From first aid, to CPR, to breastfeeding, to Oral Rehydration Solutions (ORS), Dr. Sivaranjani Santosh has ignited a change in the minds of parents by busting common paediatric myths that often do the rounds. Her manner is known to be sensible and calm, but she is equal parts fearless as she (publicly) calls out influencers who spread misinformation—not out of malice, but because she knows how inaccurate tips and advice can impact one’s health.

In the process, she has garnered over 452K followers on Instagram, but Dr. Sivaranjani is more than the storms she stirs on social media. A paediatrician with over two decades of experience, she began her career in hospitals where she was involved in neonatal care. Eventually, she shifted to independent consultations at her clinic at Magna Centres, Hyderabad, carefully moving her focus to preventative paediatrics: teaching good practices and accident prevention to parents, who could then minimise visits to doctors. 

In 2018, one of her patients asked her if she can give her son ORSL when he is dehydrated. “It is ORS only, no? Give,” Dr. Sivaranjani replied. A few days later, the child was hospitalised, and the doctor faced with a puzzling question: how did her patient get so dehydrated despite drinking ORS, a solution specifically made for rehydration? When she asked to see the packet, she realised this product was not ORS—it had 10 times the sugar that ORS should! This shocking discovery became the basis of her fight against misleading ORS labels—a fight that has lasted eight years, and is now tantalisingly close to resolution. 

The origins of ORS: a brief history

The invention of ORS was premised on the sodium glucose co-transporter. Essentially, this method uses osmosis to hydrate our body. “ORS has exactly 75 millimoles per litre of both sodium and glucose. This is because one ion of sodium and one molecule of glucose will work together to drag water from the gut into the bloodstream using the sodium glucose co-transporter, where the body can utilise it,” Dr. Sivaranjani explains. 

Dehydration is no ordinary matter; diarrhoeal diseases have historically been a major cause of child mortality, and continue to be the third-largest cause of death for children under 5 years of age worldwide. Every year, 1 to 3 lakh children die due to diarrhoea in India, Dr. Sivaranjani informs. It is something paediatricians continue to see in their clinics regularly, and they are deeply engaged in mitigating it. Irrespective of the cause, the resultant dehydration makes it deadly, because it robs our body of water and essential salts.

Symptomatically, it presents itself in the form of irritability, drowsiness, decreased urine output, sunken and dry eyes, dry mouth, and decreased skin turgor (elasticity). Slowly, the blood pressure of the individual falls, and multi-organ dysfunction may occur. Internally, it impairs organ function. Diarrhoeal dehydration is especially bad for us because the pace at which water and minerals are expelled is far greater, and the body’s timeframe to respond is shorter. The kidneys, particularly, are put under stress, and recurring dehydration has been linked with renal damage. In adults, this risk tends to be the greatest for diabetics and kidney patients. Children have a far lower threshold for fluid loss, making them especially vulnerable. A disproportionate number of these deaths continue to come from lower or lower-middle income countries, driven by contaminated water and poor sanitation. 

The origins of ORS are an important reminder that it is a life-saving drug, and has been one since the very beginning.

Back in the 1960s, the disease was far more deadly; children would routinely die of cholera, dysentery, and other diarrhoeal diseases. The worst part is, these diseases were preventable and treatable even then, but the only way that doctors knew how to was through the intravenous (IV) fluid therapy. This required imported, breakable materials (like needles and glass bottles) and trained personnel to administer it. It was not a practical solution for a disease that spread like a wildfire. 

Many scientists sought less-intensive solutions, and in 1953, Calcutta-based doctor Hemendra Nath Chatterjee even published a proposed formula for an oral rehydration solution in The Lancet. However, his findings did not capture the public imagination. It would take two decades, a war, and a quick-thinking Bengali paediatrician to do that. It was 1971, and a violent conflict was underway—one that would eventually lead to the genesis of Bangladesh. Refugees poured into India from the border; they would have to live in cramped unsanitary camps where they starved, contracted cholera and succumbed to it. 

At this time, Dr. Dilip Mahalanabis was at the frontlines, working with Calcutta’s Johns Hopkins University International Centre for Medical Research and Training (JH-CMRT). Johns Hopkins sent a team to Bangaon, a municipality close to the India-and-erstwhile-East-Pakistan border, where Dr. Mahalanabis and his team were assigned with treating cholera-ridden patients.

It was immediately clear that there were not enough IV fluids, nor enough doctors to administer them. In a moment of inspiration, Dr. Mahalanabis turned to easily available ingredients—sodium, glucose, and bicarbonate—to prepare an easy-to-administer solution. The results were astounding: the case fatality rate of cholera fell from 30% to 1%. The simplicity and sweeping success of this solution made it gain acceptance across the globe. The origins of ORS are an important reminder that it is a life-saving drug, and has been one since the very beginning. 

The 1:1 ratio Dr. Mahalanabis devised helps the sodium and glucose work in tandem. If either amount increases, it results in osmosis of water in the opposite direction—from the bloodstream to the gut—and worsens dehydration. This is why the World Health Organization (WHO)-recommended formula is sacrosanct: when coupled with its associated instructions, it ensures rehydration. For instance, depending on the packet size, the amount of water required for the solution changes: India has a 4.1 g version of ORS to be emptied into 200 ml water, and a 20.5 g version that needs to be emptied in 1 litre of water.

That said, the ORS we drink today is not quite the same as the one prepared by Dr. Mahalanabis all those decades ago. In 1984, the WHO revised Dr. Mahalanabis’s formula, replacing sodium bicarbonate with trisodium citrate to improve its stability in hot and humid climates. It also added potassium chloride to the formula to replenish the body’s supply of both potassium ions. Subsequently, in 2003, it reduced the concentration of sodium and glucose in the solution, which further reduced vomiting, stools and cases requiring IV treatment. 

Also read: Add crisis to cart: Why instant delivery and antibiotics don't mix

Regulatory loop

In this landscape, there has been an emergence of electrolyte-filled fruit juices in pharmacies, general stores and quick commerce platforms, whose names—cushioned by various prefixes and suffixes—sound eerily similar to ORS. Since they are mainly sold at chemist shops, people often mistake these juices to be ORS. They assume that they got more dehydrated in spite of having ORS; in reality, they got more dehydrated because of this supposed rehydrating solution, an imbalanced formulation of sodium and glucose. The average affected patient never realises what transpired, and the makers of the juices are never held accountable. The first of these products was launched in 2014; other brands caught on to this strategy by 2018, and some have released as recently as 2024. These products, spilling over into the lifestyle category, are still considered part of the Rs. 1000 crore ORS market. 

Naturally, one might ask: is this even legal? Sadly, the answer is yes. These brands register their products with the Food Safety and Standards Authority of India (FSSAI) and not the Central Drugs Standard Control Organisation (CDSCO), since they are technically classified as beverages, not drugs. “What the FSSAI has to do is determine whether it is safe or not. That's all. There are regulations about the sugar level in any Tetra Pack drink. They have to check whether it meets those norms. They don't have to check whether it is the WHO-recommended formula ORS or not,” says Dr. Sivaranjani. The use of loopholes like this is what the paediatrician finds devious, and indicative of a disregard for patient safety. 

In India, there is no law regulating the sale of non-medicinal items by chemists, and it is quite common for chemists to store FMCG products as well. FMCG companies have exploited this regulatory lacuna by incorporating sales at chemist shops as part of a larger strategy to build credibility, especially in health adjacent products. Another trust-building activity is through a massive media machinery, built on promotions by both celebrities and acclaimed medical professionals. 

The fight

When Dr. Sivaranjani first realised what was happening, she started combating it by telling everyone about it—her patients, her peers, and through social media, the public at large. In January 2018, she started an Instagram channel, and by March 2018, she was on YouTube as well. She would also cover first aid and other basics of paediatrics in videos—speaking in both Telugu and English.

However, at some point, Dr. Sivaranjani realised that making people aware was only one half of the task; convincing regulators to take action was the other half. In 2021, she started writing to the CDSCO. Though they first asked her for proof documentation, they eventually directed her to the FSSAI since these products were registered under the FSSAI, and not CDSCO. Dr. Sivaranjani wrote to the FSSAI regularly to no avail; she started writing to the central health ministry too, simultaneously. This paid off, and finally in early 2022, the central health ministry directed the FSSAI to look into it. In April 2022, the FSSAI released an order terming the use of ORS-like terms in fruit beverages as ‘Misbranded Food’ and banned the use of such terms in labels and advertisements. Naturally, these companies didn’t want to have to change their brand names—names they had poured money into building loyal consumers for. They argued that they had valid trademarks for these names, and the FSSAI yielded in July 2022, allowing them to retain trademarked ORS-like names, at least until the Controller General of Patents, Designs and Trade Marks (CGPDTM) reviewed their situation. 

In this landscape, there has been an emergence of electrolyte-filled fruit juices in pharmacies, general stores and quick commerce platforms, whose names—cushioned by various prefixes and suffixes—sound eerily similar to ORS.

The only additional condition the FSSAI imposed was that these companies had to declare, on the front of the pack, that their product is not the WHO-recommended ORS. In February 2024, the Controller General upheld the FSSAI’s July 2022 order—the trademarked false ORS brands could stay as long as they made their disclaimers. 

Dr. Sivaranjani explains why these disclaimers don’t work: “That disclaimer appears in such small print that nobody even bothers to read it. And they have continued their business everywhere—in all pharmacies, all hospitals, all clinics. Even ICU patients are being given these drinks.” Thanks to her personal outreach and social media presence, some hospitals have stopped keeping these beverages in their pharmacies, but these much-needed measures are coming from individual practitioners, not from the brands that are claiming to be committed to patient welfare. 

The risk posed by mislabelled ORS is increasing because people are turning to it to mitigate not only diarrhoea-induced dehydration, but also heatwave-induced dehydration. The intense heatwaves India has experienced over the past few summers bear witness to this: last year, 6.8 lakh sachets of ORS were sold in the month of May alone; and this year, there was a Rs. 21 crore jump in earnings from ORS sales as early as March. Demand for the drug lasts well into the monsoon as water-borne diseases find prevalence. As extreme climate events increase, the reliance on ORS is only going to intensify.  

“Once they reverted the order, what else could I do?” says Dr. Siavaranjani. “I had no other choice. I had to file a Public Interest Litigation in the Telangana High Court.” She moved the court to take action against authorities for failing to prosecute companies engaged in misleading labelling and advertising of ORS. 

However, at some point, Dr. Sivaranjani realised that making people aware was only one half of the task; convincing regulators to take action was the other half.

This made her fight more public than ever. In March of 2024, on the day before her first court hearing, Dr. Sivaranjani put up a heartfelt post on Instagram about the despair that comes with a fight that gets dragged on for so long while the children of our country continue to suffer. She did not envisage the outpouring of support that one spontaneous post would create—but she is grateful for it. Many doctors online amplified the cause, and helped strengthen public support for Dr. Sivaranjani’s petition. But more importantly, they gave her the hope to keep going. “Many influencers and doctors are supporting [this cause]. People are supporting [it]. I’m feeling more empowered.”

In 2025, the Endocrine Society of India and Women Pediatricians Forum impleaded in her case, adding further to the soundness of the plea. The case, being heard by the Chief Justice of Telangana High Court, is still underway and has had only two hearings so far. In June 2025, she wrote once again to the Ministry of Health and Family Welfare and the Prime Minister's Office with proof about fruit beverages.

The last leg

Things took a turn on October 14, when the FSSAI withdrew the two previous orders which required these misleading brands to print disclaimers: July 2022 and February 2024. The next day, the FSSAI issued a clarification regarding the withdrawal, asserting that the use of the term ORS, even with prefixes or suffixes, is in violation of the Food Safety and Standards Act, counts as a misleading label, and is liable for punishment accordingly with immediate effect. 

On 16 October, JNTL Consumer Health (India) Pvt. Ltd, which manufactures ORSL, approached the Delhi High Court, arguing that this order was too sudden, revoked prior permissions the company had secured, and would cause significant commercial loss given the company’s unsold stock amounting to Rs.155-180 crores. On 17 October, the Delhi High Court stayed the FSSAI order, asserting that JNTL had the right to present its side, and gave the company a week to make its representation on the matter. Justice Sachin Datta stressed that FSSAI cannot implement its directive till the company is given adequate opportunity of hearing. After giving these directions, the Delhi High Court disposed of the petition, leaving the final decision up to the FSSAI.

Over the past week, there has been public outrage at the continued sales of these beverages.

Nothing was heard from the FSSAI. It is unknown if JNTL made its representation or not. But Dr. Sivaranjani says that regardless of whether the representation was made, the FSSAI should have acted. “Either JNTL gave a representation and the FSSAI should have given its decision saying they are implementing the order of 14 and 15 October. If JNTL did not give a representation within the stipulated time, they should have gone ahead and implemented the order,” she said.

Over the past week, there has been public outrage at the continued sales of these beverages. However, zonal officers claim powerlessness in stopping sales until directives come from the Centre. In a Times of India report, additional safety controller, FSSAI (Telangana) P Dharmender, confirmed that they had served notices to these companies to stop production, but until they receive new directions from the FSSAI headquarters in New Delhi, they cannot enforce the ban.

In the meantime, Dr. Sivaranjani urges consumers to let their actions speak. “Boycott these companies and pharmacies if they try to push these liquids into the bodies of our children," she said on her social media account. 

Despite these twists and turns, the doctor’s spirits remain bolstered thanks to public support: “I have faith that yes, maybe it will happen. Though the road still looks a little long, I think we will reach the end.”

Artwork by Nayanika Chatterjee

Also read: How drug-resistant tuberculosis is bringing life to a halt in India

Edited by Neerja Deodhar and Anushka Mukherjee

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For decades, the question of what India eats has been shaped more by policy than by the plate. Starting from the 1960s and 70s, the Green Revolution put rice and wheat at the centre of our food system. In the face of famine and dwindling reserves, experts agreed to focus on these two cereals instead of millets. The reason? The yield on millets was low. Rice and wheat cultivation, on the other hand, could be scaled economically.

Among other factors, the genetic material and knowledge needed to develop high-yielding varieties (HYVs) of rice and wheat already existed in countries like Japan and China; scientists could quickly use these existing genetically modified varieties to cross with and engineer a solution to the problem at hand. But this decision pushed indigenous grains like ragi to the margins.

Policy choices entrenched this divide further. From the 1960s, government procurement, subsidies, and research investments overwhelmingly favoured rice and wheat. These crops became central to India’s food security strategy under the Public Distribution System (PDS), which bought and distributed them at subsidised rates. Millets, meanwhile, received little institutional support — no assured markets, storage, or price incentives — pushing farmers to abandon them despite their local adaptability.

But now, as the country faces erratic monsoons, depleting groundwater, and rising incidence of lifestyle diseases, the debate between choosing to grow and eat ragi vs rice is no longer just about taste or tradition — it’s about survival.

Also read: Why India should invest in ragi and its climate resilience

Nutritional differences

When it comes to nutrition, the difference is stark: A 100g serving of ragi or finger millet contains about 336 calories, 7–13g of protein, 70–80g of carbohydrates, and about 3g of fiber. It’s rich in iron, magnesium, and especially calcium—offering nearly 344 mg per 100g, one of the highest among cereals. Its glycaemic index (GI) ranges between 54 and 68, meaning it releases sugar slowly into the bloodstream, helping regulate blood sugar levels. Fermenting, sprouting or “malting” ragi–which can easily be done at home, too–unlocks the bioavailability of its nutrients, making them easier to absorb and digest. 

Polished white rice, by contrast, delivers around 365 calories per 100g (uncooked), similar protein (6–7g), but almost no fiber or micronutrients—most are lost when the bran and germ are removed during milling. Its GI often ranges from 70 to 100, depending on the variety, leading to quicker spikes in blood sugar. The only significant mineral left is manganese.

Polished white rice, by contrast, delivers around 365 calories per 100g (uncooked), similar protein (6–7g), but almost no fiber or micronutrients—most are lost when the bran and germ are removed during milling.

That’s why discussions around rice fortification have become so common — because most of what we eat has already been stripped bare. Ragi, on the other hand, provides a natural multivitamin in grain form. Ragi has more nutritional properties than rice. Traditionally, growing ragi meant a balanced diet for the entire family throughout the year.

Diversity in the farm

The contrast isn’t bound to the table — it starts in the soil.

Rice is often cultivated as a monocrop, grown across large, water-intensive fields. It requires standing water or controlled irrigation, has traditionally relied on the heavy use of fertilisers and pesticides, and uniform planting for mechanical harvesting. In return, it gives high yields, but at a cost. India’s paddy fields guzzle nearly 4,000–5,000 litres of water per kg of rice, making it one of the most water-hungry staples in the world.

Ragi, in comparison, is a climate-resilient crop that thrives in dryland conditions on rainfed land. It can grow with just a few monsoon showers, on drier soils, and with minimal external inputs. It matures in 100–130 days, stores well for years, and rarely faces pest attacks.

India’s paddy fields guzzle nearly 4,000–5,000 litres of water per kg of rice, making it one of the most water-hungry staples in the world.

Traditionally, ragi wasn’t grown alone. It was part of Akkadi Saalu, the Kannada term for a mixed-cropping system where up to seven or eight crops—including pulses, oilseeds, and vegetables—were cultivated together. This not only insured families against risk if one crop failed, but made sure they had diverse sources of food and nutrition year-round.

Growing ragi along with 7–8 other crops meant a complete diet — grains, greens, pulses — all from one field. But mechanisation changed that. Machine sowing and harvesting work best for uniform fields. Slowly, the multi-crop tapestry disappeared, and ragi, too, became a monocrop. This can affect the crop’s yield, the health of the soil and its resilience against climate shocks. 

Also read: Summer ragi: How Kolhapur farmers' millet experiment became a success story

Climate resilience: A grain for the future

Ragi’s resilience is not romantic nostalgia; it’s agronomic science. The crop evolved for semi-arid, rainfed ecosystems, thriving where most cereals fail. According to the Tamil Nadu Agricultural University’s crop guides, rice typically requires around 1,100–1,250 mm of water over its growing period, while ragi can grow successfully with as little as 350–400 mm of seasonal rainfall in semi-arid regions.

Unlike rice, it does not emit methane during cultivation, making it a low-emission cereal—critical in the context of agriculture’s growing carbon footprint.

Its root system is fibrous and deep, helping it draw moisture from lower soil layers and prevent erosion. It also improves soil structure and organic matter, which enhances water retention for subsequent crops. Because it’s largely pest- and disease-resistant, farmers can avoid pesticide dependence, making it ideal for low-input, organic, or regenerative systems.

Ragi’s short growing season makes it adaptable to erratic monsoon patterns. It can be sown late, intercropped with pulses, or grown as a catch crop after early rains (catch crops are fast-growing crops that are planted post the harvest season and prior to the sowing season of a main crop, to improve soil health, prevent erosion and to avoid leaving the farm fallow). Unlike rice, it does not emit methane during cultivation, making it a low-emission cereal—critical in the context of agriculture’s growing carbon footprint.

However, it’s also important to understand that both ragi and rice have evolved according to the seasonal patterns of different regions. For instance, only paddy can grow in farms that flood during the monsoon and have stagnant water. Both rice and ragi have their own footholds in our body’s nutritional requirements. Neither can be unequivocally substituted by the other.

Historically skewed policies of grain procurement have started to shift – but change is slow. For instance, during the 2022-23 season the government approved the procurement of 13.28 lakh tonnes of millets and coarse‐grains (including the likes of ragi) for inclusion in the PDS, yet only about 17% of this figure was actually procured. Meanwhile, rice procurement stood at 520 lakh tonnes in the same fiscal year. In the 2023-24 season, at least six states committed to distributing coarse grains during the Kharif marketing season (as part of the National Food Safety Act, 2013), partially replacing rice and wheat – but procurement remained low, once again. 

In many parts of Karnataka, Tamil Nadu, and Odisha, ragi is being reintroduced in climate adaptation programmes (despite facing hurdles) because it’s less risky under unpredictable weather. Where paddy fails after a drought or delayed monsoon, ragi still grows, securing both income and nutrition for farming households. It doesn’t let people go hungry.

In moving from millet diversity to cereal uniformity, India traded resilience for productivity, nutrition for calories. As the UN’s International Year of Millets (2023) reminded us, they are the ‘future of food’ precisely because they were once the past.

If rice built modern India, ragi may help sustain it.

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Rice takes many different forms, and keenly embraces even more companions. Puffed rice in snacks, poha with some chai, and of course, the classic basmati—fluffed and steamed—do pull on our collective heartstrings. But there’s a new boss in town: a shiny “power rice”, built in with extra nutrients such as iron and folic acid. This special rice, which is now available across all states through the Public Distribution System (PDS), is a prominent example of fortified foods. But rice isn’t our first encounter with this technological intervention. 

Chances are, you’re consuming items that have been fortified with a myriad of micronutrients to address India’s nutrient-deficient diet.

India has been experimenting with many such fortification programmes, and its first public health success emerged in the decades after Independence with a universal salt-iodisation scheme in 1962 to curb rising levels of goitre. Today, iodised salt is a ubiquitous presence across the PDS, neighbourhood kirana stores and high-end supermarkets. With these triumphs and a growing international consensus, India has pushed for large-scale fortification programmes for multiple staple foods, including oil and milk. Chances are, you’re consuming items that have been fortified with a myriad of micronutrients to address India’s nutrient-deficient diet. Experts bring up food fortification as a solution, but what does it mean and entail? 

First, the basics

The World Health Organization (WHO) defines food fortification as “the practice of deliberately increasing the content of one or more micronutrients in a food or condiment.” This process contributes to public health interventions in the following ways:

• As an internationally accepted practice, it is considered relatively safe, given necessary precautions are taken
• Fortification is a cost-effective initiative. Research by Dalberg indicates that the retail price for fortified food is only 3-7% higher than unfortified food (the study however, does highlight that infrastructure costs are high for small manufacturers). Fortification costs Rs 0.40-1.30 per person per day depending on the micronutrients added 
• Fortified foods are often enriched. This means that nutrients lost during processing are added back to the food product
• Fortified food is not consumed whole, but blended in with regular food carriers: for every 100g of fortified rice, only 1g would be fortified rice kernels; the rest is regular milled rice

These benefits are the foundational basis for the country’s decision to further engage with the practice, as seen in its effort to reduce cases of iron-deficiency anaemia. Anaemia is a blood disorder caused by a lack of healthy red blood cells, or haemoglobin (the protein present in red blood cells), making it harder to carry oxygen to the body’s various tissues. The disease is associated with symptoms like fatigue and shortness of breath. In children, it can affect motor development. While mild anaemia is widespread and treatable, severe forms of anaemia such as sickle cell anaemia and severe thalassemia pose risks of organ damage and heart failure. Following a diet plan and taking supplements is the standard treatment for mild anaemia. However, if untreated, it can turn into a severe condition. 

According to the National Health Survey-5 (2019-2021), 67.1% of children aged between 6 and 59 months suffer from anaemia, with women and pregnant women–both aged between 15 and 49–following suit at 57% and 52.2%, respectively. 

Recognising a need to avert this health crisis, the centre launched the scheme Anemia Mukt Bharat in 2018, which employs a 6-pronged approach—one of which mandates the distribution of iron- and folic acid-fortified rice through government-funded public health programmes. These include the PDS, ICDS (Integrated Child Development Services) and PM-POSHAN (previously Mid Day Meal), making fortified food accessible to anyone who holds a ration card. In principle, these distribution channels are able to serve a greater population, though supply chains differ from state to state. 

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

Food + nutrient 

With the fight against anaemia being a focal point of these efforts, “power rice” is central to the conversation about fortification in India. Attention is also being given to wheat fortification. In April 2025, the state of Uttar Pradesh declared its strategy to expand the distribution of iron-fortified rice and further introduce fortified wheat with assistance from the Food Safety & Standards Authority of India (FSSAI) and international organisations like the Global Alliance for Improved Nutrition (GAIN) and the World Food Programme (WFP). The state of Odisha is set to introduce vitamin-fortified milk for vulnerable children through the PM-POSHAN, targeting 44.7 lakh students. 

At present, large-scale staple food fortification in India is focused on five food items:

To put things in perspective, an average adult male (aged 19-50) requires 8 mg of iron per day, and a female in the same age range requires 18 mg of iron. Pregnant individuals require 27 mg per day. Yet, increasing iron-deficiency is considered a key cause for anaemia. Vitamin deficiency also proves to be an alarming crisis—Vitamin B12 deficiency, another anaemia causative factor, affects almost half of the Indian population. Furthermore, the Indian Council for Research on International Economic Relations (ICRIER)’s report on Vitamin D deficiency published October 2025 highlights that one in every five Indians is Vitamin D deficient, with women across age groups being more vulnerable. The report signals to FAO and WHO’s guide to food fortification to eliminate deficiencies. 

The FSSAI regulates standards on fortification with the Food Safety and Standards (Fortification of Foods) Regulations, 2018, under the Food Safety and Standards Act, 2006 (34 of 2006). Additionally, these regulations define the lower and upper limit of added micronutrients and mandate that no manufacturer involved in the fortification falls lower than 10% of the declared value. The maximum limit should be complied with, as specified in Schedule I of the regulations.

Food processing differs from food to food, and even the nutrient is added in different forms. Rice, for example, is ground to make rice flour, and then enriched with a nutrient premix. After adding adequate moisture, it is then shaped in kernels. Fortified rice kernels are opaque and rounder compared to regular rice. After drying and quality checks, it is blended with regular milled rice. This ratio ranges from 1:50 to 1:100.   

There is always a set ratio for fortified food. For every litre of fortified edible oil, there are 25000 IU of vitamin A and 2000 IU of vitamin D. For fortified milk, the acceptable ratio is between 1:50 and 1:100. According to Dr Nandeep ER, a PhD student at Cornell University and formerly a scientist at the ICMR–National Institute of Nutrition (ICMR-NIN), Hyderabad, this ratio is determined according to the amount of nutrients that will be delivered to the body upon consumption. At last, Food Safety Officers effectively test the product for quality and safety compliance post-manufacturing.

The FSSAI sets criteria for quality assurance, labelling and packaging. Fortified foods carry a ‘+F’ label, occasionally with the tagline ‘Sampoorna Poshan Swasth Jeevan’. The packaging must also carry details about the fortificant. Fun fact: iodised salt is exempt from this regulation. Double fortified salt (carrying iron and iodine) carries the label. 

Also read: Mess on my plate: How Indian students are fixing their college diets

The impact

Over the last five years, fortification efforts have seen a substantial increase. However, there are questions about whether the ubiquitous fortified rice is able to achieve its primary goal of reducing anaemia cases in the country. 

There are risks associated with consumption if an individual is predisposed to genetic blood disorders like sickle cell anaemia and thalassaemia. The situation was worsened by the lack of a warning label before 2021, now mandated by the Food Safety Authority to alert those with the disorder. While warning labels are not an international standard, India has a considerable number of people affected by these conditions, especially in vulnerable groups who effectively become the primary beneficiaries. Despite endless debate, the Ministry of Consumer Affairs, Food and Public Distribution maintains that fortified food is completely safe. In the same year, 510 tonnes of fortified rice expired and were then sold as animal feed in the state of Tamil Nadu upon failing to meet quality standards. 

In 2024, the Madras High Court urged the centre to investigate the potential risk factors associated with fortified rice when dealing with two PILs. In 2022, protests by members of the Wayanadan Chetty community in Kerala highlighted the adverse effects of FRK (fortified rice kernel) on its population predisposed to these hereditary disorders. As a state with multiple indigenous rice varieties, the FRK was also believed to be against their agricultural heritage. They also questioned the effectiveness of the programme. 

Similarly, Jharkhand’s Dalbhumgarh and Chakulia blocks—some of the first districts to receive fortified rice because of their established rice mill network—expressed concerns over the quality of the fortified rice. For people well-versed with cultivating rice, the residents found the fortified rice to be something alien. Jharkhand also reflected the inconsideration made to anaemic cases not induced by iron deficiency. Fortified rice has even been labelled as “plastic rice” by some. 

Experts assert that fortification alone is not the solution for malnutrition; in order to combat specific diseases like anaemia, it is imperative to pay heed to other causes of the disease. It is a condition that can develop due to multiple reasons: diet, undetected blood loss, unprescribed medication usage, medical conditions that hinder iron absorption and other chronic ailments. Iron deficiency makes up for less than a third of anaemia cases. It can also be caused due to poor absorption of Vitamin B12, which ultimately gets addressed through recent fortification efforts. Interestingly, vitamin C, essential for iron absorption, is absent from the government’s policy. 

Pregnant women are prone to anaemia due to a higher blood volume. The Anemia Mukt Bharat scheme has attempted to screen for non-nutritional causes of anaemia, which include inherited disorders. Mission Poshan 2.0, a flagship programme rolled out by the Centre, also employs fortification along with promoting diet diversification to address malnutrition and its adverse effects (beside anaemia and stunting alone). Moreover, environmental factors, such as air pollution also contribute to an increasing number of anaemia patients, both demand more attention. 

Experts assert that fortification alone is not the solution for malnutrition; in order to combat specific diseases like anaemia, it is imperative to pay heed to other causes of the disease

Vaishnavi Iyer, a public health and social policy professional, previously with the Maharashtra Woman and Child Development Department, stresses that it is not simple to determine immediate results with an approach like food fortification, especially with the number of people affected by the anaemia in the country. Yet, she emphasises its widened scope proves to be beneficial. “When you consider other alternatives and the targeted groups, the impact of fortification is huge because it is using public schemes like PDS and ICDS, addressing concerns for children and women.” 

In the case of Uttar Pradesh alone, the estimated beneficiaries of this scheme are around 19.2 lakhs. But this, too, ends up as a small fraction when compared to the fact that anaemia affects 40% of the state’s population, which exceeds 2 crores. 

Also read: RTI: A powerful tool in fighting hunger

Additionally, it appears that the fortification programme effectively targets individuals with nutrient deficiency from developing anaemia. As one of 6 interventions of the "Anemia Mukt Bharat programme, the emphasis appears to be on decreasing malnutrition which can cause mild anaemia. It is recommended to employ complementary measures such as diet diversification and supplementation to further address hidden hunger (occurrence of micronutrient deficiency when the food consumed does not meet the micronutrient requirement). Researchers at ICMR-NIN, in their white paper titled 'Efficacy And Safety Of Iron-Fortified Rice In India', published in 2023, concluded that iron deficiency may persist in young girls despite fortification. In the institute’s follow-up report on the roll-out of iron-fortified rice in 2024, they added that there is now a need for an impact study to investigate the long-term developments or changes caused by this intervention. 

Dr Nandeep ER, one of the authors of the paper, adds that with slight fine-tuning of the FRK, minor differences in texture and density could be corrected, boosting acceptability. Behaviour change communication (BCC) becomes imperative to educate consumers about the significance of fortified food. 

Policies ultimately serve people, and with developments with fortification, it will be interesting to witness how acceptability and effectiveness take centre stage. 

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Editor’s note: To know Rama Ranee is to learn about the power of regenerative practices. The yoga therapist, author and biodynamic farmer spent three decades restoring land in Karnataka, envisioning it as a forest farm in harmony with nature. In ‘The Anemane Dispatch’, a monthly column, she shares tales from the fields, reflections on the realities of farming in an unusual terrain, and stories about local ecology gathered through observation, bird watching—and being.‍

Blocking the morning sun and driving carpenter bees berserk outside one of our windows, the Thunbergia vine-draped trees of Kadamba (Neolamarckia cadamba) and Akash Mallige (Millingtonia hortensis) formed a curtain of dense green and drooping clusters of purple flowers. The flowers seemed to be shaped so for these rounded forms. Watching the bees flit with a deep drone was soporific. Then came a sinister ‘chuckle’ and a guttural sound, part-dog, part-sylvan spirit, distinctly arboreal.

Through the creepers, I saw a crow-sized bird, green with yellow breast, a magnificent turquoise beard, and a viciously curved beak, on a low branch. That was my first close encounter with the Blue-Bearded Bee-eater (Nyctyornis athertoni). As the name suggests, it thrives on bees. While perching strategically close to flowers, it grabs the bee midflight. A different approach is employed for preying on honey bees.

A hive of the rock bee or giant bee (Apis dorsata), suspended from the wide branch of a Maha Neem (Melia dubia), bustled unusually. Silhouetted against the slanting rays of the sun were a pair of Blue-Bearded Bee-eaters at the other end of the branch. After disturbing the comb, they snapped up the agitated bees rapidly. On the two occasions that I have observed them feasting directly on hives, it was late evening just before dusk, about the time bees return after foraging. Was the timing a part of the strategy?  

The Blue-Bearded Bee-eater is a bird of the Western and Eastern Ghats, elusive and rarely sighted outside forested areas. The sightings of these birds—both adults and juveniles—on the Anemane Farm nearly two decades after we began farming indicated that the conditions were congenial: a habitat consisting of well-wooded areas with clearings (they prefer the middle-story of moist deciduous and secondary evergreen forests); ample food, mainly bees, other flying insects, and grubs; proximity to water bodies and ravines perhaps offering nesting spots like sheltered mud banks. Bannerghatta National Park and its environs, including our forest farm, could be considered a suitable habitat. These conditions were shaped by a host of events and dynamics within the farm ecosystem.

Darting, camouflaging, and swooping among us

Carpenter bees (Xylocopa caerulea) nest in wood, such as dead trees and logs, and feed on pollen and nectar, much like other bees. Honey bees, especially rock bees, require compatible nesting sites and appropriate climate that is neither too hot, nor too wet. It was no coincidence that the regeneration of indigenous vegetation and growth of a food forest witnessed bees, butterflies and other insects in larger numbers. Indigenous flora included flowering climbers like Kaadu seege (Senegalia pennata), trees like Red Silk Cotton (Bombax), Honge (Pongamia pinnata), and Nerale Hannu or Java plum (Syzygium cumini). The food forest comprises Moringa (Moringa oleifera), Hummingbird tree (Sesbania grandiflora), curry leaf (Murraya koenigii) and varieties of citrus besides crops such as millets. Their diversity, too, increased, as did species of insect-eating birds.  

On bright, sunny days after a few showers, the sky is alive with dragonflies, beetles, butterflies, and bees. In pursuit of prey are birds equipped with beaks, feathers, flying patterns, speed and agility, and strategies—uniquely theirs, gifted for catching prey on the wing.

An Asian Green Bee-eater (Merops orientalis) perches on fences or low branches, swooping down on a butterfly immersed in the warmth, tantalised by blooming curry leaf flowers. The Indian Paradise Flycatcher (Terpsiphone paradisi) has scant regard for humans, darting into the grass to scoop up a bite, its long tail swishing in a graceful acrobatic swerve. Ashy Drongo (Dicrurus leucophaeus) and other species of the bird are active through the day, late into the evening.  

The Asian Palm Swift (Cypsiurus balasiensis) is an expert in aerial foraging, catching insects mid-flight with its wide, gaping mouth. It rarely touches the ground, living its entire life airborne. The graceful dance of swifts and swallows like the Red-rumped Swallow (Cecropis daurica), gliding overhead in flocks, conversing in sweet but mellow tones, is indescribably hypnotic. I have often seen them skim over the water delicately, to sip it without breaking rhythm.  

Once I was the centre of a ‘ceremony’ which left me elated, as if I, too, was airborne. While I stood in the semi-open verandah of our cottage, watching the light bounce off the lake at midday, a flock of about ten Red-rumped Swallows swooped above my head, weaving in and out of the arched openings in silence, looping around me in a strange ritual. I felt truly bewitched and breathless! Were they exploring the depths for nesting, or training their young, or looking for insects, or just being? It did not matter.  

In some cultures, they are harbingers of spring and symbols of good times, and in a sense, as a farmer I believe that. Imagine the multitude of insects that we would have to deal with if they were to descend on our crops! Insects are among the main causes of crop damage that can reach gigantic proportions. China’s Great Famine of late 1950s and early 1960s was induced by the eradication of sparrows (for fear that they were destroying crops), triggering ecological imbalance. Desert locust swarms causing famines are a serious threat in Africa and Asia. Birds control insect populations and mitigate such threats.

As the purple twilight descended with a hush, the hilltop stirred with the calls of the Indian nightjar (Caprimulgus asiaticus) concealed in the sandy ground on the water’s edge. They love the scrub and scattered bushes. A late evening walk is the best time to spot them, except that before the eye sees them, they are up in the air from right under one’s feet, their feathers a perfect camouflage in the dry terrain. Like the less common Jerdon’s nightjar (Caprimulgus atripennis), they are crepuscular insectivores, hawking moths, beetles and grass hoppers mid- flight.  

The graceful dance of swifts and swallows like the Red-rumped Swallow (Cecropis daurica), gliding overhead in flocks, conversing in sweet but mellow tones, is indescribably hypnotic.

Densely wooded trails thick with leaf litter are a balm to the senses. Cushioned foot falls, the fragrance of crushed leaves and mold, and mild tones of brown and russet, with an aura of an enchanted land of elemental beings and Jerdon’s nightjars—the silent hunters concealed in the litter. We have startled each other quite often; once on a path below the cottage, a tunnel of intertwined branches and low bushes, where the bird must have been brooding. I found a light brown egg perfectly camouflaged, on the ground.  

Also read: Farming under the elephant's nose: Lessons in crop choices

Of keystone species and ecosystem restoration

At the windows in the kitchen or study, Loten’s sunbirds (Cinnyris lotenius) are a welcome diversion. Perching on the grill, the blue-black males or the soberly plumed females tap the glass pane tentatively, and for a suspended moment, we contemplate each other in silent acknowledgement.  

A morning alarm is redundant when natural bird calls punctuate the hours of the day and night.

Bulbuls, Indian White-eyes (Zosterops palpebrosus), leaf birds (a family of passerine species), and a host of other omnivorous birds thrive on fruit trees. A lone Cluster fig (Ficus racemosa) and a Singapore cherry (Muntingia calabura) tree at two ends of the farm were the hubs where they congregated. Gradually, they seeded their own garden.  

Along with nectar-rich flowering plants like Hibiscus, Moringa, and Hummingbird trees came sunbirds. They are important pollinators of not only agricultural crops, but wild indigenous plants, too, like the East-Indian screw tree (Helicteres isora), dispersing seeds in the process.  Mutualism between frugivores (fruit-eating birds and plants), such as the association between Bulbuls and Jyotishmati (Celastrus paniculatus), lies at the basis of eco-restoration. A decade ago, there was just a single gnarled liana of Jyotishmati, valued greatly in Ayurveda for its medicinal properties. Today, there are several in various stages of growth, in different locations. We might credit Bulbuls, which eat the scarlet fruits, for having fulfilled their role well as seed dispersers.

A morning alarm is redundant when natural bird calls punctuate the hours of the day and night. Those who wish to rise in the auspicious period of Brahmi-muhurtha, at 4 am, ought to cue into the piercing cries of peacocks. 6 am offers a medley of songs hard to ignore. Owls, either the Indian Scops-Owl (Otus bakkamoena) or Mottled Wood-Owl (Strix ocellata), wrap you in the night’s mantle of a subtle soundscape.

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The most compelling sound that pulls me out of the haze of drowsiness is a series of sharp, staccato knocking and drumming. During the early years, coping with a new house on an inaccessible farm meant dealing with workmen at odd hours of the day. Carpenters starting work early in the morning was unusual, but not improbable, though not entirely welcome! Imagine my shock when three woodpeckers sat at the window of the first floor, two boring the frame and tapping the glass with precision and devastating speed, while the third kept watch. The Baage tree (Albizia lebbeck) just outside the window made their task easier. The Baage acquires new holes every other day, and the window has survived the onslaught of the Black-rumped Flameback (Dinopium benghalense), and the larger and less common White-naped Woodpecker (Chrysocolaptes festivus).  

A distinct drumming that begins vigorously, gradually fading to a slower tempo, followed by an intermittent ‘weep, weep’ call belongs to the Rufous Woodpecker (Micropternus brachyurus) seeking a mate or exploring the bamboo thickets for ants. Like true percussionists, they seem to choose the surface carefully, shifting positions to find ideal points for drumming. Merging into the shadows of the branches with rusty, black-banded bodies they raise their young in carton nests of arboreal ants such as Crematogaster ants, by hollowing a chamber for their eggs. It is paradoxical that during this period, the woodpecker, which usually preys on these ants lays its eggs in their nest, and the ants, which normally feed on bird eggs choose to allow them; neither harm the other! Apparently both benefit mutually from this nesting habit. The intriguing symbiotic relationship between the woodpecker and ants is certainly worth exploring. A compelling observation is that on our farm, both have increased in numbers; there are several pairs of Rufous Woodpeckers and more numerous carton nests.  

Woodpeckers are keystone species which impact the health of the forest. They have evolved to pry bark and wood for borers and termites, thereby controlling their populations, contributing towards pest management. By excavating cavities for nesting which are vacated after the season, they create roosting and nesting spaces for other birds which require existing cavities, like owls and hornbills, and for small mammals. Hence, they are bioindicators of a stable forest ecosystem with old, large trees—required for foraging and nesting—and a diversity of birds, insects, and other life forms.  

Also read: What it takes to breathe life into degraded farmland

Maintaining ecological balance

A commotion outside the window, the panicked squeaking of a squirrel, and a flurry of grey wings revealed a Shikra (Accipiter badius) in frenzied pursuit of a squirrel among potted plants—half gliding, manoeuvring through a barely six-inch space, a gaze so focused that it saw nothing but the prey and the path to get to it. A raptor is an apex predator epitomising strength and perseverance, eyes that sweep the ground below for the slightest movement, and striking with tactical precision.

Being an agricultural farm in a hilly, forested landscape with rock faces and caves makes us a suitable hunting and nesting ground for birds of prey. Field mice, hares, and other rodents, small mammals, reptiles—chiefly lizards and snakes—and a variety of birds, especially fowls and pigeons, attract many species, from the sleek Shikra to the high-flying Crested Serpent Eagle (Spilornis cheela), the magnificent Bonelli’s Eagle (Aquila fasciata), and Black Eagle (Ictinaetus malaiensis). While the Black Eagle glides silently under the tree canopies like a shadow, the Bonelli’s Eagle soars over the hill top, above the canopies, usually in pairs, diving in a flash, legs outstretched grabbing the pigeon midflight with formidable talons, wings a five-foot span, giving it the lift even when it is closer to the ground. Its sheer power and skill to navigate confined spaces are awe-inspiring and intimidating! Bunches of feathers strewn under the tree mark the Bonelli’s perch. Over the last four years, Anemane has been fortunate to host a pair and witness the flights of their offspring.

Being an agricultural farm in a hilly, forested landscape with rock faces and caves makes us a suitable hunting and nesting ground for birds of prey.

True to its name, the Oriental Honey Buzzard (Pernis ptilorhynchus) preys on bees and hornets, swooping down on hives, feasting on larvae. Its slender head and neck and long tail distinguish the pair of silver-grey male, and the golden-brown female, as they circle in the air. We shared a few pensive moments together: a nonchalant male relaxing near the Flame of the forest (Butea monosperma), and I on the other side of the path, behind the lens.  

Diverse life forms thrive in a balanced ecosystem, and avian diversity is a good measure of its health. Internalising the truth that we are an intrinsic part of that ecosystem, and that as a species we have the power to choose consciously, to remain integrated and whole, is vital for the health of the planet and all its denizens.

I do not know what goes through the bird’s mind when it sees me, but living with a rich birdlife is deeply engaging for me. They are an inextricable part of my life, as partners and companions, nourishing the soul with songs and beauty, bonding with the heart in ways that go beyond co-existence into the shared realm of Gaia’s breath.

Artwork by Khyati K

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Mangoes that taste like apple and sweet lime, mangoes curved like the crescent of a banana, or scented like cumin seeds—these varieties of the fruit would have been part of folklore if not for the conservation efforts of Syed Ghani Khan. His family farm, Bada Bagh, spans across 15 acres of land in the Kirugavalu village of Mandya district in Karnataka. “Our village was part of Tipu Sultan’s stronghold,” he says. A small watch tower was set up here by the mighty ruler of Mysore in the late 18th century to observe British forces marching towards Srirangapatna—Tipu’s capital. 

“One of my ancestors served in the army of Tipu Sultan, who donated orchards to his soldiers at Kirugavalu to grow different varieties of mangoes. This 5 km radius was full of mango orchards,” Khan says. Legend has it that when the regiment disbanded, the Sultan distributed the land among his soldiers, asking them to continue caring for the mango orchards. When Khan inherited the farm, there were about 130-135 rare varieties of the fruit; the larger village was known for housing nearly 300-400 exotic varieties. “My grandmother used to tell us that during her time they needed a mashaal [traditional torch] to enter the orchard because it was so dense,” Khan says. Today, 116 varieties continue to survive in Bada Bagh. 

Also read: No monkeying around on this kiwi farm

Golden treasure

Khan’s earliest memories of getting his hands dirty in the soil date back to his schooldays, when he would help plant vegetables for his family’s kitchen. After completing his higher education, he returned to their traditional occupation of growing rice. Despite the region being rich in rare species of mango, the construction of the Krishnasagar Dam on the Cauvery River in 1931 saw many farmers shift their focus towards paddy. Many mango trees were felled to make space for the burgeoning rice fields, and then to fuel brick kilns to build more houses in the region. Over the last two decades, several water-intensive crops have expanded their acreage in the Mandya district, including rice, sugarcane, and arecanut. Except for Khan’s lush mango orchard, most of Kirugavalu is another faceless village in the Mandya district, largely homogeneous in its cultivation of paddy. 

Khan’s family, however, was determined to carry its lineage of mangoes forward. “My grandmother, who had inherited this piece of land,” says Khan, “wanted to save these trees, each of which is a different variety.” Most of them are 100-200 years old, he adds. His grandmother was particularly fond of the Amini tree. “When the trees would fruit, she would never sell them—instead, she would distribute them among friends and family.” Such was her deep affinity for the tree that it soon fell of its own volition after she passed away, Khan says.

Ghani worked tirelessly, and after two years succeeded in getting 116 of his varieties registered as ‘indigenously collected plant material’ (or plants or seeds gathered from local and native habitats), recognised as part of the country’s rare genome heritage.

When he initially took over the farm, he wasn’t well-versed in how to take care of or conserve these rare species. His initial attempts to seek guidance from the local Krishi Vigyan Kendra and agricultural universities led nowhere. It was only in 2006, after connecting with Sahaja Samruddha, an organic farmer’s association in Mysuru, Karnataka, that his journey began gaining momentum. Through the group, he met agricultural scientist and writer Devinder Sharma, who advised him to formally register his varieties with the National Bureau of Plant Genetic Resources. Ghani worked tirelessly, and after two years succeeded in getting 116 of his varieties registered as ‘indigenously collected plant material’ (or plants or seeds gathered from local and native habitats), recognised as part of the country’s rare genome heritage.

Though the local names of many of the mangoes were lost with Khan’s grandmother, he remembers a few; ‘mosambi ka aam’ and ‘seb ka aam,’ for example. When the ‘kauva pasand’ variety ripens, crows flock to the trees – lending the fruit its name (kauva meaning crow). His own favourite is ‘manjhe bi pasand’, the mango that shrinks with time. “It is exceedingly sweet and has a shelf life of 15-20 days after it is fully ripe,” says Khan.

Also read: In the battle of Alphonso versus Kesar, climate change plays dirty

Conserving what is one’s own

Syed Ghani Khan officially took over his family’s land in 1994. One day, he felt uneasy while tending to the crops in his field. The fumes from the pesticides he was spraying began to make him dizzy. “That’s when I thought: what am I doing? If I can feel this way, then surely I’m poisoning the people who eat the paddy after I spray such pesticides on it. I should stop this,” he says. Since that turning point in 1999, Khan has switched to organic farming, slowly converting his land, gunta by gunta, over the course of five years.

Khan plants mango trees in different combinations—with wild fig, banyan and neem, to name a few. These trees are separated by paddy fields. The manure mixed in the paddy soil, and which eventually reaches the roots of the mango trees, is all the ‘external nourishment’ that they receive. Dry mango leaves litter the ground under the canopy—and Khan leaves this land unploughed, so that they naturally turn into biomass over a period of time. The farmer is encouraging his orchards to turn towards nature and grow into a forest with minimal human intervention. Many birds and animals visit and picnic in Bada Bagh, including deer, rabbits, Indian brown hornbills, and peacocks. “My aim is to nurture all kinds of biodiversity in my fields,” he says. He has been able to market his mangoes in other cities, such as Bengaluru, with the help of Sahaja Samruddha. His produce has been an instant hit. “One variety, farha, which matches the alphonso in taste and pulp quality, is especially popular.” Khan has also installed a solar dryer on his farm and makes homegrown products, such as mango candies and aamchur powder.

The farmer is encouraging his orchards to turn towards nature and grow into a forest with minimal human intervention.

Apart from these mangoes being valuable inheritance, containing DNA that might help track other varieties that used to be grown in the region centuries ago, they are also much more climate-resilient. The Cauvery, which flows through the southern Indian states of Kerala, Karnataka, Tamil Nadu, and the Union territory of Puducherry, has been a source of persistent water conflict, with its roots in the pre-Independence era. The conflict around how much water should be allocated per state has grown even more heated in the last decade, where rains have played truant, leading to crop failure and unemployment woes. The cultivation of water-intensive crops across both Tamil Nadu and Karnataka, like in Mandya, has only exacerbated the crisis. Over the years, judicial and quasi-judicial bodies have tried—and failed—to resolve the dispute. Despite these interventions, a lasting settlement remains elusive, as both states continue to assert their claims to what they see as their rightful share of the river’s waters. Given this reality, many farmers are considering pivoting to other horticultural crops, such as grapes, which can thrive in the nutrient-rich, black alluvial soil of Karnataka. In this sense, Syed Ghani Khan is a visionary who has been nurturing his orchards long before tragedy struck.

Also read: At this mango 'museum' in Gujarat, 300+ varieties thrive

A stitch in time

Khan is a pioneering agriculturist in many ways. While conserving mangoes, he has also had a remarkable journey with rice, setting Bada Bagh apart from the other, more conventional paddy farms in the region. When Khan took over from his father to continue their core traditional occupation of rice cultivation, he realised that hybrid varieties, though promising high yields, demanded heavy inputs of chemicals, fertilisers, and water. The costs rose even as yields dwindled, and farmers like him were left vulnerable. Remembering his grandmother’s advice about natural farming and the use of cow dung, he turned to desi paddy, starting with just 40 grains of a traditional variety. That modest harvest set him on a new path: away from chemicals and towards the preservation of heirloom rice. Khan was worried that indigenous paddy was disappearing from India’s fields. He began collecting seeds wherever he could, bartering with farmers across states and slowly building a seed bank of countless rice varieties.

Khan offers saplings of his traditional varieties of mango to farmers and helps them understand how they can be grown and conserved.

Today, Khan has conserved more than 700 traditional varieties of rice, each with its own story, taste, and sometimes, medicinal properties. For example, a variety called ‘Navara’ helps with arthritis and joint pain, and ‘Mahadi’, when ingested, can treat fractures in cattle. Housed in his seed bank and rice museum at Bada Bagh, these grains are carefully catalogued with details of their origin, use, and cultural significance. For Khan, the mission is not commercial but cultural—he sells seeds for a nominal price to those willing to grow them organically. His seed bank is both a living archive and a safeguard against loss, ensuring that future generations inherit not just rice to eat, but also an ancestral food heritage. 

Many curious visitors—including farmers, students and teachers visit Bada Bagh and his rice museum. Khan offers saplings of his traditional varieties of mango to farmers and helps them understand how they can be grown and conserved. Syed Ghani Khan believes that human beings must coexist with and care for nature in harmony. Exchanges in the natural world are not transactional—rather, they are a process of navigating how we can inhabit different places in the ecosystem.

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Editor's note: Even before its current status as a nutrient-rich superfood, ragi has been a crucial chapter in the history of Indian agriculture. Finger millet, as it is commonly known, has been a true friend of the farmer and consumer thanks to its climate resilience and ability to miraculously grow in unfavourable conditions. As we look towards an uncertain, possibly food-insecure future, the importance of ragi as a reliable crop cannot be understated. In this series, the Good Food Movement explains why the millet deserves space on our farms and dinner plates. Alongside an ongoing video documentation of what it takes to grow ragi, this series will delve into the related concerns of intercropping, cover crops and how ragi fares compared to other grains.

There is a Naga adage that speaks of how “even a single stalk of millet can revive a dying man.” This points not only to the nourishment that millets can provide, but also resilience, a quality that is becoming ever more important in a world of changing climates and fragile food systems. As the planet warms and water becomes scarcer, farmers and researchers are turning their attention back to these ancient grains.

One of them is ragi—also called finger millet, mandua (Hindi), nachni (Marathi), moothari (Malayalam), and kezhvaragu (Tamil) among others. The reddish-brown grain originated in East Africa, and journeyed across the world to wherever people needed a reliable, climate-resilient food source. Its scientific name Eleusine coracana itself tells the story of its travels: Eleusine is the name of the Greek goddess of cereals, and coracana is a distortion of the Sri Lankan ragi porridge korakan. Its common name, finger millet, instead describes the grain’s hand-like panicle. Around 1800 BCE, it found its way to the Indian subcontinent. Over centuries, it became a reliable crop and an integral part of India’s foodscape. Its ability to take many forms, from rotis and biscuits, to malted beverages, has kept it alive in kitchens across the peninsula, especially in the south.

Growing conditions

Ragi’s resilience makes it a crop for the future. Though it exhibits a preference for loamy and slightly acidic soils, it grows even in shallow, infertile, saline or alkaline soils. Similarly, if timed alongside the Kharif season, it can be grown as a rain-fed crop even amid erratic rainfall—conditions under which other staples struggle. Some farmers call it a ‘famine crop’ because once harvested, its seeds can be stored for up to ten years without damage from pests.

Even if the rains fail, ragi does not let people go hungry. It is a crop people trust.

In a changing climate, ragi offers smallholder farmers a lifeline. It requires fewer inputs, reduces the risk of the crop failing, and ensures food security. Women farmers are often at the forefront of millet cultivation, linking ragi to empowerment. In several parts of Karnataka and Tamil Nadu, women’s collectives have revived ragi farming not only for household consumption but also as a source of income, tapping into growing urban demand. Even if the rains fail, ragi does not let people go hungry. It is a crop people trust.

Also read: ‘Summer ragi’: How Kolhapur farmers’ millet experiment became a success story

Where it grows

In 2020-21, India produced almost 2,000 tonnes of ragi. Karnataka accounted for 68% of that output, with states like Tamil Nadu, Uttarakhand, Maharashtra accounting for most of the remaining produce. The crop’s presence from the Deccan Plateau to over 2,400 metres above sea level in the Himalayas serves as proof of its adaptability. 

In Karnataka, ragi has become deeply embedded in culinary traditions: the earthy, hand-rolled ragi mudde eaten with gravies remains iconic. In Tamil Nadu and Andhra Pradesh, it takes the form of dosas, porridges, or even malted beverages. Among some Naga tribes, it is gifted at weddings as a symbol of sustenance. 

Why, then, has the crop been overshadowed by grains like rice and wheat? Like most millets, ragi has a shorter shelf life and is harder to process. During the Green Revolution, these properties caused it to be neglected, while research, subsidies, and infrastructural investments were directed towards rice and wheat. The crop’s reputation as the ‘poor man’s food’ also meant that people aspired to move towards the consumption of rice and wheat and away from millets. 

Also read: The big promise of the little millet, in Odisha and beyond

Climate resilience

Once dismissed as a “poor man’s crop,” ragi is now being championed by farmers, nutritionists, and policymakers as both a climate warrior and a nutritional powerhouse. Modern science has only reaffirmed ragi’s worth. Rich in calcium—three times more than milk—it is invaluable for bone health, especially in communities with limited access to dairy. It also contains high levels of iron, zinc, and protein, while its low glycemic index makes it ideal for diabetics. It is packed with essential amino acids like methionine and lysine that even polished rice and wheat lack. Few people realise that ragi is a rare natural source of vitamin D.

 Farmers can grow it, but unless people in cities also start eating it, ragi will not survive.

Though earlier called an ‘orphan crop’ given its neglected state, its fortune is now changing. India declared 2018 as the Year of Millets, signalling its intent to put crops like ragi back into the mainstream. Yet, recognition must go hand in hand with access. Farmers can grow it, but unless people in cities also start eating it, ragi will not survive.

The climate crisis is making the case for ragi clearer each year. Floods, droughts, and rising temperatures threaten India’s food basket, even as demand for water-intensive crops continues. Against this backdrop, ragi is emerging as both a nutritional fix and a climate adaptation strategy. To invest in ragi is to invest in communities, in biodiversity, and in the possibility of a food-secure tomorrow.

Also read: Why bajra, the ‘pearl’ of India’s millets, remains underutilised

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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.

A few months ago, I delivered a guest lecture on policies addressing the human right to food. During the question-and-answer session that followed, a student asked me which policy intervention I thought was the most effective—a deceptively simple question. After offering the usual caveats about there being no silver bullet for ending hunger, I said that my vote would go to free school meals (often referred to as universal school meals).

School meals reach children at a critical stage of life, when nutrition most directly shapes physical growth, cognitive development, and long-term wellbeing. But the ripple effects extend far beyond the wellbeing of individual children. Free school meals can benefit society as a whole by raising attendance rates and allowing children to stay in school longer; they can ease the burden on households struggling with food costs and cooking; and they can even support local farmers and help maintain biodiversity. In this column, I hope to continue the discussion that started in the classroom and highlight the multi-fold benefits of providing nutritionally balanced, context-sensitive meals to school-going children.

India’s Mid Day Meal scheme 

India’s Mid Day Meal Scheme, launched in 1995 and now operating under the PM POSHAN banner, is the world’s largest school feeding programme and provides one free meal a day to over 11 crore children in over 11 lakh government-aided schools and education centres. Its goals are ambitious: improve enrollment and attendance, tackle classroom hunger, enhance nutritional outcomes, and support equity. The scheme’s guidelines stipulate nutritional standards of 450 calories and 12 grams of protein for primary school children, and 700 calories and 20 grams of protein for upper-primary students. Costs are divided between the central and state governments. The centre supplies food grains such as wheat or rice, while the states pay for the other expenses required for a full meal and decide the menus for schools. 

Studies have shown gains in school enrollment, especially among girls and children from marginalised communities as well as modest improvements in height, weight, and learning outcomes over time. Since 2013, the midday meal has been a legal right for school-going children, but the contents of that meal are not sufficiently secured by law and remain subject to the discretion of state governments.

Also read: Ultra-processed foods are reshaping our diets. Should we be worried?

The case for nutritionally balanced meals 

Providing a cooked meal in school has transformed daily life for crores of children in India. But balance remains the missing piece. Rising food inflation has put pressure on the budget for midday meals, often forcing schools to cut corners by reducing variety, omitting vegetables or protein sources, and relying largely on cereals to produce midday meals at scale. State governments often partner with non-profit organisations to deliver these meals, and in turn, the ethos of these organisations shape both the quality and the flavour of children’s meals. In the past, a well-known foundation faced criticism for the exclusion of onion and garlic for spiritual-cultural reasons—a choice that was found to make meals unappetising for children and discouraging them from eating.

Rising food inflation has put pressure on the budget for midday meals, often forcing schools to cut corners by reducing variety, omitting vegetables or protein sources, and relying largely on cereals to produce midday meals at scale.

The inclusion of eggs in school meals is an interesting discussion in this regard. Nutritionists have long argued that eggs are among the easiest and cheapest ways to improve diets, with just one egg covering close to half the protein content that a midday meal is meant to provide to primary school students. Many states do include eggs in their school meals, but religiously motivated objections from parents and social interest groups make the presence of eggs uncertain and frequently contested. 

If the Mid Day Meal scheme is to fulfil its promise, the government must make more concerted efforts to meet children’s nutritional needs. The Safe Food and Balanced Diets for Children in School regulation, introduced by FSSAI in 2020, marks a step in this direction. It calls for meals that are safe, seasonal, and nutritionally balanced, while discouraging foods that are high in fat, sugar, or salt. On paper, this could help the programme move on from being a hunger relief aid to an investment in public health nutrition. The challenge, however, will be to translate these guidelines into practice and ensure resources and oversight keep pace. 

East or west, local is the best 

Around the world, governments are discovering that school meals can do double duty—they can nourish children and strengthen local food systems at the same time. Brazil is perhaps the best known example. Its national programme, which feeds over 4 crore children, requires that at least 30% of the school meal budget be used for procuring food from local family-run farms. This rule has reshaped supply chains, providing millions of children with fresh fruits, vegetables, pulses, and meat while giving farmers a guaranteed market and income stability. In Angola, Honduras and Peru, schools have worked with small-scale fishers to bring locally caught fish onto the menu, improving children’s access to protein and securing livelihoods in coastal communities.

School meals can also be turned into means of teaching school-going children about where their food comes from and how it’s prepared.

There is also growing recognition that school meals can play a role in reviving biodiversity. Neglected and underutilised crops like amaranth, millets, and cowpeas are often more resilient to climate stress than common staples. For children, this means varied and climate-smart meals. For farming communities, it creates demand for crops that conserve biodiversity and use fewer inputs. 

India, too, is experimenting with this approach. In the hills of Meghalaya, for example, school meals now draw on indigenous and seasonal produce, resulting in meals that include rice paired with pumpkin dal and cured fish, omelettes with fiddlehead ferns, chutneys made with fish mint, and pickles from wild berries. Much of this food is foraged or sourced from nearby farmers, resulting in meals that reflect children’s own culinary traditions while supporting biodiversity and local livelihoods.

In many other regions, however, the push for cost control and increasingly centralised production of the meals means that local or seasonal ingredients and culinary traditions are sidelined. In several parts of the country, school meals consist of a carbohydrate—usually rice or roti—accompanied by a watery dal.

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

Taking a hands-on approach 

School meals can also be turned into means of teaching school-going children about where their food comes from and how it’s prepared. When children are involved in planting vegetables, tending gardens, or helping to serve and cook, school meals become a way of teaching responsibility, cooperation, and respect for what sustains us.

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In India, efforts along these lines are beginning to take root. In Bihar, ‘nutri-gardens’ have become living classrooms where children plant spinach, cauliflower, and tomatoes, compost kitchen waste, and later eat what they have grown. In Goa, hundreds of schools now maintain food gardens that supply herbs and vegetables for midday meals. From weeding to watering, children now tend gardens on school grounds, turning once-wasted patches of land into productive beds of vegetables. Alongside lessons about balanced diets, these activities are linked with healthier food habits among students and a noticeable decline in waste from the midday meal. 

The long road ahead 

The Mid Day Meal scheme has achieved what few school feeding programmes anywhere in the world have managed. However, in a country with stubbornly high rates of child malnutrition and persistent inequalities in access to food, there remains much to be achieved. Research points to implementation issues like delays in staff payment, variability in food quality, and inadequate infrastructure. In rare but tragic cases, food safety failures have caused poisoning or even deaths due to contamination or improper storage.

Done well, the midday meal can stand as one of India’s most important contributions to child welfare.

The programme is also shaped by deep social and institutional fault lines. Caste-based discrimination continues to influence who prepares the food and who eats it, undermining the scheme’s promise of equity. Nutritional and ecological goals are often overshadowed by the sheer pressure of feeding crores on time. However, with sustained investment, learning from the accomplishments and failings of school feeding programmes elsewhere, better monitoring, and the courage to adapt menus to children’s real needs, the scheme can build on its achievements. Done well, the midday meal can stand as one of India’s most important contributions to child welfare. Feeding children, yes, but also giving them the strength to learn, grow, and look to the future with confidence. 

Also read: Protecting place and power, not people: The trouble with GI tags

Artwork by Alia Sinha

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Editor's note: Every farmer who tills the land is an inextricable part of the Indian agriculture story. Some challenge convention, others uplift their less privileged peers, others still courageously pave the way for a more organic, sustainable future. All of them feed the country. In this series, the Good Food Movement highlights the lives and careers of pioneers in Indian agriculture—cultivators, seed preservers, collective organisers and entrepreneurs.‍

At approximately 14,000 feet above sea level, surrounded by jagged peaks, gorges carved by rivers, and steep valleys, lies a village etched into the dramatic canvas of Ladakh’s wilderness. Named Gya, its landscape is both stark and sublime. It is located in the Kharu block of Leh district, around 74 km southeast of Leh town along the Leh-Manali highway. With roughly 80 households, it is one of the oldest Ladakhi villages.

This seemingly inhospitable terrain holds a deep geological significance dating back to the collision of continents, offering rare insight into the Earth’s tectonic history. And though its soil is coarse and sandy, it is coaxed to life by the hands of resilient farmers and their indigenous knowledge. The people of Gya have transformed rugged land into a cradle of sustainable, high-altitude agriculture. Once a thriving pastoralist community, this thousand-year-old village gradually began embracing agriculture a few centuries ago. 

Among its farmers is Urgain Phuntsog, a 53-year-old whose work has defied the conventional understanding that agriculture is not viable in extreme cold arid zones. Working the fields ever since he was a teenager, he cultivates a mix of traditional and unconventional crops. Even as he battles a short growing season (less than five months), frequent frost events and a dependence on glacial water, Phuntsog demonstrates that food security can be achieved, even in a harsh climate and remote geography—in a manner that is not only possible, but economically viable.

The ancient ways of mountain life

Phuntsog’s relationship to the soil is so profound that the villagers lovingly call him ‘Mitti Ka Aadmi’ (man of the earth). It was his friends who first came up with the name, and soon enough, it caught on with even the researchers from the nearby Krishi Vigyan Kendra (KVK). It’s a well-deserved moniker given how much time Phuntsog spends studying soil and experimenting with it.

He owns 75 karnals of land, including his younger brother's share, and grows more than 35 varieties of crops. Half of his land is sown with barely, a traditional Ladakhi staple. The rest of his fields yield a vibrant mosaic of produce: four types of local spinach, mustard, turnips, radishes, carrots, cucumbers, cabbages, beans, quinoa, broccoli, chamomile, mint, tomatoes, onions, strawberries, potatoes and more.  

The only food items he purchases are rice and spices. Everything else comes from his farm. “I can feed my family for the next 10 years with what I grow,” Phuntsog says with quiet pride. “We don’t have to depend on anyone.” Even during punishing winters when temperatures plummet to -20°C and supplies often run dry, his family continues to have access to fresh vegetables.

Phuntsog’s journey could have taken a very different path. He completed his early schooling in Gya’s government school and graduated from Class 10 in Leh. He even earned spots in both, the Indian Navy and the Indo-Tibetan Border Police. For many in the region, these opportunities would have meant a ticket to a different life—one that would have promised stability and a reliable salary—but Phuntsog chose differently. 

He returned to his roots in Gya, picking the land, soil, and seasons over uniformed service. In doing so, he has honoured not just his family’s legacy, but also a way of life that has sustained communities in this landscape for centuries—farming and livestock rearing. Phuntsog is not alone in this commitment; his sister Tsering Palmo, too, shares this deep bond with the land. She tends the family’s livestock, including their pashmina goats and sheep across different pasturelands, leading a nomadic life amid glaciers. She spends most of the brutal Ladakhi winter moving through the wilderness with her herds, keeping alive an ancient rhythm of life.

Phuntsog’s early years were defined by struggles and uncertainty. Having lost his father as a boy, the responsibility of feeding the family rested on his young shoulders. “I didn’t even know where to begin,” he recalls. “Some days, we had nothing to eat.” It was the villagers who stepped in with lessons on sowing and harvesting barley as well as the traditional dzo-driven (yak-cow hybrid) method of ploughing. In 2010, a 10-day exposure tour organised by the state agriculture and horticulture departments presented an opportunity to learn from experts. 

Also read: Babulal Dahiya makes every grain of rice count

Organic past, present, and future

Phuntsog has a meditative, almost spiritual perspective to farming. He considers it one of the most noble professions, working the land not out of necessity, but out of choice and joy. “I take great pride in being a farmer,” he says. “When I am in the barley fields, I feel alive. I feel more human.” It’s no surprise then that agriculture represents more than a livelihood to him; it’s a philosophy of balance. He believes in following what he calls “the middle way”—a principle of moderation and respect for nature. “We must revere nature,” he says, “Respect its rhythms, and maintain balance in every part of life.”

His faith in balance also extends to policy and governance around agriculture. Phuntsog has worked closely with government agencies for years, but speaks candidly about the gaps that still exist. “Most government projects don’t align with what farmers actually need. There’s no proper assessment before or after a project is implemented. It amounts to a sheer waste of funds.” 

Worse, he adds, is the lack of coordination between concerned departments. “Stakeholders work in silos. Without collaboration, Ladakh’s goal of becoming fully organic in the near future may remain a distant dream.”

Organic farming is not a trendy buzzword in the union territory; it is how Ladakhi ancestors have always farmed. A sense of regenerative circularity involving outputs like manure always existed on their farms. This changed in the 1990s, with the opening up of roads, a surge in tourism and growing demand for grain from the army. Chemical fertilisers, available at subsidised prices, now had greater acceptance as farmers aspired to quicker harvests and bigger incomes. Ladakh-wide goals to transition fully to chemical-free methods belie the reality in the fields, where people still think being organic merely means cutting down on fertiliser use. 

Another looming challenge in Ladakh’s organic agriculture journey is the increasing use of hybrid seeds. Until not too long ago, seeds were a major concern for farmers who would be forced to borrow grains at very high rates of interest, thus getting trapped in debt, Phuntsog recalls. Then hybrid seeds became accessible—available for free from government sources—at the cost of “colonising” farms and displacing indigenous seeds. While hybrid vegetables grow fast and are favoured in markets, they are fragile and have short shelf lives. Their seeds cannot be reused season after season. Indigenous seeds, on the other hand, are more resilient and better suited to Ladakh’s realities.

Phuntsog currently maintains his own personal seed bank with 10–12 native varieties of barley, leafy greens, radish, turnip, and sowa (dill). “For farmers, seeds are life itself,” he says, “Preserving indigenous seeds is not optional, it is essential. Without them, we lose not just crops but our identity.” 

At its very foundation, farming in Gya is changing; it was once a communal activity—a village-wide affair where households would help each other plant, harvest and celebrate the cycle of life. Today, it is looked down upon as fewer young people are interested in tiling the soil, especially against the backdrop of climate change-induced precarity. Careers in tourism and the army, government jobs, gigs as contractors in construction—livelihoods that don’t involve the backbreaking, time-intensive labour of farming are all considered more viable. As opportunities in Leh call out to them, there remains little incentive to stay back in Gya. 

Given that local traders aren’t offering a fair price for organic produce, organic farming isn’t yet lucrative or remunerative, which is only shrinking the farming populace further. “Traders buy at low rates and keep most of the profit for themselves. For farmers, these rates barely cover the cost of growing organically… Unfortunately, local traders and many locals, too, don’t see the difference between organic and non-organic produce,” Phuntsog rues. An innovative tactic he has employed to deal with this apathy is offering organic produce to visitors and homestay guests—patrons who he feels value the farm-to-table food chain. 

Phuntsog is admirable because he remains undeterred. In agriculture, he sees indispensability as the future turns uncertain. “The importance of farming grows every year… If there are no farmers, food security won’t just be a concern—it will be a crisis.” 

Integrated farming at 14,000 feet  

What sets Phunstog’s approach to farming apart from that of his peers is not just the variety of crops he grows, but rather the harmony he maintains across the many elements of his farm. Nothing must go to waste; the output from one part of his farm becomes the input for another, creating a self-sustaining loop that reduces costs, enriches the soil and strengthens his yields. 

The family's livestock (a herd of 370 goats and sheep, apart from 12 cows and 9 horses) are a vital source of wool: Pashmina from their goats, and fleece from their sheep, which Phuntsog’s wife, Chamba Yangdol, spins into traditional rugs, stoles, and other handcrafted items. Their home in Gya is perhaps the most sought-after homestay in the region, attracting guests from around the world who come not just for the scenic views, but to experience living traditions. 

But livestock is not merely a source of wool or dairy. Manure, along with farm waste, is carefully recycled into rich vermicompost. It was the Krishi Vigyan Kendra–Leh that introduced Phuntsog to the idea of vermicomposting around a decade ago. Since then, he has become something of an innovator. Through years of experimentation, he discovered the perfect blend for his compost: 60% horse manure, 30% cow dung, and 10% general livestock waste. This balance, he says, brings out the best in the earthworms, and in turn, the soil. “There isn’t a village in Leh where my vermicompost is not being used to some degree. That’s why I say farming and livestock are not separate—they are indispensable to each other,” he explains. 

Greenhouses in the snow  

Phuntsog has constructed two greenhouses on his farm: one is a traditional triangular structure fashioned from mud bricks, while the other is more modern—a half-cylindrical polycarbonate model with a concrete base. While both serve their purposes, the one built using traditional wisdom remains effective even in inclement weather. “In places like Gya, where the extreme impact of climate change is palpably felt, the traditional greenhouse is more adaptable,” he explains, “This spring, we had untimely snowfall. It was easier to redesign or modify the mud-brick structure to suit the changing weather. We could partially open it or wrap it up, depending on the climate.” 

Though sturdy, the polycarbonate greenhouse lacks this flexibility. “It’s harder to move, redesign or repair. But the traditional one can be easily relocated and adjusted. It is simple, smart, and sustainable,” Phuntsog adds. This experience, and others across his farming career, have taught him that the way forward lies in blending ancient knowledge with modern techniques rather than setting one framework aside in favour of the other. “We need to align our indigenous practices with today’s innovations. That’s how we will preserve our culture and progress at the same time” says Phuntsog.  

Greenhouse farming is also a constant exercise in trial and error—of learning that water from streams is more effective than groundwater or springwater; of letting in just the right amount of wind during wintry afternoons so that the crops don’t freeze over. “That bit of circulation is important as it keeps the greenhouse balanced and prevents pests. It’s all about timing and patience,” Phuntsog explains.

Also watch: How These Women Grow Vegetables in the Cold Deserts of Ladakh

Barley’s vanishing act

Over the last decade, the warming summers in Ladakh have enabled farmers to grow a wider variety of vegetables, some of which were once impossible to cultivate in the region’s soil, such as watermelon, zucchini, capsicum, and brinjal. These crops were embraced as cash crops which are easy to grow and harvest during the region’s short growing season. But this supposed convenience has come at a cost. 

“They are less laborious, yes, but they are also displacing our native crops,” he laments. Chief among them is nas or barley, a crop deeply rooted in Ladakhi culture and the heart of the local diet. It forms the backbone of breakfasts like tsampa or ngamphe—roasted flour eaten daily with butter tea—as well as celebratory beverages like chhaang (beer). It symbolises abundance and well-being, making it a vital motif in festivals and rituals.

Traditionally, owning a Dhu-kang (a storeroom for barley) was a symbol of prosperity. Phuntsog still owns one and proudly sells his barley across the union territory. “To think that one day barley will no longer be grown in Ladakh, and that we will be forced to buy it from elsewhere, breaks my heart,” he says. 

Of the total 22,436 ha area under cultivation in Ladakh, 5,388 ha remains dedicated to barley as per data from a government-affiliated committee in the region. But it is feared that this acreage will reduce over the years owing to climate change. Untimely rain during harvests has compromised yields and seed quality both. Damaged seeds mean weaker crops in the future, putting in place a vicious cycle.

Also read: Barley barely hanging on in Spiti

A legacy worth protecting  

In recognition of his profound impact, Phunstog has received numerous accolades at both the regional and national levels. In 2022, he was recognised as one of India’s 75 entrepreneurs in the Animal Husbandry and Dairying sectors by the Government of India. He received the State Award in 2020 from the Union Territory of Ladakh for his outstanding contribution to Progressive Farming.

Phuntsog also trains students and young people across India, providing hands-on learning in integrated organic farming. His lessons are comprehensive, covering everything from livestock rearing and compost making to traditional barley processing.

His accolades are a testament not just to his achievements, but to an existence in harmony with the land, driven forward by purpose and devoted to preserving a way of life that continues to nourish soil and soul.

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Produced by Nevin Thomas and Neerja Deodhar

Illustration by Tarique Aziz

When most of us picture a forest, we usually imagine looking upward at the grand, green treescape. But under it lies another presence: fungi, those invisible architects of decay and renewal, who make up the forest’s quiet infrastructure, and without whom a part of the ecology would collapse.

Fungi are their own kingdom—neither plant nor animal, though long mistaken for both. They lack chlorophyll, and so they do not absorb sunlight as plants do; instead, they secrete enzymes into the world and reabsorb the results. In this way, fungi dismantle leaves, wood, and the accumulated litter of centuries, returning carbon, nitrogen, and phosphorus to the soil. What we casually call a mushroom is only the tip of the proverbial iceberg—a fruiting body, comparable to an apple on a tree. The mushroom’s role is reproductive: to scatter spores into the air.

Mushrooms spring up with the arrival of the monsoons, when the moisture and humidity of the rains push the mycelium—the underground fungal network—into reproductive mode. Beyond fruiting, these networks act as a connecting framework for forests, often called the “wood wide web.” Through this brilliant and complex system, fungi create channels for roots of trees and plants, allowing them to exchange nutrients, warn each other of pests or disease, and even support weaker neighbours by channelling resources their way.

Their designs, however, are anything but utilitarian. Mushrooms appear as parasols and trumpets, honeycombs and coral, ashen frills and scarlet totems. Their colour palette ranges from the austere white to the dramatic red, gold, and black.

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Also read: India’s mushroom moment: Rural and urban farmers are betting on fungiculture

A kingdom of varieties 

In many cultures, mushroom-picking is a ritual. They form an essential part of the diet in several regions, especially where access to other protein sources is limited. They are particularly significant in the northeastern states of Nagaland, Manipur, and Assam, in the central state of Jharkhand, in the southern region of Kodagu (Karnataka), and in the northern states of Jammu & Kashmir and Himachal Pradesh.

Species like shiitake and enoki have been cultivated for thousands of years, their place in gourmet cuisine and medicinal cures recorded in a host of cookbooks, medical documents and apothecary records. Some varieties are beloved staples, like the white button mushroom that recurs in salads and pizzas. It is, humbly enough, the same species as the robust portobello, which takes its name from the Italian region of the same name, reflecting its origins. Others, like chanterelles, porcinis and morels are luxuries, available only to those with the patience to forage or the money to indulge.

Yet, fungi refuse to be reduced to a binary of edible and poisonous.

And then there are the sinister cousins. The fly agaric—bright red with polka dots, as if designed by a children’s illustrator—is both a fairytale icon and a biochemical hazard that can be found in the Nilgris. More treacherous still is the death cap, a pale green deceiver responsible for most fatal mushroom poisonings worldwide, its toxins so efficient they can reduce a healthy liver to ruin in days.

Yet, fungi refuse to be reduced to a binary of edible and poisonous. The lion’s mane that dangles from tree trunks in shaggy white tassels has also found its way into stores as coffee, medicinal capsules, powders and even in its dried form, used in cooking for its rich umami flavour and hailed for its effects on memory and nerves. The turkey tail, a fan of coloured rings clinging to fallen logs, is steeped into capsules as an immunity-booster.

Animals, too, partake in their mysteries. Rodents gnaw at them, insects burrow into them, and deer nibble on them from the forest floor. In Africa and Asia, termites perfected agriculture long before humans, cultivating Termitomyces fungi in vast underground gardens. They gather and chew plant matter that would otherwise be indigestible, feeding it to the fungi, which in turn break down cellulose and lignin—a glue-like substance in plant cell walls that makes them rigid and woody—into nutrients the colony can eat.

In exchange, the termites carefully regulate temperature, humidity, and airflow inside their mounds—conditions that function like a natural greenhouse. It is an ancient form of farming, built on the same principles of domestication, environmental control, and nutrient cycling that humans would adopt millions of years later.

We, too, have embraced fungi as crops. Mushroom farming has grown into a multi-billion-dollar industry, with homegrown ventures springing up across cities and exotic varieties increasingly finding their way into markets and kitchens.

Also read: Why bajra, the ‘pearl’ of India’s millets, remains underutilised

More than a feast 

Across regions in India where mushrooms are commonly found, foraging is more than just filling the pot. The Deori tribe in Assam and the Khonds of Odisha view foraging as a means to safeguard both biodiversity and cultural heritage, passing down ecological knowledge through the generations. For the Baiga tribe of Madhya Pradesh and Chhattisgarh, forest produce shapes ritual and medicine; they also inspire community fairs where uncultivated foods are celebrated. In Sikkim, the Rong tribe gathers plants with restraint, leaving enough for animals, spirits, and the future, while in Arunachal Pradesh, the Nyishi, Adi, and Monpa tribes have communally-maintained fragments of forests and knowledge gardens which protect local crops and traditional know-hows.

Fungi enjoy a continued relevance in science and culture. Penicillin, that great modern saviour, emerged from a mould. Researchers continue to mine fungi for new medicine every day. Designers imagine mushrooms not only on the plate, but as packaging material, textiles, even bricks. And yet, biologists estimate that more than 90% of fungal species remain undiscovered. Fungi are the dark matter of biology—present everywhere, but scarcely understood.

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

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