Ashok Khamkar sits at the galla [counter]; he keeps a steady eye on the spices being measured. He welcomes customers, gives supervisory commands, and deftly counts the currency notes, all while talking to this writer. At 78, he is the third-generation proprietor of Ashok Khamkar and Sons, the oldest spice store in Lalbaug, Mumbai. Customers engage in heated conversations with the store assistants, giving precise instructions about how they want their masalas made. Mirchis are sifted in cane soops [winnowing baskets], and the lighter chaff is flung into the air, briefly suspended in a haze of light. It’s a Tuesday morning, and the store seems as busy as ever. “It’s actually very slow-going today. You should come by on a weekend, or at the beginning of Shravan (the festival season) and see what the rush is like then,” Khamkar says with a chuckle.

Lalbaug may be synonymous with Lalbaugcha Raja, the majestic Ganpati idol which rides on the shoulders of the South Bombay neighbourhood every monsoon. But the area is also home to other cultural landmarks and lore beyond its iconic deity. One of them is Masala Galli, or Mirchi Galli. A cluster of arterial roads in the heart of Lalbaug, it houses over 25 shops that sell carefully sourced and locally ground spices. The narrow lanes are a smorgasbord of colour, smell and texture. Different varieties of chillies are piled high in gunny sacks, golden turmeric dries in the sun, and semicircles of dried coconut split open—all arresting the senses. 

One walk through the galli, and it's easy to identify who started it all. Ashok Khamkar and Sons (previously the original G.W. Khamkar and Sons) stands proudly at the very entrance to the lane. The shop, which started in 1933, initially sold only khada masalas or whole spices.

Lalbaug was once one of Mumbai’s industrial neighbourhoods. Mill workers, who were either native to the city or had migrated from the Satara or Konkan regions, lived in neighbouring chawls—small one- or two- room tenements with shared passageways and washrooms. “These workers loved eating rice and spice in all forms. Many shopkeepers started selling chiwda and masalas here to cater to the local population’s demand in their everyday cooking, as well as during events and ceremonies. Now, we sell whole spices, grind them to order, and also offer the same masalas as packaged goods under our own brand," Khamkar says.

 G.W. Khamkar and Sons later expanded and diversified. Today, one can find many Khamkar variants throughout the galli—each operated by a different member of the family. Over the decades, the galli has become, and continues to remain, a core part of Mumbai’s local spice economy. Customers come here once every few months, or annually, and take home freshly pounded spices. 

‍Committed to the ‘grind’

Each store in Mirchi Galli has their own special recipe blend for masalas, that have been meticulously chronicled in ledgers and passed down the family. "Customers tell us what kind of spice mixture they want and we immediately make it for them," an assistant at Ashok Khamkar and Sons says. On offer are innumerable mixes including, but not limited to ‘special Malvani masala’ (this masala, made with red chillies, coriander, nutmeg and other dry spices is crucial to Malvani cuisine, a fiery coastal style of cooking in Maharashtra), ‘special garam masala,’ ‘kanda-lasoon masala,’ [onion-garlic paste] ‘special chicken-mutton masala,’ ‘sambar masala,’ ‘tandoori masala’ and ‘pav bhaji masala.’

Customers come in and give their wholesale orders; nobody orders less than 5 kilograms at a time.

Assistants, in turn, know these recipes like the back of their hands—they write down the customer’s name, the masala and quantity to be made, along with a list of ingredients and their proportions on a long bill-like piece of paper. They look at the surname of the client placing the order, and that too becomes a factor for customising the masala. "Look here,” Khamkar gestures eagerly. "The surname is Parab, a 'kattar' Malvani. Us Khamkars are from the Konkan region and known for our Malvani masala in particular. We understand what kind of flavour profile it should have."

Rahul Kale, Sales and Operations Manager of G.W. Khamkar Masale—the new variant of the store just down the road—says that the process of making masalas has also evolved over time. “Back in the ‘70s and ‘80s, making a masala was a lengthy and arduous enterprise, taking nearly 5 days. People who used to work in the mills and live in nearby areas used to purchase spices from these stores, sun-dry them on the terraces of their own houses and then return to us to get them ground. Masalas used to be ground in chakkis, but this approach burnt the natural oils present in the spices, charring and turning them bitter. Now, we have mechanised, and use dankhis (large machines that look like gigantic mortar- and-pestles) for this process,” he says.

Kale points to the different kinds of whole spices on display, all of which are sourced from across the country. The galli sells five kinds of mirchis—Kashmiri, Byadagi, Reshampatti, Pandi and Lavangi. Most garam masalas like nutmeg, cardamom, cloves, and bay leaves are procured from the spice-rich state of Kerala. Others like coriander seeds, fennel seeds and cinnamon travel all the way from Indore, Rajasthan and Vietnam respectively to Mumbai. They undergo quality checks, are cleaned and then sold.

A dark alley serpentines around the store to open out into a roasting area. Different bags with an assortment of whole spices have been packed and labelled according to customer requests, and are placed in a corner. Men toil away at their massive kadhais—pouring ghee; roasting turmeric, bay leaves and cinnamon; and then gently adding the other spices. Their arms move back and forth, fanning out the masalas to evenly distribute heat, and then folding them gently into a fragrant mound. The roasting area has its own rhythm. The chimneys are blackened with soot, the air thick with the smoky sweetness of each spice.

Once these spices are roasted for about 30-45 minutes, they are taken to the dankhis—the machine’s multiple pillars moving up and down sequentially, pounding the spices into a coarse, aromatic mix. 

“Now, the whole process only takes about 3-4 hours, depending on how crowded we are,” Kale says. “Many who used to live in Lalbaug moved to the northern suburbs after the mills shut down. However, many families have been coming to us for generations to purchase their spices, and they still do—from Western suburbs like Jogeshwari and Borivali, and suburbs beyond Mumbai, like Vasai, Thane, and Dahanu. Our store and galli is so famous that people even come all the way from Pune and Kolhapur,” Khamkar says. Many women make a day out of this endeavour, travelling long distances, waiting till their masalas are pounded and then returning home. “We call it their masala day!” he jokes. 

The stores in Masala Galli also sell the same spice mixtures in packets of 100g and 200g like one would find at a grocery store. “This is just the sales front,” Kale says, of the G.W. Khamkar Masale store. “We have an entirely different office in Lalbaug where our spices are ground and packaged in bulk, which we then sell here. On average, we sell nearly 250-300 kilos of masalas everyday. This helps us cater to customers who want their spices freshly ground and customised, and also to families who want to purchase these masalas in smaller quantities.”

‍A culture of vigilance and care

India is the world’s largest spice producer, exporter, and consumer. Exporting more than 200 spices to over 150 countries, it accounts for one-fourth of the global spice trade. The domestic market alone was worth $10 billion in 2024, making it the world's largest consumer of spices. However, rampant adulteration has dampened the industry’s prospects over the past few decades. Spices of popular brands in India have been detected with colouring agents containing lead, and preservatives like ethylene oxide, which is classified as a Group 1 carcinogen. In fact, in May 2023, Food and Drug Control authorities in Gujarat seized over 3,000 kg of adulterated spices including chilli, turmeric, and coriander powder.

The country’s spice export industry has also come under heat from foreign regulatory boards in the U.S., Hong Kong and Singapore amongst others. In the wake of such incidents, the Indian Council of Medical Research has encouraged consumers to buy whole spices instead of powdered ones in its updated dietary guidelines issued in 2024. “The advisory comes in the wake of mounting evidence suggesting that powdered spices are more susceptible to adulteration, after popular Indian spice manufacturers came under scrutiny for using high levels of pesticides in their spices.”

Sunil Ganapat Kale, 62, the second-generation proprietor of Vishwas Masala Kendra (VMK), cites trust in small, local businesses and allegations of adulteration in commercially sold spices as one of the primary reasons why customers return to Masala Galli. “Here, people get to watch and supervise their spices being ground in-person. Adulteration can happen in a number of ways. Often, chillies that are lightweight, and hence differ in flavour, are used, or turmeric is substituted for besan [gram flour]. Mass-manufactured masalas claim to offer a specific quantity, but a closer look reveals that packaging makes up some of their weight. It’s difficult for lay consumers to identify this,” he says.

“Amhi graahakanna nehemi saangto: kahihi chuk zhaali asel tar amhala kalva” [We always tell our customers: if we have made any mistake then let us know]. Sheetal Rane, who is standing right next to us, and who has been a devoted VMK patron for the last 25 years smiles and says, “There has never come a time when we have had to do this. My mother-in-law used to come here earlier, and now I have taken up this duty. I come here annually and purchase 5 kilograms of Malvani masala and garam masala each. I immediately test them out and use them for my everyday cooking. I have always called to say that the masala tastes excellent, as always.”

Customers say that the stores in Masala Galli display a deep-seated responsibility towards them, and the fact that they can see their masalas being made from start to end are influential factors in drawing them back here.

Such is their loyalty that they queue up outside VMK, braving the sun and the loud noise of the dankhis and watch eagle-eyed to ensure that their masalas are in safe hands. Protective commands are constantly being flung across the store threshold: “Aaho, vyavasteet bhaaza haan” [Please roast the masalas properly] and ‘Mazha masala vegla theva haan, toh Agri masala mazha nahiye” [Make sure that you’re separating and packaging my masalas properly. Don’t confuse it with the other customer’s Agri masala].

Ashu D’Souza, who has travelled all the way from Virar with her son, tells me, “You can’t risk your children’s health. I would rather spend an extra day coming here and making sure that the products I use are healthy. The price is very fair for the amount of effort they put in and the quality of the masalas. Spending an extra few rupees here is better than doling out the same money at a doctor’s office later!”

Why old-school still sells

There are other reasons why Masala Galli has maintained a stronghold in Mumbai’s spice economy, even in the face of mass-produced, packaged and branded masalas. “What we specialise in is completely different from the spice categories of larger brands,” VMK’s Kale says. “Big-name brands have chilli powder, turmeric powder, tandoori masala, garam masala, Kitchen King masala and the like on offer. While these are fast sellers here as well, we have focused on traditional masalas—like Malvani masala, Agri-Koli masala, Ghati masala and Usal masala—a category largely untouched by bigger brands.”

Pradnya Sawant, who moved to Mumbai from Malvan nearly two decades ago after her marriage, says she eagerly experimented with spices from all of the city's local markets. “I bought spices from the smaller spice markets at Crawford, Masjid Bunder, Lalbaug, Mazgaon, Bhuleshwar and Dadar. But I found that Masala Galli’s spices are distinctive, and bring out the flavours of my curries and vegetables in an almost miraculous way. The quality of these spices is so good that you can store them for 2-2.5 years and they won’t spoil. Once I add a few spoonfuls of the Malvani masala, my job is done—the dish takes care of itself,” she says. "If you scale up what a conventional brand charges for small packets, buying in bulk in this street often costs the same, sometimes even lesser," customers say.

To its credit, Masala Galli has also adapted to technological change, the rise of quick-commerce apps, and the challenges posed by the pandemic. Nearly all the stores in the galli accept orders over phone call, and provide free home delivery services in Mumbai, and its extensions like Thane, Navi Mumbai and Palghar. Their masalas are in demand in hotels across Maharashtra and Karnataka. Some of them, like G.W. Khamkar Masale, have also made their products available on apps like Blinkit, JioMart and BigBasket, thus levelling their playing field with more established brands. “We first experimented with online deliveries in the pandemic, when business took a hit,” Kale says. “But soon, this change yielded results. Including online deliveries and in-person purchases, we now sell about 150-200 kg of masalas on average everyday.”

VMK’s Kale reminisces about a time when mill workers’ families used to throng the galli and everybody came together during festival time to celebrate. “Even now, on weekends, we often set up tables and makeshift counters outside the store so that we can cater to the rush of customers with more ease."

"But there was something about knowing each face by name and a different kind of stability in the business—a sort of telepathy and chemistry between customer and shopkeeper. I think some of that still persists, which is why we are still here,” he says. 

Business still feels personal in this corner of Mumbai. During the summers and monsoons, the stores offer customers tea, and set up umbrella shades and table fans for them. “They make sure that the elderly are prioritised,” Rane says. When asked what makes her come all the way to Lalbaug and not order online, she smiles and says, “You speak exactly like my daughter. Every time I go to even a regular grocery store, she is perplexed and asks me—‘Aai, just Blinkit na?’ But coming here reminds me of my childhood. I enjoy the sensory experience of touching the granular halad [turmeric], or taking in the sugandha [aroma] of the garam masalas. Ordering online is just not just the same.”

Ayush, Khamkar’s 22 year old grandson, heir to Ashok Khamkar and Sons and former Captain of India’s national gymnastics team, says, “None of us engage in any kind of fraudulent activities because we are not only conscious of our responsibility towards our customers, and but also of protecting Lalbaug’s reputation.” The socio-cultural homogeneity of Masala Galli’s tight-knit Marathi community is evident—both among the shop owners and their customers. Ayush stops to greet and talk to nearly every one of the shopkeepers during our conversation.

When asked whether he would genuinely like taking over the business, the younger Khamkar smiles. “Oh yes, of course, I do it voluntarily. I made a lot of mistakes in the early days; for example, one of my steepest learning curves was learning to differentiate between spices. For the first few weeks here, one of our oldest assistants kept correcting me when I gave normal coriander seeds to our customers, instead of the green variety they actually wanted,” he admits sheepishly. “I won’t lie—sports keeps calling back to me, also because it runs in my family. I don’t know what decision I will ultimately end up making.”

Ayush’s dilemma echoes across the next generation poised to continue the legacy of Masala Galli. Several proprietors confide that their children are unsure of taking over the business, and keep oscillating between trying their hand at running the store and pursuing further education and other employment opportunities. “Long-time patrons still value the owner’s presence during their visits—it’s become a quiet symbol of trust. While the younger generation is somewhat ambivalent, the strong demand and financial promise of the business is nudging them toward getting involved,” Khamkar says.

Lalbaug and its neighbouring Byculla have long housed different sections of the city’s populace—from mill workers to the mafia—both of which, Khamkar cheekily claims, once frequented the original G.W. Khamkar and Sons. The spatial and social architecture of the regions has changed: chawls have given way to high-rise towers. But in an age of urban anonymity, is a bastion of a personalised food economy tucked into a corner of South Bombay, inviting one to pause—to step out of Mumbai’s consumerist craze. Here, workers quietly pound time into tradition, memory into masala. They may be invisible, but their loyal clientele is proof that human connection is the beating heart of a business, even in the face of technological interventions. 

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Editor’s Note: In this series, the Good Food Movement explores composting—a climate-friendly, organic way to deal with waste. We answer questions about what you can compost, how to build composting bins and how this process can reshape our relationship with nature and our urban ecosystem.

It is easy to visualise the afterlife of some of our everyday trash. Paper, for example, gets recycled into notebooks, while plastic, on the other hand, is fashioned into bottles. But what happens to kitchen waste? 

Biodegradable waste—think fruit peels, veggie scraps and yellowing herbs—naturally decomposes over a period of time. What if you decide to compost it instead?

Composting creates conditions like aeration, moisture, and warm temperatures to speed up the breaking down of organic matter. At the end of the process, you get a dark, crumbly, soil-like material that smells earthy and works as an effective organic fertiliser.

The word ‘composting’ itself comes from the Latin word compositus, which means ‘to put together.’ That’s what composting is: putting together organic waste and some water to allow for aerobic decomposition using a mixture of water, to result in a nutrient-rich fertiliser, often called ‘black gold’. This organic waste can constitute a range of ingredients from your kitchen–including tea leaves, coffee grounds, and eggshells.

The climate change connection

Beyond its uses in gardening, composting also contributes to the fight against climate change. The world wastes over a billion tonnes of food annually—one-fifth of all food available to people living on our planet. In India alone, the annual food waste adds up to 78.2 million tonnes, which is about 26.5% of the total annual staple food requirement per Indian. This wasted food makes its way to landfills, where it rots in the lack of oxygen. A certain kind of bacteria, called a methanogen, survives particularly well in the absence of oxygen. Unfortunately, when methanogens break down food anaerobically, it creates methane, a gas that has approximately 28 times the global warming potential of carbon dioxide.

Composting brings the circular economy to your balcony, and helps you join in the fight against climate change.

Food waste contributes to 8-10% of all greenhouse gas emissions, having five times the impact of the aviation industry. Harriet Lamb, CEO of The Waste and Resources Action Programme, put it powerfully: “Were it a country, food waste would be the world’s third largest emitter after China and the USA.”

A disarmingly simple way to reduce greenhouse gas emissions is to compost our food waste. A Nature study showed that greenhouse gas emissions from composting were 38–84% lower than from the same volume of landfilling of food waste. Composting brings the circular economy to your balcony, and helps you join in the fight against climate change.

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Editor's Note: The last two decades have been witness to the rapid and devastating march of unchecked urbanisation and climate change in India’s cities. Among the first victims of this change is freshwater and access to it—from rivers which sustained local ecosystems, to lakes and groundwater which quenched the thirst of residents. In this series, the Good Food Movement examines the everyday realities of neglect and pollution. It documents the vanishing and revival of water bodies, and community action that made a difference.

At 2 PM every afternoon, 53-year-old Gajanan Budhaji Kadke navigates a narrow, unpaved road in his autorickshaw. This hidden path, invisible from the Mumbai-Satara Highway unless one is specifically seeking the Roadpali fishermen at the Taloja and Kasardi river confluence, leads to his home. Past a handful of makeshift houses, standing at the very end is Kadke's dwelling; it bears a silent visual memory of his past–the fishing nets that were once essential to his livelihood, now hang idly like relics on his shed and the fence guarding it. What led this former fisherman to cast aside his nets and take up driving an auto-rickshaw?

The Kasardi or Kasadi river, spanning 20 km in Navi Mumbai, is more than just a water body—it’s a cultural and ecological cornerstone for Taloja’s (approx) 11,000 residents. Historically, the river was a fishing haven with nearly 45 fish varieties–including mackerel, shark, tilapia, bombay duck and other saltwater fish. The Koli community in areas such as Roadpali, Taloja, Kopara, and Navade have been traditionally dependent on the river and Panvel Creek for their livelihood.

However, steady contamination of the river has altered their very existence. Untreated industrial and domestic waste disposed in the Kasardi river has decimated fish populations, robbing the Koli community of their primary income source over the years.

“As children, we used to bathe and frolic in the river. Boats used to return full of fish, but now, you won’t be able to catch a single one.”

“A significant primary source of pollutants is the extensive old habitation directly discharging sewage into the Kasardi river. The Maharashtra Industrial Development Corporation (MIDC) has provided stormwater drainage outlets into the river. Beyond the MIDC area, new industries located on the banks of the river in nearby villages like Valap, Tondare, Pendhar and Diwale are also contributing to pollution,” says Dr Vikrant Hemant Bhalerao, Sub-regional Officer at the Maharashtra Pollution Control Board (MPCB), Taloja.

MIDC was established by Maharashtra state in 1962, leading to the quick acquisition of land in Navi Mumbai, which had been newly developed as a satellite town at the time, by the City and Industrial Development Corporation (CIDCO). CIDCO now reports 5,375 industrial plots and a total of 3,928 industries in the industrial belt along Navi Mumbai.  “In a few areas, there is a direct flow diversion of the Kasardi owing to illegal dumping and development by the industries located outside MIDC,” Dr Bhalerao explains.

The re-writing of a community livelihood

Dashrath Koli, now in his sixties, quit fishing 12 years ago after casting nets for three decades. “The arrival of the companies by the riverside led to chemicals leaching into the Kasardi. Over the years, it became increasingly difficult for us to catch fish, so I had to quit the profession. It completely ended our livelihood,” he says. Ever since, he’s spent his days at home in Kopara gaon, Kharghar. When asked if he considered pursuing other work, he rues, “Nobody is willing to hire a man above 60.” 

Koli’s story is resonant and familiar to many in the community. His household of six is reliant on his son's income from driving an auto rickshaw, as well as the earnings of his wife, Baby, who is a fishmonger. Baby buys catch from the Taloja fish market and sells it in Kopara gaon. She earns roughly Rs 500—and occasionally, Rs 800—per day. As she recalls childhood memories, Baby says, “I used to accompany my father to the riverside...it was possible to drink its water back then.”

Gajanan Kadke’s memories of the Kasardi are as clear as the river once was. “As children, we used to bathe and frolic in the river. Boats used to return full of fish, but now, you won’t be able to catch a single one.” A dip was observed in fishermen’s incomes over the past 15 years, when their monthly earnings amounted to only Rs 4,000–5,000—even when the city received heavy rainfall. Previously, they could easily earn Rs 10,000–Rs 15,000 per month. It was only the COVID-19 pandemic and subsequent shutting down of factories by the river that changed their fates: they were able to catch hundreds of kilos of fish in this period.

To combat the lack of fish in the Kasardi, Koli fishermen have constructed small, man-made ponds to breed and catch fish across the city. These ponds are part of a traditional fishing practice, offering a localised ecosystem where fish can thrive and the community can ensure a steady supply. The ponds also help filter out pollutants and allow fish to spawn. In this area, the fishermen’s traditional fish ponds are supported by the Kasardi creek–which in itself is surrounded by spongy mangroves and mudflats. As a consequence, during high tide, the polluted water from the creek flows over, killing the fish being bred in the small ponds. The pond next to Kadke’s dwelling sometimes faces a similar fate. When the monsoon starts, the chemically infused water flows further into the river, polluting these ponds with toxic effluents and ultimately poisoning the aquatic life–before the eggs even mature.

Ultimately, financial strain pushed Kadke to switch professions. Beyond its impact on fishing, the Kasardi also limited Kadke’s ability to work in sand quarries. Diving into its toxic waters affected his esophagus, for which he had to undergo surgery twice.

The stark difference in the cost of living across five decades is hard for him to ignore. “My earnings from driving [an auto] are not sufficient to run the family, pay bills and meet our daily and health expenditures. On the other hand, our parents were able to build a home and the foundation for our future as fisherfolk solely by fishing,” he says. For the Kadkes, a home of their own remains a faraway dream in a city that is only becoming more expensive.

Also read: Bengaluru is fated to run out of water. When will the crisis hit?

Wading through murky waters

Presently, a significant chunk of the river–called Ganesh Ghat–is choked by water hyacinth, which can cut off oxygen supply for aquatic life, block water flow and increase sedimentation, along with algae formation. This is not all: the river changes colour as it meanders through various locations. It turns a caustic orange from the visible chemical effluents, plastic wrappers and clothes choking behind the MIDC area in Taloja, to a grassy green from the algae formation and solid waste dumping near Ganesh Ghat; and then a murky brown colour in some parts. The river has also turned milky white at times–due to the formation of chemical foam on its surface.

In fact, in 2017, an unusual concern made the rounds in Taloja: suddenly, the residents spotted a group of ‘blue-coloured’ dogs. The sight was bizarre enough to spark concern internationally, as well. The unusual coloration was initially attributed to the dogs wading in the heavily polluted Kasardi, where untreated industrial waste–including blue dye from a nearby detergent factory–was being dumped. It was also considered possible that they were exposed to dye directly at the factory site.

This is not all: the river changes colour as it meanders through various locations.

Beyond just the visual discoloration and waste dump, the river also emits a foul odour and being in its proximity can sometimes lead to irritation in the eyes.

Community and legal interventions

Said to be Mumbai’s earliest inhabitants, the Kolis sensed that change was imminent when the plan for expanding Mumbai—then Bombay—into the Thane district was initiated in the 1970s. Industries that processed chemicals, fish, pharmaceuticals as well as machinery factories, started developing rapidly and haphazardly around this expanded belt. Newer townships mushroomed. The first to bear witness to this silent devastation were the fish. Species like rawas, prawns, and pomfret that were once plentiful in the rivers and creeks along suburban Mumbai began to disappear.

In 2010, the Kasardi River was already affected by toxic effluents from the Taloja Industrial Belt. Studies revealed alarming levels of heavy metals—chromium, cadmium, lead—far exceeding safe limits, threatening aquatic life and the Kolis’ work. By 2013, the river was declared “unsuitable for fishing” with fish varieties plummeting from 45 to nearly none.

“Machli hai toh hum hai,” says Kadke. If the fish are here, then we are here. He reiterates that fishing is not merely a profession, but a pact between the Koli community and a river that has sustained them for generations. 

In 2016, activist Yogesh Pagade and Koli fishermen protested the inaction of the Maharashtra Pollution Control Board in the face of the Kasardi’s rapid degeneration. Even the Taloja Industries Association joined the fishing community to protest the release of untreated waste from the Common Effluent Treatment Plant (CETP) in Taloja that was polluting the river. Their water tests confirmed Biochemical Oxygen Demand (BOD) levels at 80 milligram per litre (mg/L), 13 times above safe limits, killing fish and mangroves. BOD determines the concentration of oxygen required for aquatic life to survive in the water. According to the Central Pollution Control Board (CPCB), BOD levels beyond 3 mg/L and 6 mg/L are unsuitable for human consumption and fish species respectively. The test also concluded high levels of chloride that is toxic for aquatic life and the vegetation.

The MPCB responded in January 2017, ordering a 40% water supply cut to Taloja industries until online pollution monitoring was implemented. In fact, the Taloja CETP’s poor performance was rated the worst among Maharashtra’s 25 units—persisting due to overloaded capacity and unskilled labour. In November 2017, 10 CETP members were booked for releasing untreated waste, but the enforcement of norms faltered. Dr Bhalerao informs, "Since October 2024, the CETP has complied with the norms and guidelines set by the Ministry of Environment, Forest and Climate Change (MoEFCC) and MPCB.”

But the Koli community’s plight still prevailed–in fact, by 2018, it escalated. A 90% drop in fish catch forced many like Gajanan Kadke and Dashrath Koli to abandon fishing. This is when the National Green Tribunal (NGT) intervened, fining the CETP a collective Rs 15 crore for environmental damage and ordering for 371 polluting units to be closed. The case, challenged in the Supreme Court, remained sub-judice. In 2019, four factories shut down, but activist Arvind Mhatre–the complainant who brought the case to the NGT–criticised the MPCB’s lax oversight. Beyond just the chemical effluents, the river was also the victim of illegal debris dumping near the Taloja CETP in 2018.

In 2020, MIDC upgraded the CETP to treat 23 Million Litres per Day (MLD) of waste, yet untreated effluents persisted; locals reported health hazards from toxic fumes. Further, illegal tanker dumping worsened the crisis. In March 2023, IIT-Bombay submitted a report to MPCB regarding the restoration of the river, following the NGT’s 2019 orders. It highlighted the presence of chemicals in the river and warned of several health hazards if consumed. The report recommended construction of sewage and storm water drainage systems and diversion channels, asking industries by the river bank to treat their effluents, and coordination between agencies to prevent discharge of untreated waste. 

The effort continued into the next year. The NGT had given specific direction to the industry units on curbing pollution, but in vain. Their final recommendation to Mhatre was to approach the Supreme Court of India. In response, the apex court, on July 24, 2024, ordered the MPCB to submit a detailed affidavit within three weeks regarding the chemical pollution in the Kasardi caused by industrial effluents from approximately 900 factories in the Taloja MIDC industrial belt. 

According to the Water Quality Status Report of Maharashtra 2022-23, the BOD level of the Kasardi river stands at 30 mg/L, which is 10 times higher than the MPCB/CPCB's safer limit. In that year, samples of Kasardi river were not collected for seven months. 

Rejuvenation plans 

More recently, in May 2025, the Panvel Municipal Corporation (PMC) launched a rejuvenation project for the Kasardi river to combat severe pollution. Following the inspection on May 14, led by Additional Commissioner Ganesh Shete, authorities identified tankers illegally releasing chemicals at Ganesh Ghat in Navade and Tondare village, prompting immediate action. Shete has asked the CETP and MIDC to help process the chemical effluents already released into the river. 

With over Rs 17.4 crore in funding, the project includes constructing check dams and gabion walls, which are mesh baskets filled with stones or rocks; they prevent soil from being eroded away with flowing water. The project also aims at diverting contaminated water to the Common Effluent Treatment Plant, and installing solar-powered CCTV cameras for surveillance. 

“Machli hai toh hum hai,” says Kadke. If the fish are here, then we are here. He reiterates that fishing is not merely a profession, but a pact between the Koli community and a river that has sustained them for generations.

“After the rainy season, the water that flows into the Kasardi river is primarily sewage and water used to clean floors; it's not a continuous source of water as it is a rain-fed river. Removing pollutants is not the only answer; ensuring the continuous flow of water will help in the rejuvenation of the river,” says Dr Bhalerao.

Lately, there has been a lot of emphasis on the establishment of Sewage Treatment Plants (STPs) under several missions like Atal Mission for Rejuvenation and Urban Transformation or AMRUT, Swachh Bharat Mission, and Jal Jeevan Mission, because sewage water can be reutilised for other purposes if properly treated. “An important issue to be addressed beyond just industrial effluents is domestic sewage water, with dysfunctional or defunct STPs, or a few number of STPs; issues to be pondered upon by all authorities,” emphasises Dr Bhalerao.

He further adds, "We will be working on different aeration mechanisms along with building green bridges, which will actually increase the oxygen content in the water. It is also advised that apart from the rainy season, all the MIDC stormwater outlets to the Kasardi river will be completely blocked or diverted to the CETP. We are also planning to install CCTV cameras after every 250 metres. Few social miscreants are engaged in illegal discharge of industrial waste disposal in and around MIDC, for which local police and MIDC need to improve their vigilance.”

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Edited by Neerja Deodhar and Anushka Mukherjee

Illustration by: Khyati

Produced by Nevin Thomas and Neerja Deodhar

The last 50 to 70 years have been witness to a troubling trend: the number of farmers in many Western countries has diminished steadily, sometimes at an alarming rate. In Italy and Ireland, the share of the labour force in agriculture has reduced from 33% and 37%, respectively, in 1950 to less than 5% now. In Poland, this figure has plunged from 57% in 1950 to less than 10% now. (Data derived from Remembering Peasants: A Personal History of a Vanished World, a 2023 book on European farming by Patrick Joyce.)

In several countries, the exit of farmers from the agricultural economy peaked around the 1970s and ’80s. In the US, around the time of Ronald Reagan’s presidency (1981-89), it was estimated that American farmers were going out of business at the rate of one every eight minutes. According to the British environmental journal The Ecologist (1970-2009), most of these former cultivators who had to leave farming were small farmers. In the UK, the number of farms fell from 4,54,000 to 2,43,000 within less than three decades, from 1953 to 1981.

In most cases, this loss of farmers globally has been tied to factors such as over-mechanisation, increasing expenses resulting in growing debts, and a deliberate pursuit of policies by the authorities that favoured the concentration of land and capital while being unfavourable to small farmers. In the UK, pesticide costs alone had increased 10 times from the early 1970s to early 1991. A British farmer in the early 1970s needed 15 cows to make a living; in the 1980s, he needed 75 dairy cows to make the same amount of money. The situation became financially untenable, prompting the farmers to abandon farming entirely. Others continued to slip further into debt. According to data from The Ecologist, by 1991, 70% of the net farm income would be used to pay off debts.

While such farmers left farming rather sadly and with great reluctance, the situation has been interpreted differently by big business interests and corporations. Per them, food and farm produce availability for these countries were not impacted, despite the mass farmer exodus. This was construed as the farmers not being productively employed, which means their exit from farming has ultimately led to a gain for the economy.

This is a highly flawed argument, which ignores how the new model of vast monoculture farms that took root in the latter half of the 20th century employed—or rather mined—ecologically destructive ways by using heavy machinery, excessive fossil fuels and hazardous agrochemicals. It is incapable of sustainability and producing food that will boost health. The soil is mined to somehow yield maximum output in the short term, which means the organic content of the soil cannot be protected for sustainability.

Replicating the same trends could be particularly dangerous for economies in the global South, especially agrarian ones. These economies’ capacity to absorb displaced farmers is significantly less than in the global North.

Also read: It takes a village: Transforming the fate of unproductive land

Need for small farmers and family farms

For countries like India, the more beneficial model would be ​​for families to retain their farms in order to earn their primary livelihood. One or more members can then take up additional full-time or part-time work, especially during lean seasons. Government schemes, like the Mahatma Gandhi National Rural Employment Guarantee Act (NREGA), can help achieve this. Gandhi’s emphasis on village-level agro-processing and developing other cottage and village industries also fits this vision. Small-scale farmers and family farms are also indispensable to the protection of soil; only they can care for plants and crops in ways that assure optimum yield in sustainable ways.

In 2001, India had 127.3 million land-owning farmers, which dropped to 118.7 million in 2011 as per census data. The number of land-owning farmers dropped by 8.6 million within a decade. This means that about 100 farmers left farming behind every hour (or about 2,400 per day) through this decade or were rendered landless. Needless to say, most of them were small farmers.

This was unfortunate, as one of our foremost priorities should be strengthening small farmers and family farms. A large majority of Indian farmers are small farmers, mostly working on family farms with important contributions by women. Although data can differ depending on how small farmers are defined, broadly it can be said that although nearly three-fourths of our farmers are small farmers, they own only about half of the total land. And despite the difficulties and constraints faced by them in various contexts, they manage to contribute to almost half of the total food production in the country.

About 100 farmers left farming behind every hour (or about 2,400 per day) through this decade or were rendered landless. Needless to say, most of them were small farmers.

One of the most important ways to empower small farmers is to reduce their cash expenses, which will also bring down their debts and save their lands. This can be done by making the best possible use of local free resources—which can be taken forward in various variants of natural farming in tune with local conditions. Many small farmers have proved with their highly creative approaches and dedication that the availability of healthy and diverse food can be accomplished while reducing their expenses and simultaneously protecting the soil, and economising on water use.

This approach calls for constant learning, including practising mutually supportive and productive activities. Friendly insects and pollinators can also be protected—even when healthy food production is increased—through mixed cropping and proper rotations. None of this can be achieved with over-mechanised monocultures overfed with hazardous agrochemicals. It’s a job cut out for small farmers and family farms.

Also read: Why India needs to invest in natural farming

American writer and farmer Wendell Berry says in The Unsettling of America: Culture and Agriculture, “The farmer differs from the industrialist in that the farmer is necessarily a nurturer, a preserver of the health of creatures. The economy of the industry is typically extractive. It takes, makes, uses and discards, it progresses, from exhaustion to pollution. Agriculture, on the other hand, rightly belongs to a replenishing economy, which takes, makes, uses and returns—it involves the return to the source, not just of fertility or of so-called wastes but also of care and affection.”

This “care and affection” Berry mentions can only be provided by small farmers, and not big machines and corporations. Unfortunately, policies have not been encouraging towards these communities. Instead, as Berry says in the context of the US, “It is a work of monstrous ignorance and irresponsibility on the part of the experts and politicians, who have prescribed, encouraged and applauded the disintegration of farming communities all over the country.”

Further, Berry writes, “What we have called agricultural progress has, in fact, involved the forcible displacement of millions of people.”

He goes on to make critical concluding observations: “Food is a cultural product, it cannot be produced by technology alone…a healthy farm culture can be based only upon familiarity and can grow only among a people soundly established upon the land; it nourishes and safeguards a human intelligence of the earth that no amount of technology can satisfactorily replace.”

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This is a statement of global relevance—but is especially pertinent to India— as it succinctly explains why it is important to protect and strengthen communities of small farmers and family farms as the foundations of the food and farming system.

In times of more adverse weather and climate change, the government must play a much bigger supportive role for them. Further, experience in many parts of the country reveals that a combination of greater self-reliance, low expenditure on expensive external inputs and adoption of sustainable natural farming practices can contribute a lot to keeping these farmers out of crisis and debt traps.

Also read: RTI Act: A powerful tool in fighting hunger

Nestled in the lush green Gonasika hills of Odisha’s Kendujhar district, at an elevation of around 3,000 feet, lives the Juang community—one of the state’s 13 Particularly Vulnerable Tribal Groups (PVTGs). For generations, the Juangs relied on the nearby forest—for food, medicine, firewood, and shelter. Their forebears knew that there would always be food in the forest, from tubers, to mushrooms, and insects.

The community meticulously foraged these wild foods, ensuring that they don’t over-harvest. While a portion of the wild foods was used for household consumption, the surplus was sold in the local weekly market, to supplement household incomes. Tragically, colonisation brought this relationship with the forest to a halt. “During the engrej sashan (British rule), our forest was declared as a reserve. This restricted our access to the very source of our sustenance,” laments Rukmini Juang, 68, from the Budhighar village in Banspal block.

Last year, the Juang tribe was accorded Habitat Rights under the Forest Rights Act (FRA), 2006; this grants them the right to their own land and its resources. "However, the management plan for the habitat is yet to be developed by the Juang community, which needs to be passed in the Gram Sabha," says Birabar Naik, the founder of Banabasi Chetna Mandal that works for the land rights of tribal communities in Kendujhar. Determined to protect their habitat from the forest department–which may use it for commercial plantation–the Mandal is holding community meetings to arrive at a plan to govern their own land. 

Freedom from the coloniser did not come with much relief for the community. Post independence, mining-induced displacement in Odisha further impacted the Juangs. The Kendujhar district—rich in minerals like iron ore, manganese, bauxite, and gold—has seen 64 mining projects since the 1980s, diverting over 10,000 hectares of forest land, the highest in Odisha. “Our water bodies are polluted, and the soil has hardened. Crop yields have dropped,” says Hemant Juang, 43, from the Kalanda village. “The youth is losing interest in farming, turning instead to labour in mines or migrating to other states for backbreaking work,’’ he adds. 

Traditionally, the Juangs cultivated their native crops in mixed farming systems. But after 2010, resettlement as well as the introduction of hybrid seeds have led to the loss of heirloom varieties that are resilient, low-input, and nutritionally rich, eventually replacing them. Hybrid varieties of maize, paddy, potatoes and onions were planted. Monocropping of such varieties and the application of chemical inputs have reduced crop yield and jeopardised the community's traditional food diversity and culinary heritage. “The government once promoted Telangana Basmati here,” recalls Jema Juang, the sarpanch of Gonasika panchayat. This was the new rice variety, Telangana Sona, developed by Professor Jayashankar of the Telangana State Agricultural University (PJTSAU) in 2017. At around the same time, it was introduced to the Juang farmers—promoted as a healthy, extremely beneficial crop. It has the lowest glycemic index of all known varieties of paddy, a high protein, energy and carbohydrate content, and promising yields. 

“It was unsuitable for our land and needed costly chemical inputs. The resultant yield was less, too,” says Jema. 

Also read: One Odisha woman’s mission to preserve taste, tradition through seeds

Reviving native seeds

Since 2016, Talapada village in Banspal block has been charting a different path. Here, 30 Juang women have emerged as guardians of agrobiodiversity. They collect, preserve, and exchange over 70 varieties of native seeds—millets, cereals, pulses, tubers, and vegetables—reviving traditional mixed farming practices. “Our native seeds are a gift from our ancestors,” says Kusumi Juang, 47. “Unlike hybrids, they can be saved and replanted season after season.” Kusumi started farming around 2016, and she played an instrumental role in encouraging other women of her village to preserve native seeds. 

The women ensure genetic purity through seasonal propagation–the practice of growing a crop in its ideal seasons and climatic condition–which allows them to harvest the best, most “pure” crops for seeds. It also maintains uniformity of traditional varieties by cutting out the rogue “off-types.” They also exchange seeds to diversify what they grow. This practice, known as seed stewardship, preserves plant traits and improves resilience to environmental changes, explains Susanta Sekhar Choudhury, Programme Manager-Seed Systems at Watershed Support Support Services and Activities Network (WASSAN), Bhubaneswar.

“We harvest seeds from mature and healthy plants for the next cropping season, making sure not to include those which have been affected by wild animals,” says Kusumi as she showcases the varieties of finger millet, paddy and green gram that she harvested last year. “We are a seed-sufficient community. We don’t need to buy hybrid seeds from the market. Saving and exchanging native seeds is part of our culture. And over the years, this culture has fostered our community unity and bond,” she added.

Apart from the give and take of seed, the Juang women also share knowledge about different traditional methods. Maize, ridge gourd, and panicles of sorghum are often hung above the cooking area in the kitchen. The kitchen’s smoke and optimal temperature help protect the seed from pests and fungi. Ash is mixed with seed, and kept in earthen pots and bamboo baskets covered with straw and plastered with cow dung, to make the containers airtight. 

Dry leaves of different plants and trees are also used to preserve seeds. For instance, the leaves of begonia (Vitex negundo) and neem (Azadirachta indica) are mixed with pulses. This practice saves the pulses from beetle attacks. Similarly, turmeric and bael (Aegle marmelos) leaves are also used for preserving native seeds. 

Also read: Sasbani’s 'fruits' of labour: Reviving hope in rural Uttarakhand

The power of women’s labour

Juang women are central to the community’s agriculture, taking vital decisions about the crops to be grown, mixing seeds of different crops before sowing, and carrying manure to the field. They also take care of weeding, harvesting, threshing and storing. 

“We don’t create separate plots for different crops. We mix a variety of crops in different proportions according to our family needs and sow them in one plot,” says Krushna Juanga, an octogenarian—the oldest woman in Talapada. Elders like Krushna attest to women’s empowered involvement in the region’s agriculture, a reality that has been shaped over the last four to five generations. The Juangs follow tailo chasho, a traditional rainfed mixed and rotational cropping system wherein several types of crops are grown simultaneously in a specific area, mostly on the mountain slopes. They grow a range of millets, too, such as sorghum, ragi, barnyard, little and foxtail–all native varieties.

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Pulses like black gram, green gram, horse gram, red gram and cowpea are grown in the same patch of land. Native varieties of black gram such as kala biri, chikinie biri and badhie biri are grown. They also cultivate other crops like maize, and several oilseeds such as sesame (kala rashi, dhala rashi, native varieties), mustard (rie, lutunie, native varieties) and niger.

Juang women are central to the community’s agriculture, taking vital decisions about the crops to be grown, mixing seeds of different crops before sowing, and carrying manure to the field. They also take care of weeding, harvesting, threshing and storing. 

Before broadcasting (the scattering and spreading of seeds at random) and sowing, the women ensure that their preserved seeds dry in the sun, so that they have a better rate of germination. The male members of the community plough the even and flat portion of the plot with oxen before the onset of monsoon in May-June. The women use a hoe to dig up the soil around the rocky and steep spots where the plough cannot be used. They sow seed in the dug out holes. Generally, the central portion of the plot is used for local varieties of upland paddy like alitundi, bijapatia and kalaputia. In the periphery of the paddy plot, taller crops like ragi and sorghum are grown. They act as border crops, an effective barrier for the wild animals. In between the ragi and sorghum, other crops are also intercropped like pulses, maize and tubers.

Also read: Babulal Dahiya makes every grain of rice count

Bountiful harvests

Only farmyard manure is used, in an effort to increase soil fertility. Traditionally, each Juang household rears indigenous breeds of cattle, oxen, goats and poultry. Dry dung from the livestock is applied in the field before sowing. Organic waste like crop residues decomposes and boosts fertility further. “The forest plays an important role in our traditional agriculture,” says Krushna, “Nutrient washout from the hilltop flow brings dead soil back to life, enabling better crop growth.” 

During monsoon, says WASSAN programme manager Choudhury, “The rich humus from the nearby forest flows into the field, which improves water retention, enriches soil fertility, and promotes the growth of beneficial microorganisms. This mixed pattern of cropping prevents overexploitation of the water table and soil nutrients, because different crops have different nutrient requirements. Besides, it also prevents soil erosion.”

The harvesting of different crops takes place across different months, providing a continuous supply of diversified ingredients. The first phase starts in September, at the end of which maize and paddy are harvested. After this, mustard is sown in the plot. The second harvest phase begins in November, when pulses and millets are the crops in focus. Farmers harvest sesame in December, and Mustard—the last crop—is taken care of in January.

Sesame and mustard are mainly cultivated as cash crops, while millets, rice, pulses, vegetables and tubers are grown for sustenance. The surplus of these harvests are sold by the Juang women in the local weekly markets, known as haats.

Heirloom seeds have empowered the Juang community to become seed sovereign and maintain a sustainable food supply throughout the year.

Talapada resident Parvati Juang, 41–who has been farming for 20 years now–beams about the rich dividends of tailo chasho. Last year, she harvested around 5 quintals of ragi, 8 quintals of paddy, 500 kg of sorghum, 1 quintal of maize, 845 kg of mustard, 650 kg of chickpea and over 700 kg of sesame from her two-acre farm. Besides, she also harvested 50 bags of taro (a tuber variety) and over 500 kg of various vegetables. “After selling the surplus harvest, last year, I earned around Rs 92,000,” says Parvati, who is a mother to two sons and a daughter. With the income earned from agriculture, she is able to support her children’s education.

“We grow our own food, which is nutritious and chemical-free,” says Ratnabati Juanga, 37, another Talapada resident. “Our native crops have evolved over many generations. They are suitable for our landscape, and can withstand extreme temperatures and prolong dry spells. In the neighbouring villages, we have seen farmers have switched to hybrid varieties to get high yield. But these alien varieties often fail to cope with even minor climate change.” Alien varieties also require expensive and harmful chemicals, a reason that motivated many Juang women to conserve native varieties in Talapada.

Heirloom seeds have empowered the Juang community to become seed sovereign and maintain a sustainable food supply throughout the year. “Ironically, open-pollinated and heirloom seed varieties are rapidly disappearing from the agricultural landscape,” says Arabinda Kumar Padhee, Principal Secretary, Department of Agriculture and Farmers’ Empowerment, Government of Odisha. “Alongside this, the traditional knowledge and practices of seed saving are also fading. The growing dependence on a limited number of crops—primarily hybrids—has significantly reduced biodiversity in our food systems, making many crops increasingly vulnerable to the impacts of the climate crisis,” he highlighted.

The Juang women of Talapada are proving that traditional knowledge and biodiversity are not relics of the past, but essential tools for a sustainable future.

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Photos by Abhijit Mohanty

Prakash Bhoir sits taut in his chair, facing his quaint cottage. He is surrounded by a rich diversity of flora indigenous to Kelti Pada, his tribal hamlet in the heart of Mumbai’s Aarey Forest. The mud walls of the cottage are embellished with intricate, traditional Warli motifs painted by Bhoir’s son, Akash, a civil engineer who splits his time equally between his career and community work.

Bhoir recalls a recent leopard sighting near their home, tapping on a video of CCTV footage on his phone with one hand, and dipping a bhakri in tea with the other. “The leopard was on the prowl for a cat,” he says with a chuckle. “It left shortly after it failed at the task. These animals don’t bother us unless we make a move. It [the forest] is their home, and we, as humans, are at fault for encroaching upon their territory.” He is a fierce Adivasi activist in Mumbai’s North-Western suburb of Goregaon—one of the few green patches left in the city. A jubilant member of the Adivasi Haq Samvardhan Samiti–a group working to protect the rights of tribals–Bhoir is known for keeping his heritage alive through performing and visual folk arts, which he promotes at cultural events all over the city.

He points out that such encounters with leopards have become more frequent–so much so that his family is quite welcoming of them now. Tribal faiths are centred around elements of nature, including wild animals; for Bhoir and his community, the ecosystem they nurture is above all. “I see God in all of nature, because I feel the need to protect it. When I see trees as Hirva Dev (Green God), I am entrusted with the responsibility of protecting them. I see God in the soil, because when I give her one seed, she gives me a thousand seeds in return. When we see God in these elements of nature, we fear polluting them. The soil is our Dhartari Mata; she gives us food.”

And thus, as deforestation projects take root in the Aarey Milk Colony, its original residents seethe at the slow encroachment of humans on nature. Urban trespassing has especially affected the forest’s ecology. At multiple spots in Aarey–as many as 56–you can find mounds of garbage disposed of by suburban Mumbai residents, and oftentimes this garbage is burnt. This provides fuel for unnatural forest fires, which have become a common occurrence in the region now. Development projects at the cost of Aarey’s green cover have also had a devastating impact on the forest’s residents.

I see God in the soil, because when I give her one seed, she gives me a thousand seeds in return.

Home to a number of tribes such as the Warlis, Katkaris and Malhar Kolis, this stretch of green has traditionally been the primary source—and site—of livelihood for them. Many have been practising agriculture here for as long as they can remember. They cultivate and forage for their own sustenance, and sell the excess in the city’s markets; their crops include both traditional and mainstream varieties. Indigenous vegetables or raan-bhajya, such as Kantola [spiny gourd], Shevli [dragon stalk yam], Vaghati [spiny caper], and Koli Bhaji [white musli] are often grown during the rainy season in all 27 tribal hamlets.

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

The gift that keeps giving

The forest contains within itself everything that its residents need to survive: something that is best illustrated by the local cuisine, moulded and enriched by the forest’s gifts. For instance, many preparations use tamarind–either as a hero ingredient in dishes like the zingy chincha aamti [tamarind gravy], or to uplift other dishes like curries–because this tree grows in abundance. Plants are utilised in their entirety: the leaves of the local takla [Cassia tora]–a nitrogen fixing plant–are fried with garlic and chilli, while its aromatic seeds are used by some communities as a substitute for coffee. Foraging from the land, trees and rivers offers chutneys made with wild sesame and the delicious, fishy bombil [Bombay Duck]; tubers like loth and kand; soft-shell crabs and fish that is dried and added to meals; and salads made from homegrown onion, tomato, and lemons.

The nearby suburbs of Goregaon, Jogeshwari, and Andheri are an ideal place to sell what they cultivate, because there is no shortage of customers–there is immense demand for their harvest all year long. Some families earn up to Rs. 600 a day selling seasonal vegetables, and even up to Rs. 3,000 a day when their mangoes are on offer. “Fruits like pineapple and jackfruit sell extremely well. However, city-dwellers have also developed an interest in our indigenous crops, as they are known to provide immunity and resistance against diseases,” Bhoir adds. 

There are times when urban customers travel all the way to tribal farmlands simply to buy produce and observe how it is grown. It is an intriguing process, and the farmers make the most of their limited resources. For instance, the water supply for the irrigation of crops in Kelti Pada often comes from the numerous tabelas [buffalo sheds] in the vicinity, which were constructed as a part of the Aarey Milk Colony project in 1949. The water that is used to bathe buffaloes contains manure, which acts as an excellent natural fertiliser for the crops.

Though the tribal communities have harnessed their immense traditional wisdom for years to grow and prepare the unique offerings of the forest, Bhoir has noticed a change. The worsening nature of the weather combined with the changing diet of his community has influenced their own health. Visits to the doctor, for instance, have become nearly habitual, when they were once just occasional. This is why he stresses on the consumption of indigenous vegetables, fondly referring to them as the ‘bank balance’ of one’s health. “These vegetables have to be eaten at least once a year for good health. Some of them are meant to be consumed in a specific way. For example, the Kadu Kand is supposed to be sweetened before consumption. You have to slice and salt it overnight, boil it in the morning, and only then is it fit for consumption. Shevli cannot be eaten by itself–it has to be eaten with a fruit called Kakad. You have to mix them, otherwise the shevli creates an itchy sensation in one’s throat.” 

The forest contains within itself everything that its residents need to survive: something that is best illustrated by the local cuisine, moulded and enriched by the forest’s gifts.

Some other changes have been gradual. Members of the community once made sweets with the delightful tavshi–a huge three feet-long cucumber weighing nearly two kilos that they harvested in the forest. But now, they buy the kakdi from their local market. Then, there is the matter of rainfall. Organic ecosystems like the one developed in Aarey over thousands of years are most often self-sufficient and cyclical. Farmers in Kelti Pada have always depended on rainfall, which has typically been sufficient to provide ample water to their crops year after year. As climate change tightens its grasp, farmers struggle with unseasonal rainfall. There has also been a growing reliance on irrigation facilities.

Mumbai’s monsoon typically lasts four months, beginning from the first week of June. Aarey’s farmers sow their seeds about 15 days before this annual commencement. The seeds germinate during this fortnight, beginning to grow as soon as the showers begin. But now, unpredictable rainfall patterns have disrupted this pre-established agricultural rhythm. “The balance is lost. This is why crops cannot yield the same quality and quantity of vegetables,” Bhoir says.

His own seed preservation techniques have been affected in the process. Reusing seeds from the previous year used to be a community tradition. Now they are now forced to buy seeds from commercial markets that are genetically modified to withstand extreme weather conditions. “The weather has changed. The vegetables are different now. Even the trust within the agrarian community is lost. Now, everyone prefers to opt for corporate jobs that pay a guaranteed salary.” 

Also read: One Odisha woman’s mission to preserve taste, tradition through seeds

‘This land is our land’

Agriculture no longer provides the financial assurance that it did until two generations ago. Neither is it a fallback option if nothing else works out for Aarey’s residents. Unsurprisingly, many Adivasi youth are straying away from this traditional occupation, in search of more trusted and less risky sources of income.

Artist Manisha Dhinde, a young and crucial member of the Aarey Conservation Group, is deeply invested in her heritage. She educates her audience about Adivasi art, culture and food. Dhinde is eager to hold forth on the nitty-gritties of her people’s agricultural practices, which reveal the functional nature of urban agriculture. “The Adivasis who reside near the Sanjay Gandhi National Park (SGNP) in Borivali, Aarey Forest, and near Bhandup, cultivate rice because of their proximity to water bodies. The ones residing in the mountainous parts tend to grow seasonal crops such as Galka (sponge gourd), cucumber, and bottle gourd,” Dhinde points out. “Here in Maroshi Pada, where I stay, we grow vegetables throughout the year, and rice once a year. We also grow dals [lentils] such as Urad [black gram] and Tur [pigeon pea].”

But in Mumbai, urbanisation is rapid and constant. Projects like the Aarey Metro Car Shed, Film City, and, more recently, the Goregaon-Mulund Link Road, are considered a hindrance to the livelihoods of Aarey’s indigenous groups. Dhinde insists that it is a problem that has persisted right from the conception of the Aarey Milk Colony, and has only grown since then. “We’ve always had to struggle, right from the time when the Aarey Dairy was first built. However, the situation today is starkly different: all of these [development] projects are meant to contribute to Mumbai’s ‘progress’. Yet they do not benefit us, and we are not consulted in the process [of their conceptualisation]. People say India is an agrarian nation, but if you wipe out farms to make way for ‘development’, where does agriculture go?”

Reusing seeds from the previous year used to be a community tradition. Now they are now forced to buy seeds from commercial markets that are genetically modified to withstand extreme weather conditions.

Her words ring true. Aarey’s alarming depletion has been a warning sign for Mumbai’s ecosystem, right from the 1990s when the Jogeshwari-Vikhroli Link Road was opened to traffic. The road is only a seven-minute walk from Bhoir’s hamlet. Similarly, in 2019, the Maharashtra Government reportedly got rid of over 2,000 trees within the Aarey Forest in order to build a car shed for the Mumbai Metro Rail Corporation. The Mumbai Metro Line 3 project is reported to reduce a sizable portion of the forest as well. Moreover, a few months ago, the Goregaon-Mulund Link Road, a 6.5 km underground twin tunnel project connecting the two suburbs, was slated to cut down approximately 1,567 trees, inciting criticism from citizens. 

The ambiguity of Aarey’s geographical location adds to the chaos. Aarey started off as one of the first civilised zones in the city, with the commencement of Dara Khurody’s Bombay Milk Scheme in the 1950s, which revolutionised India’s dairy industry. The project remains immortalised in the colony’s name to this day. The forest land, at this time, was declared as a No Development Zone (NDZ); the part which falls under the SGNP area has since come to be classified as an Eco-Sensitive Zone (ESZ). Today, however, the demarcations of the “forest land” remain largely equivocal. The spread begins at one end in Jogeshwari, goes over to the eastern part of Goregaon, and eventually merges with the SGNP, sprawling across the northern suburbs of the city. 

The lack of formal education among the residents of the tribal hamlets further complicates the hurdles posed by development projects and changing climate. Vanita Thakre, a significant cultural figure in the forest, says, “We are not well-educated. Where do we go? How do we live? How do we look after our children? These are the questions we’re asking of authorities.”

Also read: Can India’s traditional knowledge future-proof its food system?

Most farmers have started looking beyond agriculture to make a quick buck. Several have taken up oddball jobs such as housekeeping, gardening and security. Several others have left their homes in search of better employment avenues. Thakre herself earns a little by showing tourists around the forest. “I give tourists information and teach them about organic farming. I offer knowledge about making fertiliser and managing waste, too.”

Adivasis have started considering their own farmlands as a backup option–but with looming development plans that threaten to swallow up more of their forest, even the idea of a Plan B seems distant. “Though some work for corporate entities outside the forest, a majority of us remain heavily dependent on agriculture and the forest. We have enough to feed ourselves—and that is why this land is so inextricably tied to our existence,” she concludes.

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(Edited by Neerja Deodhar and Anushka Mukherjee)

Just a few lanes from the high-rises of Saat Rasta—an upscale neighbourhood in Mahalaxmi/South Mumbai, is a space locally referred to as the 'Tabela'. It’s a strange name, since a ‘tabela’ refers to a dairy farm, and there hasn’t been a single buffalo in sight in the vicinity for years. Turns out, the area used to be a tabela before it was converted into a residential space, which is why locals still remember it by its past name. Today, the area is home to baithi chawls—single storeyed structures which were introduced by the Maharashtra Housing And State Development Authority (MHADA) in the 1970s, when it was converted into a Transit Camp. The structure which houses residents has persisted. The remains of the tabela, however, survive only in speech, the last refuge of forgotten geographies.

Sixty nine-year-old Salim Rizvi, who has lived in Saat Rasta for a long time, remembers a Mumbai that was once Bombay and recounts its history. The lean, soft-spoken member of the Nagori community speaks of his forefathers who first migrated to the city in 1938—and who were one of the first of many to own a tabela in the area, which stretched across nearly five acres. Standing behind the counter of his dairy business, the Bandra Milk Centre, Rizvi’s eyes light up when he speaks of the Nagori community—a group of dairy farmers who migrated from Rajasthan’s Nagaur district to Mumbai.

The Nagori community’s primary, ancestral occupation has always revolved around milk. Back in Rajasthan, labour was hard to find and business remained largely local, contained to one’s own and neighbouring villages. Mumbai offered a bigger and better market. The Nagoris identified the city’s growing appetite and demand for dairy, and families arrived in waves—some before Partition, and some after. The community laid the foundations for a milk network, which today comprises nearly 4000 centres across the city. They are predominantly Sunni Muslims. Even though they have established businesses across metropolitan Mumbai, they have maintained strong ties with their ancestral village Basni and visit it often.

Everyday, Rizvi returns to his milk centre after his Zohar prayers at exactly 3 p.m. and pauses for just a moment before commencing his work again. His daily afternoon rituals? Ladling milk into packets and handing out ice cream to children waiting outside his shop. His attire is similar to that of most Nagori men—he is dressed in a white kurta and pajamas, along with a skull cap. He also keeps a long beard. 

Most of Rizvi’s customers are from upscale areas like Bandra. Once a Physics and Maths professor, he left academia behind to devote himself fully to the milk business. Like every other Nagori milk centre, Rizvi’s shop also serves a few dairy products that are made in-house and are highly in demand. However, he doesn’t sell shrikhand—a product he claims to have mastered, but which ostensibly doesn’t have a market in Bandra. “Milk is one of the only foods whose value increases as it spoils. If the milk goes bad, we can make paneer out of it, which sells for Rs. 400 per kg. If it spoils further, we can turn it into ghee and sell it at Rs. 800 per kg,” he says.

The Nagoris brought with them not just buffaloes but an entire social architecture: a co-operative network that still supplies raw, fresh, and unpasteurised milk to thousands of homes and chai stalls at nukkads across Mumbai. The Nagori way of doing business has inherited and retained its analog quality through generations of dairy farmers. Their product is delivered with the same fidelity as it has for nearly a century: milk arrives from farms in clinking aluminum cans, and is ferried to dairies tucked away in old neighbourhoods, where winding queues of customers are already waiting. Several Nagoris paused operations during the Indian Emergency of 1975, but reopened once the turmoil tided over. Milk is poured by the litre, curd is ladled into steel bowls, and lassi is freshly churned everyday. No apps, subscriptions or delivery people interfere with how the system has run for over a century. 

The Nagoris identified the city’s growing appetite and demand for dairy, and families arrived in waves—some before Partition, and some after.

While many Nagoris left in search of education or other careers, a significant number of them found their way back to the family business due to familiarity with the operations and community support. Mohammed Sardar, 57, speaks about how he once wanted to become a doctor. He worked towards this goal determinedly, but eventually chose the milk business instead. “I couldn’t find a reason not to,” he says while recalling how difficult it was to acquire a seat in a medical college. 

Today, his son helps run the business – a tabela which was set up in 1958 by Sardar’s grandfather in Jogeshwari. So do his nephews. One of them did become a doctor but eventually “ended up in the kaarobaar [business],” Sardar says.

In 1977, the Nagoris realised the need to bring people from their community together. Rizvi and fellow Nagoris formed the Bombay Nagori Association. The association voluntarily helps people from the community join the business. Every three years, an Association head is elected. Rizvi, who continues to be on the Board of Directors recalls that at a point, folks from the famed Aarey Milk Colony in Mumbai also came seeking collaboration, but the community—so close-knit in nature—was not comfortable sharing their space.

Post the COVID-19 pandemic, many members from the Nagori community have migrated to other metropolitan cities, including New Delhi, Ahmedabad, Surat, and Nashik to set up tea stalls. However, their core milk trade remains in Mumbai, unchanged.

Also read: Is the paneer on your plate real?

A lineage of milk

Nagori milk has its own dedicated fanbase. But anyone who has ever loitered around the streets of Mumbai in search of a piping, hot cup of tea is sure to have encountered a Nagori tea stall. Customers throng the tea centres from morning until night. The sweet, creamy tea has a distinct flavour profile and has built a reputation for itself in the city’s dairy economy. 

But the ‘chayaas’—my grandmother’s playful blend of ‘chai’ [tea] and ‘pyaas’ [thirst]—has somehow turned into an addiction, exclusive to this side of the border. It was only after the British introduced tea to India that some community members began selling tea alongside milk. Interestingly, those who migrated to Pakistan following the 1947 Partition continue focusing solely on the milk trade, never incorporating the caffeine-fix into their business model, says Rizvi, who has relatives across the border.

Ahmed Raza, who is also from Nagaur, runs a tea stall in Agripada. Raza has been sourcing milk from Morland Dairy (a Nagori enterprise) since 1983, a supplier which has monopolised the Saat Rasta/Jacob Circle neighbourhoods of Mumbai since 1952. He explains that only those who own tabelas (dairy farms) operate milk centres; the rest typically run tea stalls like him. 

Raza religiously waits at Morland Dairy every day, waiting for the milk van to arrive. The assistants at the shop ready themselves in anticipation, rinsing the cans so that they can be filled with fresh milk. Customers arrive at 8 p.m like clockwork. Every few minutes, someone stops by—people riding a scooter with a child in tow, or burqa-clad women—asking familiar questions: “Doodh aaya? [Has the milk arrived yet?]” “Gaadi kitni door hai? [How far away is the milk van?]” The answer is always the same: “It’s on its way, just wait a little longer.”

“The moment the vehicle arrives, customers stream in from all corners as if they were lurking around the neighbourhood, waiting for just this moment, " Raza says as he chuckles. The dairy has a loyal clientele, some of whom have been buying this milk from the past 30 years. 

Despite high demand, the businessmen refuse to offer doorstep delivery and have remained analog—even when customers offer to pay ₹5–10 extra per litre, or pay in advance. Why? Mainly due to the fear of middlemen adulterating the milk, and past experiences of customers relocating without settling a month’s worth of dues.

Nilofar Shaikh is one such customer who waits outside Morland Dairy at 8 every evening. “The milk quality is so good that I don’t mind stepping out of the house to purchase it, rather than just ordering online. We use other kinds of milk when making desserts like sheer khurma or custard because it is thinner. But Nagori milk is what we prefer for everyday use,” she said. “The price rises by Rs. 2 every year but we don’t mind paying a little extra since the milk is fresh.”

The dairy has a loyal clientele, some of whom have been buying this milk from the past 30 years. Despite high demand, the businessmen refuse to offer doorstep delivery and have remained analog—even when customers offer to pay ₹5–10 extra per litre, or pay in advance.

The price hike is a reflection of CNG and fodder prices. In 2006, the Maharashtra government proposed moving Mumbai’s existing tabelas to Palghar, a suburb on the outskirts of the city, in an effort to make urban areas cattle-free. While the Bombay Nagori Association did not agree to this, a compromise was struck and the tabelas were moved farther from the city to its northern peripheries—first to Jogeshwari, and later to Vasai. This relocation inconvenienced vendors and is reflected in rising milk prices. This also causes a delayed delivery given the traffic jams have gotten worse in the city. 

Morland Dairy is the only milk parlour eponymously named after its location. Most Nagori stalls are named after the Sufi saint Garib Nawaz or a family member. Mubin Nagori is the fourth generation stakeholder of the dairy. Unlike other milk which can be stored outside for a certain period of time, Nagori milk needs immediate attention. “Since this is raw milk, it goes bad if it stays out for over an hour without being boiled,” he says. This explains why crowds eagerly wait each evening for the milk vans to arrive.

His father, Haji Qasam Kashmiri, is the current head of the Nagori Association. Much like the rest of the community, Haji Sahab frequently visits Basni. Mubin, who is in his late twenties, says, “Even if I earn around 15,000 rupees per month, it is ample money for me to live a peaceful life when I travel back to my village.”

Also read: Sasbani’s 'fruits' of labour: Reviving hope in rural Uttarakhand

The udder side

“Over a period of time the business network has moved towards Mira Road and Bhayander. These suburbs have the most number of milk centres today,” says Mubin. Morland Dairy is supplied by a dairy farm in Dahisar, which is about 30 km away. The smell of hay and cow dung fill the air during the walk towards Dahisar naka, hinting at the multiple tabelas in the area.

At the farm, women start walking in with their wide ghamelas (large iron containers) at 5 p.m. sharp as the cleaning begins. Meanwhile, the men carry hay stacks and ready the buffaloes for milking. The place has heaps of sacks full of cow feed. Sacks of cow feed are heaped over each other and milk cans clink gently.

Mubin’s older brother, Waqar Nagori is in charge of the dairy farm. He helps me understand the animals behind the business. “Most of the buffaloes used for milk production are sourced from Punjab and Haryana,” he says, “They belong to the Murrah breed whose fat content is high”. Waqar doesn’t regard bigger brands and labels as a competition since “the fresh milk supply (such as that which the Nagori community specialises in) makes up only for 10% of the whole milk market in Mumbai.”

The jet black Murrah is known for being the highest milk yielding buffalo of the 20 indigenous ones found in India. The animal has a massive body, a long head and neck, a short and tightly coiled horn, a well developed udder and broad hips. Each buffalo in the Nagori farms is given a carefully balanced diet totaling around 17 kilograms of feed per day to maintain its health as well as the consistency and quantity of the milk yield.

“The farms that move towards technologising their work will survive, the ones like ours will find it very difficult. This is also because finding labour is becoming troublesome,” Waqar says. His may be one of the last generations who will manually run the Nagori milk business. A trade-off between tradition and technology seems near-inevitable if the legacy enterprise is to survive.

The fodder comprises 2 kilograms of kapas khali [cottonseed cake], 1 kilogram each of toor chunni, makai chunni, and chana chunni—all husks of different pulses and grains. The buffaloes are also fed 2 kilograms of wheat bhusa [straw], 2 kilograms of paw beard [a legume-based fodder], 1 kilogram of broken biscuits (used as high-calorie feed), 3 kilograms of jawar kutti [chopped sorghum], and 4 kilograms of pinda grass, a nutritious green fodder. To boost energy and maintain health, an additional mix is given daily: 100 grams of gud [jaggery], 100 grams of oil, and 50 grams of a mineral supplement. As the heat in recent years has increased, jaggery has become an important part of the animals’ diet, especially during the summer months.

As evening arrives, the milking begins. The men collect the milk in buckets and then pour it into 25-litre and 40-litre cans. These are then loaded onto trucks and sent to milk collection centres. Meanwhile, the women help clean up by collecting cow dung in metal containers. Throughout the day, men spread hay and check on the animals. Above the main collection area, a low attic serves as a makeshift dormitory for many of the workers. It’s a tight space marked by small signs of domesticity like laundry fluttering in the windows and a towel slung over a railing.  

Under pressure

The Nagoris have a flourishing milk trade in Mumbai. Even in an economy marked by online deliveries and branded, mass-produced items, Nagori milk and milk products are an inextricable part of the city’s fabric, and the lives of patrons who have been visiting dairies since generations. Younger generations also seem inclined towards becoming integrated into the family trade because of the strong demand for their products. But a threat looms over this milk mini-industry. 

Waqar gestures toward the neighboring farms that still stand, but is uncertain about their collective future as dairy farmers.“In 2006-2007 we moved our Jogeshwari farm to Vasai. As cities continue to urbanise and populate these areas, it gets harder for us to run the business. There’s hardly any tabela left,” he says. His concern isn’t unfounded. High-rises are shooting into the sky just a stone’s throw away—silent signals of a city closing in, threatening to edge the farms out once more. Transportation has also become a major challenge in Mumbai’s socio-political landscape. Moving cattle from one place to another often involves long delays, inspections and even fines, even though the community works only with buffaloes and not cows. 

“The farms that move towards technologising their work will survive, the ones like ours will find it very difficult. This is also because finding labour is becoming troublesome,” Waqar says. His may be one of the last generations who will manually run the Nagori milk business. A trade-off between tradition and technology seems near-inevitable if the legacy enterprise is to survive.

Yet, there’s hope on the horizon. The Bombay Nagori Association is helping younger generations within the community to learn the ins and outs of a century-old trade by assisting with logistics, such as milk supply and setting up a milk centre or tea stall of their own. Some, such as Rizvi’s children, have stepped in to carry the legacy forward with the same dedication. Now a mentor, Rizvi guides not only his own children but also the younger members of the Bombay Nagori Association, ensuring the tradition lives on.

Quoting Allama Iqbal, a celebrated Urdu poet, Rizvi offers a parting thought:
“Zara nam ho to yeh mitti badi zarkhaiz hai, saqi.”
"Even a parched land can thrive, with the right care and spirit."

Nagori tea and milk—unassuming, essential—quietly sustains the city’s restless population, their makers largely invisible, working far from the spotlight. As the city continues to be reshaped by political upheaval and relentless technological change, this community clings to a tradition inherited from a bygone Mumbai, when trams rattled through the streets and life unfolded more deliberately. In the sweet creaminess of a Nagori chai, one tastes both comfort and a lost slowness. Every steaming cup of Nagori chai served on Mumbai’s street corners embodies both the spirit of survival and a living archive of migration and culture.

Also read: Eating healthy: Is take-out cheaper than cooking at home?

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The Plate and the Planet is a monthly column by Dr. Madhura Rao, a food systems researcher and science communicator, exploring the connection between the food on our plates and the future of our planet.

Across India, it is not uncommon to find people relying on nature and its signs to determine the course of their own actions, from farmers predicting monsoon showers by observing the movement of ants, to herders navigating pasture routes based on the flowering patterns of local trees. Practices, skills, and insights that emerge from a community’s long-standing relationship with its environment, often passed down through generations, are referred to as traditional knowledge. The term is often used interchangeably with ‘Indigenous knowledge’, particularly in contexts where settler communities form the majority of the population, such as in the US or parts of Latin America. In these settings, Indigenous communities are typically recognised as the primary custodians of place-based knowledge systems.

However, in the Indian context, the distinction is less clear-cut. Much of what is termed traditional knowledge is held not only by constitutionally recognised Indigenous communities (Adivasis), but also by a wide range of rural and agrarian communities who have co-evolved with their local environments over centuries. Therefore, for the purpose of this column, I use the term ‘traditional knowledge’ as an inclusive umbrella that encompasses the diverse, place-based knowledge systems developed and sustained by both Indigenous and non-Indigenous communities over generations.

Traditional knowledge vs. science 

In mainstream discourse, science typically refers to Western science—a system of knowledge production that privileges measurement, objectivity, and replicability. Built on principles of observation, experimentation, and statistical inference, it has yielded extraordinary insights into the natural world. It is, however, not the only way of knowing. Traditional knowledge, in contrast, emerges from long-term, lived engagement with particular landscapes. It is often transmitted orally, embedded in cultural rituals, and carried forward through everyday practices. 

The two knowledge systems differ not only in method, but also in worldview. Western science often draws boundaries between the empirical and the spiritual, and the observer and the observed. Traditional knowledge tends to be holistic, integrating material, moral, and metaphysical understandings of the world. This divergence, shaped by colonial histories that privileged European systems of knowledge while actively suppressing others, has led to the devaluation and erosion of traditional knowledge in our societies over time. 

Western science often draws boundaries between the empirical and the spiritual, and the observer and the observed. Traditional knowledge tends to be holistic, integrating material, moral, and metaphysical understandings of the world.

Indian agriculture’s divergence from tradition

Agriculture in India has a 10,000-year-old history. Traditional knowledge systems related to food, farming, and land management have evolved over millennia, closely attuned to local ecologies and cultural practices. But despite this rich inheritance of place-based knowledge, Indian agriculture has steadily shifted away from these practices over the past two centuries. This departure is rooted in a complex web of historical, economic, and political forces, beginning with colonialism and continuing through post-Independence development policies.

Under British rule, Indian agriculture was reshaped to serve imperial interests. A system of exploitative land taxation, combined with the expansion of railways–and thus, access to markets– incentivised farmers to abandon biodiverse, subsistence-oriented polycultures like bajra, legumes and pulses in favour of monocultures of cash crops such as cotton, jute, indigo, and opium. In the second half of the 19th century, these shifts not only displaced food crops like millets, but also eroded the role of local ecological knowledge in shaping farming practices.

A second major transformation came with the Green Revolution of the 1960s and 70s. Introduced as a solution to food shortages, it promoted high-yielding varieties of wheat and rice, supported by state subsidies for fertilisers, pesticides, and irrigation. These new varieties produced nearly 3-4 times more yield than the traditional wheat and rice crops–at nearly 4 tonnes per hectare, over a shorter cycle. So, while this model boosted short-term productivity, it created dependence on chemical inputs, reduced crop diversity, and displaced traditional practices such as intercropping, seed saving, and organic fertilisation. As subsidies declined, smallholder farmers, who form the backbone of Indian agriculture, became increasingly burdened by debt and lacked access to affordable credit or secure land tenure.

Indian agriculture today finds itself at a critical juncture. It is shaped by decades of structural dependence, yet there is growing awareness of the ecological and nutritional costs of marginalising knowledge systems that were once central to its sustainability. The shift toward input-intensive staple crops has depleted soils, drained groundwater, and introduced harmful pesticide residues into the food supply, while displacing diverse, traditionally grown foods—making nutritious diets increasingly unaffordable and out of reach for much of the population. The current food system may deliver in quantity but falters in quality, with long-term consequences for both public health and ecological resilience.

Also read: The circular bioeconomy movement can change how we see waste

Can traditional wisdom inform innovation?

In recent years, a number of initiatives have shown that traditional knowledge and science need not exist in opposition. When approached with mutual respect and institutional support, they can work in tandem to create food systems that are both ecologically sound and socially just.

The UN Food and Agriculture Organization’s Future Smart Foods (FSF) project, launched in 2018, offers an important example. The initiative aims to diversify food systems by identifying and promoting underutilised crops that are rich in nutrients, climate-resilient, economically viable, and locally available. West Bengal was one of the regions included in the effort. The process involved mapping agrobiodiversity by drawing on both scientific literature and consultations with local communities, helping to identify a range of crops that had long been part of local food cultures but were largely absent from mainstream agricultural policy. Some foods identified as part of this exercise include black rice (kalonunia), swamp taro, elephant foot yam (ol kachu), jackfruit, and moringa pods (drumsticks). Low input requirements and a strong tolerance to climate fluctuations make these foods especially suitable for smallholder cultivation. Based on this local knowledge, the FSF initiative compiled a set of priority crops now recognised as vital for enhancing dietary diversity, supporting livelihoods, and building resilience.

Indian agriculture today finds itself at a critical juncture. It is shaped by decades of structural dependence, yet there is growing awareness of the ecological and nutritional costs of marginalising knowledge systems that were once central to its sustainability.

A similar convergence of science and traditional knowledge can be seen in the popularisation of millets. Long ignored in national food policy, these climate-smart grains are once again being recognised for their nutritional value and cultural significance. Scientific research has helped validate their role in addressing malnutrition and supporting sustainable agriculture, leading to renewed policy attention–for instance, including Ragi, or finger millet, in public distribution systems and school meal programmes. The recent declaration of 2023 as the International Year of Millets by the United Nations marked a turning point in how these traditional crops are being reframed through both scientific and policy lenses.

The case of Sikkim, India’s first fully organic state, is another example that demonstrates how traditional agri-food knowledge can be supported and scaled through institutional mechanisms. Many farmers in the region had long relied on low-input, ecologically attuned practices such as  mulching with forest litter and crop residues, intercropping herbs like ginger and turmeric with staples such as buckwheat, beans, and tapioca to improve soil resilience, and using plant-based pest deterrents like neem and agave extracts. Farmers also practised nutrient cycling using forest biomass and employed terrace farming and local water diversion channels to prevent erosion and excessive run offs. 

The state’s organic policy, implemented over more than a decade, built upon this foundation by phasing out chemical fertilisers and pesticides, introducing organic certification, and offering training and subsidies. The policy helped legitimise traditional practices within formal systems, creating new economic and social value for local knowledge. Agricultural scientists worked alongside farmer networks, helping to document and refine existing techniques, while the state facilitated access to organic markets. 

However, the transition has not been without its challenges. Many farmers report declining yields for key crops like rice, maize, pulses, vegetables, and grains as pest management methods have proven insufficient and government support inconsistent. Organic inputs and training have not reached all cultivators, and critical data on pest attacks is lacking. And while the ‘organic’ label was expected to command higher prices, most farmers cannot access premium markets and remain dependent on middlemen. Certification costs are high, and commercial crops often receive policy preference over traditional food crops. Many also expressed dissatisfaction with the state's top-down approach, noting a lack of meaningful participation and democratic decision-making in the transition process.

Also read: The promises—and perils—of Indian aquaculture

Re-imagining what expertise looks like

A meaningful revival of traditional knowledge would require more than symbolic gestures or archival preservation. It would involve creating the conditions for these knowledge systems to be valued, practised, and allowed to evolve on their own terms; not as supplements to science, but as legitimate ways of understanding and engaging with the world. 

At present, the integration of traditional knowledge into formal systems remains uneven and often tokenistic. Communication barriers, conceptual mismatches, and deep-seated power imbalances continue to limit meaningful collaboration. Knowledge is frequently extracted from communities, decontextualised, and repackaged within scientific or policy frameworks, with little regard for the social, spiritual, or ethical dimensions from which it originates. 

Reviving traditional knowledge also means addressing the political and structural forces that have marginalised it. This includes recognising how colonial legacies, existing trade regimes, corporate hegemony, and gendered and caste-based power relations have shaped who gets to be seen as a knowledge holder. In many agroecological settings, women and caste-oppressed communities play a critical role in sustaining traditional knowledge. Yet their access to land, finance, and decision-making remains constrained. As Indian agriculture faces the twin challenges of feeding a growing population and adapting to climate change, it is essential to value the perspectives and knowledge that these communities bring to the table. Supporting their leadership should not be seen as an act of charity but a necessary step toward building a resilient, future-proof food system.

A meaningful revival must begin with the active involvement of knowledge holders in shaping research agendas, policies, and educational curriculums. Traditional knowledge should be documented through scientific but participatory methods that centre community voices and consent, rather than extractive research practices. Legal protections must be strengthened to prevent the appropriation or commercial exploitation of traditional knowledge without fair compensation. Public procurement programmes and agri-food subsidies should be restructured to support diverse, low-input farming systems rooted in local knowledge. And finally, a revival must be grounded in institutional humility—an openness to sharing authority and redefining what counts as expertise in the first place.

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Illustration by: Kaushani Mufti

Editor’s note: The last two decades have been witness to the rapid and devastating march of unchecked urbanisation and climate change in India’s cities. Among the first victims of this change is freshwater and access to it—from rivers which sustained local ecosystems, to lakes and groundwater which quenched the thirst of residents. In this series, the Good Food Movement examines the everyday realities of neglect and pollution. It documents the vanishing and revival of water bodies, and community action that made a difference.

In an ever-expanding city of 1.4 crore people, where food, language, and socioeconomic class can range wildly from district to district, no question animates the entirety of Bengaluru quite like this one, even if the danger is not the same for everyone. 

In 2024, the city was reminded of just how close it lives to disaster. Around 40% of Bengaluru relies on groundwater, which plummeted after little rain fell in 2023 and the early months of 2024. Roughly half of the city’s 13,900 borewells ran dry. Private tanker trucks jacked up their prices, forcing residents to pool their cash to buy water just so they could shower every other day.

Even the city’s wealthy residents started using their own bathrooms sparingly, showering at work or at nearby gyms. Those who rely on piped water from the Kaveri River were better off–but they, too, were told to use only wastewater when watering their plants.

The onset of rains in late 2024 and early 2025 has prevented a repeat of the crisis this year, but the base condition of Bengaluru’s water supply is nonetheless getting worse. Still, if the city got through last year largely unscathed, what would it take to bring about a genuine catastrophe? Is there a point at which Bengaluru could actually run out of water? 

If you’re looking for a specific date, you’re going to be disappointed–but the randomness of the actual answer is only a little less concerning. For Bengaluru, a water crisis is never more than a few fallen dominoes away.

Also read: The grave personal cost of pesticide use

Shrinking green cover, unchecked development

Like most other cities in India, Bengaluru’s water supply (or lack thereof) hinges primarily on rainfall. There’s evidence that climate change has actually delivered more rain to the city than it would otherwise have received over the past few years–but this rain often comes in rough torrents that are difficult for the Kaveri and the earth to absorb, as opposed to steady showers that lead to a stable recharge and supply. 

Rampant and unplanned development has not helped. The Kaveri’s water comes from the Western Ghats, where the expansion of coffee plantations and tourist resorts has ripped up so many trees that the ground funneling water into the river can no longer hold much moisture, according to Krishna Raj, a water supply expert at the Institute for Social and Economic Change.

Rain can’t refresh groundwater at the rate it’s being extracted, because the rain simply can’t find the ground.

Chaotic, unplanned development is also an enormous problem for Bengalurueans who get their water from underneath their feet. Bengaluru’s population has exploded since the turn of the millennium, and the city has responded by expanding like an overflowing lake. In 2007, administrators inflated the official size of the city to encompass all the new communities popping up in the outskirts, which were even less planned than the old ones. A lot of these newly included areas were “revenue layouts”—areas that were originally agricultural land that hadn’t been formally converted to residential use. So, at the time, none of these districts had access to a piped water supply. 

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Private tankers filled this gap, plundering groundwater in an ever-expanding radius and selling it to residents at prices that go up as water levels go down. Groundwater is replenishable, but an estimated 93% of the city’s earth will be paved over with asphalt or concrete by the end of 2025. Bengaluru’s green cover has also shriveled from 68% in the 1970s down to just 3% today. Rain can’t refresh groundwater at the rate it’s being extracted, because the rain simply can’t find the ground. It flows down streets and tries to escape through overwhelmed stormwater drains, which is why parts of the city flood about 20 minutes into a decent downpour. 

Also read: RTI Act: A powerful tool in fighting hunger

Unsustainable reliance on groundwater

It’s easy to think of groundwater as an infinite resource. We can’t see it, and officials who have the tools to measure groundwater and its extraction just aren’t doing it accurately. Earlier this year, for instance, the Bangalore Water Supply and Sewerage Board (BWSSB) reported that extraction is at 800 million litres per day (MLD), while an independent report identified it as 1,392 MLD. There is also a severe lack of adequate monitoring systems and manpower that can span the intricate network of borewells in the city.

What we do know is that groundwater levels are nosediving. According to KC Subhash Chandra, an urban groundwater management expert who used to work for Karnataka’s Department of Mines and Geology, borewells are now being drilled beyond depths of 500 meters. Borewells that deep have likely dug 100-200 meters into Bengaluru’s layer of hard rock, which means they are sucking up possibly ancient water from an underground region that probably can’t be replenished within many human lifetimes. 

Even if the water below the city never dries up, pulling it to the surface will cost more and more money, which will make it increasingly difficult for residents to afford. 

“If the extraction and mining of groundwater is taking place continuously, about three-four times more than the recharge, then naturally there will not be any water,” Chandra says. The city is consistently extracting water from the ground at an unsustainable rate: in 2023, extraction was reported to be over 1300 MLD, when nature only replenishes 148 MLD through green spaces and water bodies. Even if the water below the city never dries up, pulling it to the surface will cost more and more money, which will make it increasingly difficult for residents to afford. 

Groundwater can also be a dangerous thing to rely on even before it begins to run out. Most lakes in Bengaluru are clouded with sewage, and some tankers draw their groundwater from wells that rely on those lakes for their supply, according to Priyanka Jamwal, a water quality expert at the Ashoka Trust for Research in Ecology and the Environment. "People don’t have any option,” Jamwal says. “Even if groundwater is contaminated, what do we do?”

The prescriptions for these problems are all things you’ve probably read before. Developers should stop chopping down trees in parts of the Western Ghats that are important to the Kaveri. Apartments, hotels, houses, and other buildings should all be fitted with rainwater storage tanks, and the government should make sure that this actually happens. Lakes need to be allowed to expand into areas that have been paved over, and they should be cleaned up so that the water seeping underground is safe to drink. Several experts were at pains to point out that Bengaluru actually gets enough water to satisfy the demands of its booming population–for one, through a stormwater flow of nearly 17,500 hectare metres of rainwater every monsoon season. It just wastes the vast majority of it. 

It would be easy to invoke a sense of urgency about all this if the city’s water supply had a definitive endpoint, but the nebulousness of the truth is in some ways more frightening. 

Also read: The circular bioeconomy movement can change how we see waste

Bengaluru’s water supply is threatened by a range of problems, and these problems can compound at any time to plunge the city into crisis. Let’s say Bengaluru gets very little rain in 2026. People on the outskirts will have to drill more borewells to compensate, depleting the groundwater supply even further. The city manages to get through the year, but 2027 also brings hardly any rain. A few big storms dump massive amounts of water on the city in a matter of hours, but almost all of it rushes off the pavement and into polluted sewers. Borewells were already drying up, and now they are failing at catastrophic rates. The city can’t dig enough new wells to keep up with demand, and suddenly, that demand includes the center of the city, because the piped water supply from the Kaveri is failing. Decades of deforestation have dried out the river’s supply of water, and two years of little rain have turned the artery of South India into a shriveled creek. Bottled water becomes Bengaluru’s last resort, but prices are so high that only the wealthy can afford to stock up, and even they soon struggle to find any.

Bengaluru will not necessarily run out of water in five, 10, or even 100 years, but so long as the city wastes its supply, the possibility of running dry will never be more than a few years away. 

Illustration by: Kaushani Mufti

Produced by Nevin Thomas and Neerja Deodhar