently, they also procured a few varieties from Sri Lanka.

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Building a living, scientific bank

As the number of varieties grew, conserving their seeds became increasingly complex. Unlike conventional cold storage seed banks, the Arivar model relies on in-situ conservation, growing each variety afresh every year, regardless of the vagaries of weather. “One year brings drought, another floods, and then cyclones. Seeds must be cultivated regularly so they are exposed to changing climatic conditions. If we only store them, they lose the strength to adapt,” explains Saravanakumaran.

Every planting season, the couple divides their three acres in Kuravapulam and Sivaji’s two acres in Karurpambulam into hundreds of micro-plots. Though paddy is predominantly a self-pollinating crop, maintaining such vast varieties on five acres comes with challenges like cross pollination and a loss of genetic purity. For instance, the Karuppu Kavuni rice should appear black in colour. If it does not, it signals that the strain may have been contaminated or mixed with another variety.

“Conservationists have a responsibility to ensure seeds retain their genetic purity to preserve their identity and the traceability of their traits. This demands a specific scientific understanding,” says Sivaranjini.

A training session in 2018, led by ecologist Dr Debal Deb, known for his work on indigenous rice diversity, served as an eye-opener. The family learned systematic cultivation and documentation methods based on DUS (Distinctiveness, Uniformity and Stability) descriptors, formalised by the Protection of Plant Varieties and Farmers' Rights Authority. This includes 62 morphological characteristics of rice, such as plant height, grain type, leaf angle, and panicle structure. Since 2018, during each harvest, the Arivar farm has been recording morphological characteristics for each variety. 

“Ideally, a three-foot isolation distance should separate each variety. Due to land constraints, this is not always possible. Instead, we stagger the sowing times so that flowering periods differ by 50% between adjacent plots, reducing chances of cross-pollination,” says Saravanakumaran, explaining one of the learnings from Dr Deb’s sessions. 

Though paddy is predominantly a self-pollinating crop, maintaining such vast varieties on five acres comes with challenges like cross pollination and a loss of genetic purity.

With traditional paddy, the right intent only goes so far; a scientific evaluation of varieties is a necessity. Consider Seeraga Samba, an upland variety with small grains, best known for its use in biryani. When it is cultivated for years in delta regions such as Nagapattinam, the variety gradually adapts to local climatic conditions and its grains tend to become slightly larger, while still retaining their characteristic incense-like aroma. Over time, such subtle shifts make it harder to distinguish between the original upland variety and those adapted to delta environments.

After harvest, seeds destined for the seed bank are carefully sun-dried. Each variety is assigned a tag with a unique number, which is then recorded alongside its name in the family’s meticulous archive. The tagged bunches are carefully packed into white cloth bags and stored in a well-ventilated room. On every new moon day, the seeds are brought out and sun-dried between 9 am and 11 am to maintain the right moisture balance and preserve their germination capacity. “The work is painstaking and repetitive, closer to archival curation than routine farming,” adds Sivaranjini.

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Climate uncertainty on the coast

Their journey has not been without setbacks. The farm lies in a rainfed coastal area, making it vulnerable to erratic monsoons and saline intrusion. “The first year tested us severely,” says Sivaranjini. Drought conditions in 2015 forced them to rescue seedlings into grow bags. Of the initial 177 varieties, only 130 survived. Subsequent years brought heavy rains, cyclonic winds and fluctuating temperatures. “It was an early lesson: conserving diversity means accepting loss. We have lost at least 500 varieties due to climate impact since 2015,” says Saravanakumaran.

Largely, the centre exchanges seeds through a barter system, allowing the grains to remain accessible to cultivators regardless of their socioeconomic status.

Daily threats from rodents, peacocks, migratory birds and wild boars keep the family busy. “Our crops mature earlier than neighbouring fields, so birds arrive here first,” Sivaranjini says, demonstrating how she claps and crushes plastic bottles tied to fencing nets to create deterrence through sound.

The labour-intensive processes followed at Arivar come at a cost. The Tamil Nadu government provided a one-time grant of Rs. 3 lakhs during its early years. Since then, the centre has largely been self-funded. Saravanakumaran’s teaching income covers the operational expenses. 

Largely, the centre exchanges seeds through a barter system, allowing the grains to remain accessible to cultivators regardless of their socioeconomic status. “Financially, it is challenging to run the seed centre with just one person’s income. We are able to meet all our basic needs. We consciously set aside a desire for other comforts as our work at the seed bank is going to ensure food security for our children and their children. This thought helps us lead a content life,” says Sivaranjini. 

Also read: Katarni’s comeback: How an aromatic Bihari rice escaped obscurity

Resistance begins at home

Over the past decade, at least a hundred farmers from Tamil Nadu and its neighbouring states have sourced seeds from Arivar, according to the centre’s records. During the harvest period, between December and April, the family organises a ‘Vayal Kankatchi’ (Paddy Field Exhibition) to raise awareness among local farmers. “Many who come for the exhibition gradually start cultivating native varieties, first for their own families, and later on a commercial scale. Over the years, they have gradually expanded the acreage dedicated to traditional seed varieties,” says Sivaranjini. 

For the family, seed conservation is inseparable from policy awareness.

In 2022, Sivaranjini received the Chief Minister’s State Youth Award from the Tamil Nadu government in recognition of her conservation work—a rare public acknowledgement for labour otherwise invisible. The impact of the family’s work extends far beyond their fields, arriving at their own dinner table. They have always relied on regional varieties like Soorakuruvai and Kulivadichan, but today, most of the rice they consume comes straight from their seed conservation efforts. After reserving what is needed for the seed bank, the remaining grains are mixed together and taken to the kitchen, where they are cooked for daily meals, bringing centuries of agricultural heritage to their plates.

For the family, seed conservation is inseparable from policy awareness. Saravanakumaran argues that farmers must understand legislation that affects seeds, water bodies, dams and credit systems. “Self-reliance is not only about cultivation. It is about awareness, and there is a great need to politicise (educate and organise) farmers on these lines,” he says.

Asserting that action itself is resistance, he adds, “Traditional rice varieties were protected for generations by small and marginal farmers. But now they are becoming niche and expensive, sometimes sold in urban organic markets at Rs. 200 per kg or more.”

A five-acre Noah’s ark

Sivaranjini closes her notebook and looks across the mosaic of ripening grain; the fields shimmer, not as a uniform sea of green, but as a spectrum. A spectrum that demonstrates how conservation need not be confined to research institutions or gene banks. In a modest room of her home, every seed stored in a cloth bag carries the potential to thrive in the fields. It will endure owing to daily observation, handwritten notes, and stubborn commitment.

Edited by Aathira Konikkara and Neerja Deodhar

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Every Wednesday and Saturday, a small park in Mumbai’s suburb of Bandra comes alive with volunteers in shirts, cargo pants and hats, ready to brave the heat and grow food. Here, they spend their mornings tending to trees, carefully harvesting Malabar spinach, bananas, lemongrass, and bird’s eye chillies (among other produce), and breathing in the scent of earthy compost as they open a fresh pit. Located in the heart of a neighbourhood otherwise populated by coffee shops, restaurants, and boutique stores, this food forest, known as Dream Grove, stands apart: since 2018, it has welcomed people from all walks of life who have an inclination to learn. For some, it is a short jog away from home; for others, it is an initiative worth travelling to from far-flung suburbs. 

Dream Grove is just one among many food forests that have sprung up across a city whose green cover has been shrinking for decades. A study found that Mumbai lost 42.5% of its green cover between 1988 and 2018. More recent estimates from the Mumbai Climate Action Plan suggest the decline has worsened, with over 2,000 hectares of urban tree cover lost between 2016 and 2021. In a city where every square metre is staked, urbanisation, land reclamation projects and vertical expansion have left its residents with an alarming 1.2 square metres of open space per person (a figure that does not account for how much of it is actually green)—almost nine times lower than the minimum amount of urban green space recommended by the World Health Organization.

The Brihanmumbai Municipal Corporation (BMC) has undertaken several greening projects, such as approving nearly 1,25,000 square metres of land to be converted into lawns, the Coastal Road Landscaping Project and converting Mahalaxmi Race Course into a 'Central Park'. However, all these will feature promenades, manicured lawns, hedges and gardens as prominent parts of their design, focussing on aesthetic landscaping and beautification while guzzling water and giving little in return to the land. 

They tend to be modest in size, occupying a few hundred square metres, shaped by urban land constraints.

In this extractive landscape, enter the urban food forest: an ecosystem designed to mimic the natural architecture of a forest, with multiple layers and canopies—mycelial networks, underground tubers, grasses, vines, shrubs, short and tall trees. Everything inside it is edible, and it is possible to plant diversely in a compact space. In a world where farmland has been so fixedly differentiated from urban spaces, where food supply chains grow increasingly fragmented and consumers drift away from where their food comes from, urban food forests provide a restorative and sustainable solution to growing green things in a warming world.

While there is no official count, Mumbai is home to a small but growing number of such food forests, often tucked into housing societies, parcels of land on institutional campuses, or reclaimed public parks like in the case of Dream Grove. They tend to be modest in size, occupying a few hundred square metres, shaped by urban land constraints. Most are initiated by individuals or collectives—ecologists, educators, or citizens who care about the world—rather than commercial farmers.

Also read: Home gardens enrich the soul. Can they improve urban biodiversity too?

The past and present of Mumbai’s foodscape

While the term ‘forest garden’ was coined by Robert Hart in the UK only in the 1980s, and the term ‘food forest’ emerged from the Australian permaculture movement around the same time, both terms were shaped by observing traditional practices that integrated trees into agriculture. Urban food forests are a conscious return to permaculture, an approach to agriculture that integrates land, water, other environmental resources and people, and minimises waste.

Most urban food forests are intentionally designed ecosystems that emulate natural forests. They are typically distinguished by their layered planting (from ground cover to canopy), high species diversity, and reliance on natural processes—like mulching and microbial activity—rather than external chemical inputs. Even young plantations growing in as small a space as a parking lot or a rooftop can be categorised as a food forest. What distinguishes them most is the combination of ecological design, biodiversity, and low-input, self-sustaining growth.

Urban spaces and farmlands weren’t always as rigidly separated as they are now. Indian cities, including Mumbai, also have a long farming history—reminders of a time when the wadis and gaothans that now form part of a thriving metropolis were home to thriving fields. Sun-drenched fields of paddy and vegetables, including okra, tomatoes, coconut and spinach, once stretched across modernised Bandra. The residents of Mulund, a suburb in Mumbai’s northeast stretches, recall climbing up trees of cashew, bor (Indian gooseberry) and jackfruit to pluck fruit as children. Data shows that groundnuts, nachani, tur, urad and other pulses were widely cultivated in nearby Thane in the ‘90s, along with other horticultural crops such as chickoos, bananas and mangoes.

Urban spaces and farmlands weren’t always as rigidly separated as they are now.

These food forests seem to pop up in corners which are vacant or in disuse. Access to land is one of the biggest challenges, so people work with what’s available: spaces that are easier to access, or where someone is willing to take ownership. Schools and orphanages, for instance, often double up as learning spaces, while neglected plots—dirty, overlooked, written off—end up becoming the easiest to reclaim and slowly coax back to life.

The very nature of urban food forests—nourishing spaces brought alive with toil and care—allows them to bloom in the most unexpected of landscapes. When the St. Jude India Childcare Centre (part of the Tata Advanced Centre for Treatment Research and Cancer Education), a residential facility for children undergoing cancer treatment, was established in Kharghar, the idea was to repurpose some of the neglected space on campus, run over by construction dumping. “We suggested that instead of an ornamental garden, why not create an edible forest?” Manasvini Tyagi, a permaculture practitioner attached to the project, recalls.

And thus, Earthen Routes (previously Green Souls) was established in 2013: a community food forest farm on a small part of this campus. It began modestly, with just 500 square metres, but served a greater purpose. “Its fruits, vegetables, flowers, and herbs could provide fresh, nutritious food for the children undergoing treatment,” Tyagi adds. While accommodation at the centre was free, families still had to arrange their own food, making the idea both practical and urgent.

Why food forests?

What significance do food forests hold, particularly in urban spaces, as opposed to regular tree plantation? While any tree can support some biodiversity, food forests are designed to generate it—abundantly and continuously. “Because every fruiting tree is first a flowering tree, everything planted in a food forest is either a host tree or a feed tree to pollinators,” says George Remedios, who has spent over a decade working on food forest and ecological restoration projects across Maharashtra, Goa, Andhra Pradesh and Tamil Nadu.

He observed how the presence of flowering plants quickly attracted sunbirds, garden lizards, spiders, and other insects. Unlike conventional plantations—often made up of a few species planted in uniform rows—food forests bring together a diversity of flowering, fruiting and understory plants (the layer of vegetation located under the main canopy but above the ground, comprising saplings, shrubs, herbs and young trees). This layered mix creates continuous sources of nectar, food and shelter, allowing more complex food webs to form.

Shweta Wagh, an ecologist and professor at the Kamla Raheja Vidyanidhi Institute for Architecture and Environmental Studies (KRVIA) in Mumbai, has been involved in developing part of the campus into a food forest. A space that was once overflowing with debris, that quickly became water-logged in the monsoon and buzzed with mosquitoes, is now teeming with an entirely different kind of life. Pollinating insects are regularly seen in the space, while birds such as bulbuls and flycatchers visit the trees and water sources placed around the garden.

Unlike conventional plantations—often made up of a few species planted in uniform rows—food forests bring together a diversity of flowering, fruiting and understory plants.

Both Wagh and Remedios point to how conventional urban greening emphasises a manicured aesthetic and avenue trees which have large canopies and provide shade, like the Gulmohar and ornamental Ficus species. Food forests, on the other hand, are an opportunity to gently re-introduce native species, and plant them alongside other trees. The planting palette at KRVIA reflects a mix of native and useful species. Trees such as Arjun, Umbar (wild fig), Chukrasia, and Ritha contribute to ecological diversity, while fruiting species like mango, guava, jamun, banana, mulberry, and lemon provide food. Herbs and medicinal plants, including tulsi, lemongrass, shatavari, and khus are grown. “We also grow seasonal crops such as pumpkin, beans, snake gourd, radish, spinach, and mustard greens,” says Wagh. 

Food systems scholar Dr. Madhura Rao sees urban food forests as most valuable when they complement, rather than replace, existing food systems. Their strength lies in proximity—offering hyperlocal produce, creating shorter supply chains, and enabling people to build more intimate relationships with the food they eat. In a metro city like Mumbai, land scarcity and regulatory entanglements make institutional support all the more important for food forests to flourish. With supportive policies, such as easier access to land, clearer regulatory pathways, and links to community kitchens or schools, these spaces could contribute in small but meaningful ways to urban nutrition.

In a metro city like Mumbai, land scarcity and regulatory entanglements make institutional support all the more important for food forests to flourish.

What it takes to grow an urban food forest

Dream Grove, once a dumping ground for construction waste, has now become a refreshing patch of green. Fruiting trees, tubers, herbs and spices all grow alongside each other. “The first fundamental of designing it was that no biomass should leave the premises,” says Premila Martis Parera, the co-founder of Dream Grove. An ex-banker turned environmental-care advocate, she observed eight years ago that leaf litter across the city was usually incinerated or carried away to landfills. Parera stepped in as a mentor, while co-founder Marie Paul emerged as the community anchor, who mobilised the neighbourhood and built local support. With her roots as a church gospel singer, she brought a strong connection to the community along with the ability to rally people. Together, with local governmental support and a dedicated team, they committed to doing things differently.

The park had been dumped with construction rubble and poor soil, which created a hard, alkaline foundation with poor drainage. To restore the soil, Team Dream Grove began rebuilding it manually. They dug trenches and filled pits with fallen leaves and other organic waste. These layers acted like underground sponges, improving drainage, storing water, and creating a habitat for microorganisms. “Soon after our initial effort, Marie saw a mulberry tree fruiting for the first time. It was a marvel!” she says. 

Its democratic ethos invites people across class and caste lines to come into its fold and learn about new methods of organic growing, care and sustainability.

As important as soil revival is a continued effort to nourish it through processes like growing compost. Dream Grove volunteers line the pits with dry leaves, vegetable waste, soil and a sprinkling of earthy, black compost from the previous batch, which acts as a ‘starter,’ like in bread-making.

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At Earthen Routes, seeds are treated with care. “I use heirloom seeds. I save them from what I eat and grow them again—brinjal, tomato, bhindi, and plant different varieties of the same vegetable.” Tyagi sources seeds from trusted networks, including farmer-led seed festivals.

The progress and nature of an urban food forest is also determined by who comprises its stakeholders. Its democratic ethos invites people across class and caste lines to come into its fold and learn about new methods of organic growing, care and sustainability. “We deliberately involved our gardeners in the process. There was a learning curve in the beginning: we’ve been trained to use pesticides at the first site of an infestation. But if people find practical value in the landscape—through fruits, leaves, or herbs—they are more likely to care for and sustain it,” Wagh says. 

Also read: What it takes to feed India's growing cities

Growing food with one’s hands

Food forests provide a variety of produce while being a means to re-acquaint oneself with the earth, and get one’s hands dirty. The yields are fairly small, ranging from a few handfuls (think a few sprigs of lemongrass or a couple of bananas each) to a few kilograms every week, depending on seasonal challenges and how well trees and shrubs flourish.

Growing food also means being respectful of the ecosystem one is building. Parera says Dream Grove’s volunteers often find leaves and fruit that have been bitten into, before harvesting them. “This is the first share—of the insects and other pollinators. We, those who work the earth, get the second share. Where produce is sold, it then goes to consumers in markets.” Wagh also nods to this sentiment of communally sharing what you grow. “We distribute the produce among students, faculty and our campus staff and gardeners who help us maintain the forest. Often, it is simply placed on the table for anyone to take.” The shares are small but deeply gratifying. 

In this way, the urban food forest remains inclusive: complete strangers arrive at its gates to learn composting and to start vegetable gardens of their own. For example, strangers visit the KRVIA campus to ask for leaves of banana and turmeric for their own kitchens.

Growing food also means being respectful of the ecosystem one is building.

Trouble in the Garden of Eden

There are many challenges to growing and sustaining a food forest in urban areas. For starters, they are volunteer-based, which means that there is often a shortage of hands on deck. “Volunteer participation is inconsistent,” says Parera, “which is a major limitation of community-led initiatives. Many people are moved by and appreciate the space but cannot commit time regularly.” 

In cities like Mumbai, where real estate is its own currency, every bit of land is sought to be made economically productive and viable. For some initiatives, navigating bureaucracy and red tape is an inevitability. Securing land permits, for example, can be a slow, uncertain process, often involving multiple approvals and constant follow-ups. Also, local authorities’ understanding of greening initiatives often stands asymmetrical to what may benefit local neighbourhoods. 

For some initiatives, navigating bureaucracy and red tape is an inevitability.

These plantations require upfront investment and sustained care in their early years—costs that can be difficult for individuals or small community groups to bear alone. “We’ve stopped valuing the land in ways that aren’t immediately economic. Green cover, soil, all of that gets pushed aside, but the cost doesn’t disappear. It just shows up later, be it in terms of climate emergencies or natural disasters, in ways we’re not really accounting for yet,” says Parera.

This is where institutional support becomes crucial. Trusts, foundations, CSR initiatives and governmental support, as Dr. Rao points out, can help fund not just the initial planting, but also soil restoration, maintenance, and on-ground staff during the critical first few years. Their involvement can turn what might otherwise remain short-term experiments into stable, long-term ecological spaces.

Also read: Mumbai’s mill-era ‘khanavals’ fuelled a workforce with affordable, homely meals

Under the forest’s shade

An urban food forest can be an opportunity to introduce forgotten or heritage crops. “There is potential for much diet diversification,” says Wagh. “While pruning, you already get a handful of stems and leaves which you can use in everyday cooking. We’ve planted fennel and mustard greens here for instance, which you won’t always find in markets.”

Rao also emphasises their pedagogic value. Participation in growing food—especially among children and young adults—can reshape how people understand food systems, from production to nutrition. “Even when a food forest isn’t highly productive, it has immense educational potential,” she notes, pointing to emerging evidence that such engagement fosters a deeper awareness of food’s role in health and wellbeing.

At a time where cities are becoming sterile and sanitised landscapes, where sunlight bounces off of the glass and metal of buildings and concrete structures, even small patches of green can help.

The banana trees which sway in one corner of Dream Grove were planted at the very inception of the food forest by a young boy, who delighted in seeing their growth when he returned as a teenager. The original plant may be gone, but its saplings—its grandchildren—have taken root, carrying the cycle forward. We grow up and grow older alongside the forest.

At a time where cities are becoming sterile and sanitised landscapes, where sunlight bounces off of the glass and metal of buildings and concrete structures, even small patches of green can help, says Remedios. For Wagh, the KRVIA project remains an evolving landscape rather than a finished garden. As trees grow, soils improve, and species interact, the space continues to change. The food forest is less a fixed design than a space in continuum. It would perhaps do us good to carry some of its playful messiness into our sterile cities. 

“With all the environmental damage in the world with continual wars, we must be heartened by this opportunity to build deep soil and rejuvenate a little corner of the earth. That is why we named it Dream Grove Bandra, a dream to create Bandra's sacred grove that serves as a model for the rest of the city,” Parera says. 

Edited by Anushka Mukherjee and Neerja Deodhar

Marquee photo credit: Team Dream Grove

Cover photo credit: Manasvini Tyagi

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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.

Also read: What the past, present and future of agriculture owes to women

The realities of fishing by the Cauvery

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.

Also read: How a remote Ladakh village, home to 17 women, embraced polyhouse farming

A fast-changing ecosystem

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.

Also read: For Assam's Mising community, this fish paste represents tradition, food security

Community leaders in riverine life

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.  

I. It runs in the family

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. 

II. An elusive grain

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.

III: Warning: handle with care

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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IV. The fight for legitimacy and representation

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.

V. Strategy of the heart

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

Also read:

Babulal Dahiya makes every grain of rice count

In Leh’s harsh terrain, farmer Urgain Phuntsog is a true ‘mitti ka aadmi’

How Rahibai Popere built a seed bank with a mother’s grit and love

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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.

India’s hidden hunger burden

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.

Also read: Omega-3 fatty acids: The hidden cost of 'health' to our seas

Why hidden hunger persists

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.

The need of the hour: an integrated approach

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.

Also read: The transformative potential of universal school meals: A means to nourish kids and promote local foods

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.

Why buffaloes are more sensitive to heat

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

Key behavioural warning signs

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

The impact on bovine physiology

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

Monitoring and managing heat stress

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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A difficult childhood

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.

Finding a home and hearth

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

The making of an activist

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).

A deep-rooted revolution

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

A Behn’s pledge to protect

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

A legacy that inspires future generations 

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.

The dynamics of buffalo herds

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

Influence of humans on buffalo welfare

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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