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

If you’ve ever walked past a roadside garbage dump, you are familiar with the exact odour that overwhelms your sense of smell: a blend of rotten eggs, urine, and metal.  You may scrunch up your face, pinch your nose, and hurry past on tiptoe, but it will be to no avail. The smell spares no one. 

If a small roadside garbage dump creates such an effect, a designated landfill is only worse. The smell is potent enough to sting your eyes, soak through your clothes, and stick to your skin long after you leave it behind. And what you can’t smell, seeps into your veins: methane and carbon dioxide – odourless gases notorious for their role as greenhouse gases, which also restrict the body’s access to oxygen.

For many of us, walking away from the horridness of a landfill is easy. But thousands of people are subjected to this biohazard everyday—they collect, transport and manually scavenge this waste with little to no protection. As long as waste is indiscriminately generated in urban India, landfills will continue to pile up, and manual scavenging—which has deep roots in caste—will continue to be a reality.

 Most international guidelines require at least a 500 m buffer zone around all landfills, and the Karnataka state government goes so far as to require a 1 km buffer zone around all landfills. By the government’s own admission, most buffer zones are encroached given the scale of overpopulation in most cities. 

Every day, the Bengaluru Urban district generates 4593 tonnes of waste, of which 2399 tonnes (52%) is food waste. In reality, the amount of food waste is likely higher—these figures indicate the separated wet waste that made it to urban collection centres. The municipal corporation operates separate dry and wet waste processing centres. In certain areas, waste is composted or recycled before sending unreusable waste to landfills—for instance, out of the separated 2399 tonnes of food waste, only about 55% (1328 tonnes) gets converted to compost. At other centres, all waste is sent directly to landfills without processing. 

Most gases in landfills come from anaerobic decomposition of organic matter—and over 45-60% of landfill gas is made up of the greenhouse gases mentioned earlier: carbon dioxide and methane. Though chemical waste like discarded metal, cosmetics and toiletries can still create toxic compounds like benzene, reducing organic waste in landfills is a sure shot way of reducing not only greenhouse gas emissions, but also the production of foul-smelling gases like hydrogen sulphide.  

A costly affair

Bengaluru’s city municipal corporation, the Bruhat Bengaluru Mahanagara Palike (BBMP) has earmarked Rs. 1,400 crore for Bengaluru Solid Waste Management Limited (BSWML) for 2025-26. Of this 1,400 crores, it expects Rs. 750 crore to come from a newly implemented user fee for waste collection. This user fee has invited skepticism from both the public and the media, who disparagingly refer to it as 'garbage tax.' It ranges from Rs. 10 to Rs. 400 per month, and has been incorporated as a component of property tax since April 2025. BSWML currently spends around 590 crores per year on the collection and transportation of municipal solid waste. In a tender dated June 2025, it estimated the costs of secondary collection and transportation (i.e. transporting waste from processing centres to landfills) to be Rs 1,590 crore. 

Let's be clear: this money is being used to drive our waste about 40 km every day—using fuel and blocking traffic only to end up in a landfill. Waste put in landfills does not go anywhere; rather, it becomes our heritage. Aptly called 'legacy waste', its informally agreed upon definition is waste that has languished in a landfill for more than a year. Formally, it remains undefined by any Indian authority. 

 Generally, urban local bodies are recommended to employ biomethanation when they are processing more than 50 tonnes per day (TPD) since it is only cost effective at scale. At a small scale, composting is championed because of minimal technology and investment requirements. 

Not only does the waste in landfills take up valuable space, it damages the surrounding environment. It produces leachate, which is a contaminant formed when water flows through the waste, and results in groundwater contamination. Though modern landfills are lined with impervious materials like (ironically) plastic, some amount of seepage or leakage is inevitable in any landfill over a period of time. 

As a Karnataka High Court judgement aptly states: 'Landfills are only temporary solutions and long term measures have to be initiated by all concerned authorities as a permanent solution.' 

Landfills are also a health hazard to everyone living in their vicinity. In addition to damaging respiratory health, they also contaminate groundwater, crops, and even milk. Most international guidelines require at least a 500 m buffer zone around all landfills, and the Karnataka state government goes so far as to require a 1 km buffer zone around all landfills. By the government’s own admission, most buffer zones are encroached given the scale of overpopulation in most cities. 

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

Indian megacities’ need of the hour

If landfills are not a permanent solution, what is? In the Indian context, an effective approach that stands out is the circular economy. A circular economy is a system where instead of completing a linear life cycle and ending up as waste, materials keep getting circulated through processes like maintenance, recycling, or refurbishment. The subset of this philosophy that applies to bio-resources is called circular bio-economy, and deals with repurposing bio-materials. 

Two fundamental pillars of the circular bio-economy are composting and biomethanation (the process of converting organic matter to biogas). Generally, urban local bodies are recommended to employ biomethanation when they are processing more than 50 tonnes per day (TPD) since it is only cost effective at scale. At a small scale, composting is championed because of minimal technology and investment requirements. 

Eighty percent of Alappuzha households now have either biogas plants or pipe composting systems; the rest have their waste collected and sent to a municipal composting unit.

Currently, most of India's local bodies process some portion of their wet waste into compost or biogas, either outsourced or through municipal composters and biogas plants. Collectively the waste processed amounts to roughly 49.5% of the total wet waste collected nationally. But these figures vary widely internally across municipal bodies, and still involve transportation costs to municipal composting centres.

It is far more efficient to decentralise the process and set up small local composting units in individual houses or housing societies. The compost it yields can be used by resident gardeners and green spaces within housing societies. Excess compost can be sold to farmers or even nearby nurseries and  serve as an additional source of income. 

Also read: Don't dump it, compost it: Why peels and scraps shouldn't be tossed into your garden

Beacon of hope

However, this doesn’t mean that the onus of responsible waste management should shift from the state to the individual. Individual efforts can lay the bricks of change, but administrative support must bolster it. Some Indian cities have made phenomenal changes to their waste management system. The most notable of them is Alappuzha, Kerala, which was recognised by the United Nations Environment Programme (UNEP) as one of the world’s five most pioneering cities with respect to solid waste management. 

The story of Alappuzha's transformation started with the people living next to the landfill refusing to allow waste disposal in their neighbourhood. After multiple failed negotiations, the municipality came up with a fresh framework for segregation and disposal. Eighty percent of Alappuzha households now have either biogas plants or pipe composting systems; the rest have their waste collected and sent to a municipal composting unit. 

Similarly, the Indian Institute of Human Settlements (IIHS) launched a City-Farmer Partnership for Solid Waste Management in Chickballapur in Karnataka. Under this initiative, wet waste is collected from the municipal council, transferred to compost pits at farmlands, turned into compost, and given to farmers for free. Within just 6 months, over 109 farmers received 759 tonnes of compost.

Composting dominates conversations around soil rejuvenation, and rightfully so. But it has a paired benefit: reducing the strain on our solid waste management system. The circular bioeconomy flourishes when backed by administrative bodies that are deeply invested in equitable and sustainable civic care for its citizens. We must urge our governments to mobilise around the circular economy. And while we wait for policy to take shape, we must take ownership of the waste we generate. Composting is one of the simplest and most accessible ways to get our hands dirty, and change the fate of what would go into landfills to create something that fuels the land instead. 

Also read: Trouble in your compost bin? Here are solutions for stink, slush and surprise guests

{{quiz}}

Chickens—we know them, we love them, and probably have been chased by one down a lane at least once in our lives. They peck, they cluck, they run around like tiny, feathery dinosaurs who popped right out of Cher’s closet. And…they poop, a lot, like once in every 20-30 minutes.

The average chicken produces approximately one cubic foot of manure every six months, which is equivalent to almost 30 litres of manure—a small suitcase full of poop. And some people have dozens of chickens, so imagine waking up every morning, opening your back door, and being greeted by a mountain of freshly made, steaming-hot (potential) fertiliser. 

Chicken manure stands out because it delivers a balanced nutritional profile. Unlike other fertilisers that comprise the primary trio of nitrogen, phosphorus, and potassium, chicken manure naturally contains a larger number of essential nutrients that plants require for optimal growth, including critical micronutrients like calcium, magnesium, sulfur, iron, manganese, zinc, copper, and boron, that are often overlooked but vital for plant health.

Chicken poop is rich in nutrients because chickens eat a mixed diet, and their bodies pack those nutrients into a form that plants can easily use. The organic matter in chicken manure also improves soil structure and water retention while feeding beneficial microorganisms, creating a living soil ecosystem rather than just delivering a quick nutrient fix. 

In Bhopal, a (2004) study found that combining 75% NPK (a fertiliser labelling convention pointing to the presence of nitrogen, phosphorus, and potassium) with poultry manure produced better yields than with farmyard manure, a variant made of manure from various farm animals like cows and sheep, mixed with bedding materials like straw, especially for sorghum.

For a farmer, chicken poop is gold. However, one can’t just go around spraying and dumping raw manure onto their plants. It is something like a nuclear reactor; if not handled properly, it’ll straight-up burn everything in sight because of the nitrogen and ammonia present in it. Imagine what your body might go through if one evening you decided to replace your nerve-calming, 100% caffeine-free chamomile tea with a dozen shots of espresso. 

That’s why the droppings need to first be composted for them to break down and mellow out. The process is also necessary to eliminate all the nasty little pathogens that could ruin the crops. If done right, what was once a pile of steaming horror turns into plant food. Farmers must also be mindful of which crops they use the manure on. For example, root crops that have direct contact with the soil—such as potatoes, carrots and beets—are a no-no because of the risk posed by pathogens within the manure. They can remain in the soil for weeks and possibly contaminate crops.

Staging a coop

Composting chicken poop comes with its challenges. First, the overpowering smell of filth. If you’ve ever had the pleasure of being downwind of a fresh pile of chicken manure, you know what we mean. A poorly managed pile of chicken poop smells like someone bottled all the obnoxious odours under the sun and then shook it up for fun. That’s why experts suggest you keep the pile well-aerated, because nothing ruins neighbourly relations faster than an unexpected wave of Eau de Chicken Butt drifting across the kitchen window.

There’s also the pathogen problem. Raw chicken poop can carry notorious bacteria like the infamous E. coli, Salmonella, and a bunch of other microscopic nightmares. Being careful while handling it is crucial. So, wear gloves, wash your hands, and let the droppings cure for 45-60 days before. Also, add carbon-based materials like leaves, straw, wood shavings, or wood chips to balance the nitrogen in the manure and dial down the odour.

If you don’t have access to fresh chicken poop or don’t have the time to process it yourself, worry not, because that concern has already been taken care of by the agricultural experts. One can actually buy dried, pelletised chicken manure in bags across the internet.

Also read: Meet the minds investigating bugs lurking in poultry

A tale as old as time

Farmers have been using chicken manure for centuries. There’s even archaeological evidence that the first domestic chickens appeared around the time humans began cultivating rice and millets. Basically, ancient humans saw jungle fowls hanging around their crops and thought, “Let’s invite them over.” Ever since, the little feathered freeloaders continue to repay the favour the only way they know how—by pooping.

In Tamil Nadu, particularly in Namakkal and Erode, poultry manure is widely used in millet cultivation. Farmers also sell this manure to neighbouring states, where it is applied to vegetable farms, rubber plantations, and coconut orchards. A study involving 62 poultry farmers in Assam and Karnataka found that nearly 90% of them reused poultry waste as manure on nearby fields. In Nagaland, backyard poultry manure is incorporated into organic farming on a small scale, either through composting or direct application by smallholder farmers, with no involvement from large commercial operations. Additionally, research conducted at the Agricultural Research Farm at Banaras Hindu University in Varanasi demonstrated that poultry manure used in maize cropping systems led to improved yields and enhanced nutrient uptake.

Chicken manure stands out because it delivers a balanced nutritional profile.

In Bhopal, a (2004) study found that combining 75% NPK (a fertiliser labelling convention pointing to the presence of nitrogen, phosphorus, and potassium) with poultry manure produced better yields than with farmyard manure, a variant made of manure from various farm animals like cows and sheep, mixed with bedding materials like straw, especially for sorghum. In Pune, baby corn trials (in 2009) showed that poultry manure led to the highest nutrient uptake and cob yield. 

Globally, chicken manure has shown superior performance. A forage crop study found poultry manure boosted fresh yield by 145% and had roughly three times the nutrient content of cow manure. Very recently, in New Zealand, 20-25% higher yields were reported for maize and other crops, compared to cow, sheep, and pig manure. While cow manure improves soil structure, poultry manure offers more concentrated nutrients. 

India currently does not provide direct subsidies exclusively for chicken manure. However, several states, like Goa, Bihar, Uttar Pradesh, Haryana, Tamil Nadu and Nagaland, financially support poultry farm establishment (which produces manure). 

If you have chickens and are planning to use the manure, you’ll also have an endless stream of chicken poop mysteries to solve. A lot about a chicken's health is revealed just by looking at its droppings. Too watery? Excess protein. Green and foamy? Possibly a disease. The moment you start raising chickens, you become a professional poop detective on the coop scene.

Whether you’re a farmer, a gardener, or just someone who loves a good omelette, somewhere, a chicken and its poop are working overtime behind the scenes, making sure we all stay fed.

Also read: Black Soldier Fly: A hero of insect farming and waste management

‍

{{quiz}}

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. 

Every morning, as India’s cities slowly come to life, crates of vegetables and fruits—some harvested just hours earlier in fields nearby—are unloaded in wholesale as well as Agricultural Produce Market Committee APMC (APMC) markets. Street vendors ready their carts for the day’s trade, small eateries fire up their stoves to serve the first wave of officegoers, and shelves at local grocery stores and supermarkets are stocked in preparation for the day ahead. Day after day, this quiet choreography sustains the vast and often invisible system that keeps cities fed.

But as India’s metropolises expand, these well-rehearsed routines are being reshaped. In this column, I take a closer look at what it means to feed a city fairly and sustainably in such a changing landscape. 

How food gets to the city 

Across the country, food reaches urban centres through networks that span vast and varied geographies. These supply chains link remote farms, peri-urban fields, fisheries, livestock holdings, and processing units to urban markets, grocers, eateries, and homes. Food in India travels shorter distances on average, compared to large industrial countries like the US. Food reaching American cities travels over 1,600 km per metric tonne; at around 480 km per metric tonne, food supply to Indian cities averages less than a third of that, owing to more regionally embedded production systems. 

Chennai offers an insightful example. In 2020, as COVID-19 lockdowns disrupted lives and economies, the city’s food system came under sudden strain. The closure of Koyambedu market, one of Asia’s largest wholesale hubs and a vital artery for fresh produce, raised urgent questions: how does a metropolis like Chennai get its food? 

The Urban Design Collective’s project, Who Feeds Chennai? emerged in response. The initiative traced the movement of vegetables, among other staples, and found that the city’s fresh produce was largely sourced from its peripheries as well as adjoining districts. Another study conducted by IIT Madras found that traders based in Koyambedu, many of whom are unionised, handle the logistics of transport. Smaller farmers unaffiliated with middlemen sometimes travel up to 200 km to reach the city. Certain vegetables were even found to travel over 1,000 km from northern India. 

For most other cities, such mapping remains absent, due in part to the informal and fragmented nature of supply chains and the lack of institutional attention to urban food planning.

Staple grains were found to reach Chennai from further afield. While some rice is sourced from Tamil Nadu’s delta districts, much of it arrives from states like Andhra Pradesh, Haryana, Delhi, Assam, and West Bengal, with brokers linking producers and Chennai-based millers. Wheat is mainly procured from Punjab, Madhya Pradesh, and Uttar Pradesh through similar channels. Pulses come from a mix of local sources and distant states such as Delhi and Haryana, as well as from international suppliers including the US, Canada, Australia, and Mozambique. 

The city’s meat supply is more decentralised. Poultry, Chennai’s most consumed meat, is brought in from Tamil Nadu and nearby southern states, often through vertically integrated systems where companies provide chicks, equipment, and market access to local growers. Mutton, the second most popular meat, is transported over 2,000 km from states like Andhra Pradesh, Rajasthan, and Maharashtra, while beef typically comes from Kerala. Fish arrives not only from the Coromandel Coast but also from other coastal regions, thanks to improvements in cold storage infrastructure.  

Projects like Who Feeds Chennai? offer a rare glimpse into how food reaches an Indian city. For most other cities, such mapping remains absent, due in part to the informal and fragmented nature of supply chains and the lack of institutional attention to urban food planning.

Around the world, city governments are increasingly recognising the importance of understanding and managing how food circulates through urban systems. A leading example is the Milan Urban Food Policy Pact, a global agreement signed by over 250 cities such as Milan, Nairobi, Rio de Janeiro, Seoul, Toronto, New York City, Dakar, Melbourne, and Amsterdam. Launched in 2015, the pact has supported initiatives worldwide to map food flows, strengthen urban–rural linkages, reduce waste, and improve access to nutritious food through public procurement and community-based programs. The Indian cities of Bhopal, Indore, Jammu, Panaji, Pune, Rourkela, Sagar, and Ujjain are also signatories. However, there is little publicly available information on whether these cities have undertaken detailed mapping of their food systems.

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

The changing face of peri-urban India 

As urban centres expand, they draw food, water, labour, and land from their margins, reshaping both agricultural production and everyday life. In the National Capital Region, rising urban demand has led to significant changes in land use in peri-urban regions, especially in Haryana. Farmers are increasingly turning to high-value crops like fruits and vegetables, aided by state support for polyhouse cultivation, horticulture promotion, and improved market access. These shifts are not only transforming cropping patterns but also strengthening local supply chains that feed the growing urban population.

However, risks remain: many smallholders face insecure tenure, erratic access to water, and volatile market conditions that limit long-term investment. As real estate interests encroach and cultivation becomes more marginal, benefits from intensified production are unevenly shared. Without more inclusive governance and safeguards for farming livelihoods, these shifts may deepen existing inequalities.

What enables economic survival in the short term may be contributing to long-term health and ecological decline. 

In Bengaluru’s peripheries as well, food production has shifted away from traditional crops like millets and pulses towards high-value and high input-demanding crops like baby corn, mulberry, cattle fodder, as well as lawn grass. In particular, the rise of lawn grass cultivation for Bengaluru’s landscaping industry exemplifies a form of extractive agriculture that is ecologically damaging, socially disconnected, and diverts land that could otherwise be used to grow local food crops. 

As a result of the city’s struggles with fresh water supply, agriculture in Bengaluru’s southern periphery depends on untreated or partially treated wastewater for irrigation. This has allowed farmers to cultivate year-round, boosting incomes and enabling diversification. But this practice is not without pitfalls. Vegetables and milk from these zones have tested positive for heavy metals, and residents report high rates of waterborne and skin-related illnesses. What enables economic survival in the short term may be contributing to long-term health and ecological decline. 

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

Informal food networks  

Informal food networks, which take the form of streetside vendors and fish mongers, are central to how Indian cities eat. Unlike in many other parts of the world, large supermarket chains have failed to replace them, finding it hard to compete with the accessibility, affordability, and trust built into these local systems of provisioning. Though often overlooked in policy, informal food networks form a critical part of urban infrastructure, enabling both food access and livelihoods.  

In cities like Mumbai, the informal food sector has been deeply shaped by the city’s history as an industrious port. Today, it is home to vibrant food networks that operate beyond the bounds of formal municipal governance but with a high level of coordination in how space and money are used. 

Neighbourhoods like Dharavi, often reduced to shorthand for poverty or overcrowding, are also hubs of food processing, retail, and distribution. Dabbawalas, meanwhile, transport home-cooked lunches to offices across the city with remarkable precision, weaving through trains and traffic in one of the world’s most complex logistical systems.  

Yet these systems remain precarious, and their workers vulnerable. Most vendors lack legal status, secure space, or access to basic infrastructure like clean water and waste disposal. Periodic evictions and restrictive regulations, often justified through concerns about hygiene or congestion, displace the very actors who make urban food access possible. These pressures are intensified by social hierarchies. Gender, caste, and migrant status influence who gets access to vending locations, how municipal authorities respond, and who bears the brunt of enforcement. 

Kolkata offers a slightly different story. With over 3,00,000 vendors working across the city, street vending is just as widespread as other metropolitan cities, but more deeply tied to local politics. Over the years, hawkers have formed strong unions and built enduring ties with political parties. These relationships have allowed them not only to survive but also to resist eviction and, at times, gain influence over decision-making processes.

However, this visibility brings its own complications and power struggles. In many areas, clientelist politics now shape urban spaces wherein local leaders offer protection in exchange for votes. This means that basic services, rights, and fair treatment often depend on political loyalty rather than formal legal protection. 

In 2014, India passed the Street Vendors Act, a national law aimed at recognising and protecting the rights of street vendors. It called for detailed surveys to register vendors, the creation of designated vending zones, and restrictions on evictions without due process. The law was intended to bring dignity and security to informal food work. But more than a decade later, implementation remains limited. Other kinds of food workers such as food delivery staff and domestic cooks also remain on the margins of labour protection, often navigating long hours, low pay, and few avenues for redress. 

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

Planning for future-proof systems

As of 2025, urban food policy in India remains inconsistently implemented and disproportionately influenced by upper and middle-class interests, with little recognition of the informal actors who play a central role in enabling food access. A more inclusive approach must look beyond city centres and engage the wider geographies that feed them.

At a time when cities around the world increasingly turn to food imports to ensure food security—often adding to climate change—it is all the more important for India to draw on its rich biodiversity and traditional agricultural knowledge to meet urban food needs through domestic production.

Importantly, what becomes clear from examining India’s urban food landscape is that the path to improving it does not lie in replacing informal networks with privately led or corporate-controlled models. Rather, it lies in recognising that these networks of small traders, transporters, vendors, farmers, and millers form the foundation upon which urban food access depends. Far from being obsolete, they are resilient, adaptive, and deeply embedded in the country's social and economic life. 

However, ensuring the rights and protections of those engaged in informal food work is not a call for deregulation, but for thoughtful, context-sensitive governance that values and safeguards these actors while addressing gaps in infrastructure, food safety regulation, transparency, and equity. Without such a framework, efforts to formalise or privatise the food economy risk excluding those who already deliver affordability and access to the majority of urban residents.

At a time when cities around the world increasingly turn to food imports to ensure food security—often adding to climate change—it is all the more important for India to draw on its rich biodiversity and traditional agricultural knowledge to meet urban food needs through domestic production. As a result of the country’s geographic and climatic diversity, a one-size-fits-all approach to urban food planning is unlikely to work. Policies must instead reflect regional specificities. Equally important is the need to curb corporate concentration in the food sector so that access to nutritious and affordable food is not limited to elites but extends to the working class. Encouraging the consumption of locally sourced foods through price incentives and public awareness can help align urban diets with regional food systems, supporting both sustainability and equity. 

Artwork by Alia Sinha

{{quiz}}

Editor's Note: From grocery lists, to fitness priorities, and even healthy snacking, protein is everywhere—but do we truly understand it? In this series, the Good Food Movement breaks down the science behind this vital macronutrient and its value to the human body. It examines how we absorb protein from the food we consume, how this complex molecule has a role to play in processes like immunity, and the price the Earth pays for our growing protein needs.

Why has protein suddenly become the global poster child for modern nutrition? From nutritionists, to scientists, to artificial intelligence, everyone is invested in this macronutrient. In fact, one of AI’s biggest biology puzzles has become understanding how proteins fold into their unique 3D shapes. 

Proteins are essential to our bodies. They build muscle, carry oxygen, fight infections, digest food, and even help our brains think. Essential components like enzymes, haemoglobin, hormones, muscles, and keratin—that constitute our organs, skin and hair—are made up of protein. The human body has over 20,000 protein-coding genes (segments of DNA that contain instructions on how to make proteins), and each protein serves a purpose. 

But…what are proteins exactly?

The ways in which they fold (twist, curl and arrange themselves in 3D) determines what they eventually form, and how they function in the body—like enzymes, hormones and antibodies, among others.

‍
Proteins are long chains made up of smaller molecules called amino acids. Think of amino acids like LEGO blocks—there are 20 kinds, and you can snap them together in endless ways to build thousands of different proteins. The ways in which they fold (twist, curl and arrange themselves in 3D) determines what they eventually form, and how they function in the body—like enzymes, hormones and antibodies, among others. But predicting this folded shape just from the sequence of amino acids is a complex affair.

(Note that proteins are infinitely varied and intricate—and this short explainer only scratches the surface. It’s like trying to describe the entire Internet using a sticky note. But hey, we’re trying.)

Also read: Protein’s seen and unseen benefits: How it affects metabolism, muscle repair

A history of the mystery molecule

We need to know which amino acids build the protein molecule before predicting how it may fold. This is known as protein sequencing. Why is this important? To understand how a protein functions, how it interacts with other molecules, and how mutations may cause it to malfunction.

For instance, a single amino acid change in the haemoglobin protein leads to sickle cell disease, altering the shape and function of red blood cells. Insights like these help researchers develop targeted medications, study genetic disorders, and even design synthetic proteins from scratch—such as enzymes that break down plastic, or lab-made antibodies used in cancer immunotherapy. Essentially, protein sequencing helps understand life on a molecular level. 

Insights like these help researchers develop targeted medications, study genetic disorders, and even design synthetic proteins from scratch—such as enzymes that break down plastic, or lab-made antibodies used in cancer immunotherapy.

The quest to sequence this macronutrient stretches back centuries. As early as 1789, French chemist Antoine Fourcroy noticed that substances like albumin, fibrin, and gelatin shared similar properties, though back then they were still called ‘Eiweisskörper’ (literally, ‘egg-white bodies’). A few decades later, in 1819, Henri Braconnot managed to isolate the first amino acids, leucine and glycine, from natural sources—hinting at the building blocks behind proteins.

The word ‘protein’ itself was coined in 1838 by Dutch chemist Gerardus Johannes Mulder, rooted in the Greek ‘of first importance.’ But it wasn’t until the 20th century that things really took off.

In the early 1950s, Frederick Sanger cracked the amino acid sequence of insulin, proving for the first time that proteins have precise, genetically determined structures. Around the same time, George Palade discovered ribosomes—the workers in our cells that assemble proteins based on instructions from our genes. Then in 1958, John Kendrew used X-ray crystallography to unveil the first detailed 3D structure of a protein—myoglobin from a sperm whale—ushering in the age of structural biology.

Fast-forward to 2020, DeepMind’s AI tool AlphaFold accurately predicted protein’s myriad 3D shapes from amino acid sequences—something that took labs years to figure out. In 2021, it released structures for over 200 million proteins (essentially covering every protein known to science today), transforming the way we understand what our bodies are made of.

Also read: Whey to go: A complete guide to protein

O Protein, where art thou?

Okay, quick recap. Remember those 20 amino acids that are the building blocks of protein? Out of these, 9 are ‘essential’; your body can’t make them. You have to get them from food. The other 11 are ‘non-essential’; your body can process them from other nutrients like carbohydrates and fatty acids.

This is why pairing foods matters. If you're vegan, aim to combine grains, legumes and nuts/seeds across meals. A classic example is rajma and rice, or the old American favourite, a peanut butter sandwich. If you're vegetarian, adding a little dairy simplifies things a lot.

Not all protein sources give you all 9 essential amino acids. Foods like meat, fish, eggs, dairy are called complete proteins because they check all the boxes. But most plant-based proteins are incomplete, which means they’re missing one or more of those 9 essential amino acids. 

This is why pairing foods matters. If you're vegan, aim to combine grains, legumes and nuts/seeds across meals. A classic example is rajma and rice, or the old American favourite, a peanut butter sandwich. 

If you're vegetarian, adding a little dairy simplifies things a lot. Some go-to combinations include moong dal cheela (soaked mung bean crepes) and pairing it with curd or yogurt. Another excellent option is chole (chickpea curry) served with whole wheat roti and a side of buttermilk, offering a balanced and protein-rich meal. Similarly, moong dal khichdi paired with lightly grilled paneer cubes creates a wholesome lunch packed with protein and essential nutrients.

What happens if you don’t get enough protein? Well, protein deficiency hits hard and fast. You feel weak, tired and your immune system tanks – you catch colds quicker, and your injuries are slower to heal. In children, physical growth becomes stagnant and their brains lag behind. In extreme cases, it can lead to kwashiorkor, a condition where children have bloated bellies, thin limbs, and severe health problems.

Also read: Is your body low on protein? Signs and impacts of a deficiency

{{quiz}}

When it comes to meeting individuals’ bodily protein requirements, pulses play a crucial role—particularly in the case of vegetarian individuals. When combined with cereals, they significantly complement the proteins contained in them, resulting in a more wholesome diet.

A 2022 publication by the National Academy of Agricultural Sciences (NAAS) states that pulses play a key role in reducing significant ailments and diseases. “Eating pulses along with Vitamin C-rich foods enhances absorption of iron, rendering pulses a potent food for preventing anaemia. Pulses being high in fibre, low in fat and with a low glycemic index, are thus an ideal food for weight management, particularly for the diabetic patient,” the authors of the publication, titled Sustaining the Pulses Revolution in India: Technological and Policy Measurers, write.

They add that the high fibre content in these legumes lowers low-density lipoprotein (LDL) cholesterol, reducing the risk of coronary heart disease. Per the publication, pulses also contain phytochemicals and antioxidants, which lend to them anti-cancer properties. 

“Being leguminous crops, possessing root nodules, they fix and utilise atmospheric nitrogen. They are thus not dependent on industrially fixed nitrogen, a process requiring energy, but add up to 30 kgs of nitrogen per hectare to the soil and improve its fertility,” writes Dr. S. Ramanujam in a chapter from the Handbook of Agriculture published by the Indian Council of Agricultural Research (ICAR).”

Dr. Ramanujam goes on to give more specific uses of various pulses. Black gram (urad) is very rich in phosphoric acid. Germinated seeds of Bengal gram (chana) are recommended to cure scurvy, while the malic and oxalic acids found in its green leaves are prescribed for intestinal disorders. Moth beans, also known as matki beans, are among the most drought-resistant pulses. Due to its low, trailing, mat-like growth, it is very helpful against wind erosion in sandy areas where it is grown more extensively.

In the case of pigeon pea (arhar), the green leaves and tops of the plant are fed to animals or utilised as green manure. Dry stalks obtained after threshing are used for basket-making or as fuel and thatching material. A deep-rooted crop, arhar is also planted as a soil rejuvenator to break up the hard subsoil, and as a hedge to check erosion. The heavy shedding of its leaves adds considerable organic matter to the soil. 

Apart from their significant contribution to nutrition, there are many other benefits of pulse crops. Due to their nitrogen fixation abilities, pulses contribute significantly to lowering the dependence on chemical fertilisers when grown in rotation with cereal crops or as mixed cropping. This, in turn, helps to reduce greenhouse gas emissions.

Also read: Protein’s seen and unseen benefits: How it affects metabolism, muscle repair

Dip in consumption and production

Given these multipronged benefits, it is not surprising that traditionally, India’s farmers have grown a wide diversity of pulse crops, particularly in mixed farming systems, and in rotations well adapted to local conditions. These pulses have been much valued in local food habits too, being processed and cooked into hundreds of cherished dishes, including snacks like papads with longer shelf-lives, as well as the preparation of green pods of some pulses as nutritious vegetables.

Unfortunately, several factors have contributed to a stagnation in the production of pulses and a decrease in per capita availability in recent decades. Simultaneously, because of the lower per capita availability, the dependence on imported pulses has increased. 

According to the Indian Council of Medical Research (ICMR), the consumption of pulses at a rate of 68 gms per capita per day has been recommended in India. As against this desirable norm, the actual per capita availability of pulses was as low as 43.83 gms per day in 2015-16. Data from the National Sample Survey on Consumption Expenditure (2011-12) indicated even lower availability—citing 27 gms per capita per day as actual consumption.

In 1956, the per capita per day net availability of pulses in the country was 70 gms per day, or slightly higher than the desirable norm suggested by the ICMR. The decline from 70 to 47 today is unfortunate.

According to the Indian Council of Medical Research (ICMR), the consumption of pulses at a rate of 68 gms per capita per day has been recommended in India. As against this desirable norm, the actual per capita availability of pulses was as low as 43.83 gms per day in 2015-16.

From 1961 to 2015-16, the cereal production in the country increased by 239%, while the production of pulses increased by only 29%. Whether we look at increase in area or productivity, the situation reveals stagnation. 

With the advent of the Green Revolution in the 1960s and the ‘70s, there was an increased tendency towards vast monocultures of crop varieties with a limited genetic base. In contrast, the mixed cropping systems and rotations that had evolved over several centuries, taking into account the multiple needs—including soil fertility and water conservation—were ignored. In this process, the cultivation of pulses was reduced significantly, with all the accompanying adverse impacts on nutrition and the environment. In Punjab, the state that led the Green Revolution, in 1966-67, pulse crops were grown on 13.4% of the total area under crops, but by 1982-83, this had dropped to just 3%—a massive change within just about 15 years. 

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

Over-reliance on imports?

As a result, there isn’t just a lower per capita availability of pulses today, but even at this low level of consumption, there is increasing dependence on imports. According to the Food and Agriculture Organization, India accounts for approximately 39% of the global demand for pulses, but contributes to only 28% of their production worldwide. 

There is a very strong case for formulating a comprehensive strategy to increase local production of pulses in safe and healthy ways, thereby making a very significant contribution to promoting nutrition and protecting the environment.

Understandably, then, this is reflected in increasing imports of pulses, thereby increasing pressure on foreign exchange in an area where the country has the potential to achieve self-reliance. “India's pulses imports in fiscal 2024 surged 84% year-on-year to their highest level in six years after lower production prompted India to allow duty-free imports of red lentils and yellow peas, government and industry officials said on Thursday,” reads a report from The Hindu. The cost of these imports increased from $1.83 billion in 2013-14 to $5.48 billion in 2024-25. 

Imports included about 2.2 million tonnes of yellow/white peas from mainly Canada and Russia, 1.6 million tonnes of chana from Australia, 1.2 million tonnes of arhar mainly from African countries, 1.2 million tonnes of masoor from Canada, Australia and the USA, and 0.8 million tonnes of urad from Myanmar and Brazil.

Apart from economic costs, rising import demands raise concerns about monitoring quality and safety—concerns that have emerged from time to time. In exporting countries, where pulses are not a staple food, there is a higher possibility of safety and health precautions being violated. 

There is a very strong case for formulating a comprehensive strategy to increase local production of pulses in safe and healthy ways, thereby making a very significant contribution to promoting nutrition and protecting the environment. In this effort, we can learn much from traditional practices, particularly mixed cropping systems and crop rotations, as these provide valuable insights into which pulse crops can be best grown in combination with cereals and other crops in specific locations.

A highly decentralised approach is needed, with programmes prepared through adequate consultation with local farmers, particularly elderly and experienced farmers, including women. The government should take steps to encourage pulse production by ensuring proper prices in the market and procure pulses for supply to weaker sections of society through the public distribution system. In addition, farmers can secure better returns if local, village-level processing of pulses is promoted.

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

(Additional editing by Neerja Deodhar)

It was a heritage awareness walk held in the semi-forested area of Pernem in North Goa, in June. The monsoon season had just begun, making the scenery lush and green. While admiring this greenery, something caught the attention of Neeta Omprakash, an independent visual arts researcher and lover of wild greens. She immediately reached for a small kitchen knife and a bag, and foraged for the young, tender leaves of ‘luti’ or dragon stalk yam (Amorphophallus commutatus)—the plant that had made her pause.

Some of her fellow walkers were amazed by this sight, but for Omprakash, foraging is an annual tradition when monsoon clouds arrive in Goa. “I eagerly wait for the first week of rain, as it is the time when the first shoots of luti break through the tough crust of earth to emerge,” says Omprakash, a Panaji resident who loves to cook this vegetable which she describes as “highly aromatic.”

She prepares it by first soaking the leaves overnight, with a few peels of kokum, which helps prevent skin irritation (the presence of calcium oxalate crystals in luti are neutralised by souring agents like kokum). She then cooks it with coconut, jackfruit seeds, garam masala, ‘kuvalyachi vadi’ (a condiment made from ash gourd), and then tempers it with coconut oil and garlic. “Once garlic is tempered in coconut oil, the aroma takes over the entire home! I have never missed an opportunity to eat luti bhaji,” adds Omprakash, who has a love for foraging wild produce.

In Goa, ‘monsoon greens’ have their own fan base. The season for these vegetables and leafy greens begins in June and lasts until August, as they are best consumed while they are still tender. Local beliefs state that one must eat these greens at least once during the rainy season.

A variety of greens can be found in the state, each specific to its particular region, making some of them hyperlocal. The commonly found ones are the leaves of ‘tailkilo’ (Cassia tora), ‘kisra’ (moringa), ‘kuddukechi bhaji’ (Celosia argentea or cock’s comb), and tender shoots of ‘akur’ or mangrove fern (Acrostichum aureum). Alongside these, wild fruits such as ‘fagla’ or spiny gourd are also consumed. The leaves and shoots of the Colocasia (arbi) remain a widely consumed favourite, as they grow wild along roadsides, farms, and open spaces. There are around six edible varieties of Colocasia that are eaten in Goa, including ‘tero’, ‘alu’, ‘tirpatche alu’, and ‘vatalu’, which have medicinal properties and grow on tree trunks in deep forests. 

For many Goans, cooking these vegetables is a means to feel connected to their land and its resources. It is also an attempt to document culinary traditions and conduct further research into them.

“I usually forage Colocasia from my backyard, and other monsoon greens from forests. I hardly buy any edible greens during the monsoon,” says photographer and local cuisine enthusiast, Assavri Kulkarni. She cooks Colocasia leaves with souring agents like ‘aambade’ or hog plums. These vegetables have alkaline properties that can irritate the throat when eaten; souring agents can help to combat this irritation. The other commonly used souring agent is kokum peels. Along with these souring agents, jackfruit seeds are used to add an element of flavour and texture. Additionally, Kulkarni sometimes adds peas or dried shrimp for their protein content.

“I also make ‘alu vadi’ for my daughter’s tiffin,” says Kulkarni. She loves to experiment with wild greens, preparing dhoklas and sweet pancakes with taikilo leaves. She also loves to cook akur during this season, either by frying it or adding it to pulaos or curries like ‘alsanyache tonak (a curry made from local beans called ‘alsane’). She even pickles them—a recipe she confirms is born out of trial and error.

For many Goans, cooking these vegetables is a means to feel connected to their land and its resources. It is also an attempt to document culinary traditions and conduct further research into them.

Also read: Foraging in Bengaluru: A source of sustenance, flavour

What’s in a name?

School teacher and folk art researcher Shubhada Chari enjoys discussing rare greens, in an effort to share this knowledge with others. In the course of her documentation efforts, she has encountered insightful anecdotes, such as how the names of some villages are possibly derived from these foraged greens. She mentions a creeper called ‘ghotvel’ (Smilax ovalifolia), whose maroon-hued leaves are a seasonal delicacy. “There’s a village called Ghoteli in the Sattari taluka, and locals say that its name comes from this creeper as it is commonly found here,” says Chari.

The fate of a village named Pendral and a fruit called ‘pendro’ is believed to be similar. “Intriguingly, this fruit can easily replace potatoes in dishes,” adds Chari. Pendro is harvested in the monsoon and prepared by boiling and peeling off its outer skin which is not safe for consumption. Its core—with a texture resembling a potato’s—is edible. The forest dwellers of Sattari have long included this fruit in their diets.

Chari adds that the leaves of ‘bonkalo’ (Cheilocostus speciosus), commonly known as crêpe ginger, also find a place in her kitchen. These leaves  possess a slight sourness and are often cooked with tur or moong dal.

Recognition of indigenous practices and knowledge

Bamboo shoots—cut and added to curries, brined in salt water, or shallow fried—are also traditionally consumed in Goan villages. Chari informs that locals usually use two bamboo species for this—‘kankiche bamboo’ (Dendrocalamus strictus) and ‘chivar’ (Oxytenanthera ritcheyi). They also cook pods of the ‘kuda’ (Holarrhena pubescens) tree as a vegetable at this time of the year.

Journeys into the forested areas of Sanguem, Quepem, and Canacona reveal a variety of hyper-local greens. Residents here, typically tribals of the Velip community, have been foraging these greens for generations, guided by indigenous knowledge passed down through generations. They have relied on these food sources during torrential, stormy monsoons. The establishment of the ‘Ran-Bhaji Utsav’ gives locals a chance to showcase the biodiversity of their lands; an annual wild greens festival held at Canacona, it is organised by the Adarsh Yuva Sangh cultural group in collaboration with the Goa State Biodiversity Board and the Agriculture Department. It is an opportunity to display vegetables that city dwellers have neither heard of, nor seen.

The festival’s third edition, held on 19 July 2025, brought forth at least 40 types of forest and wild leafy vegetables like ‘teniya bhaji’, ‘ek pana bhaji’, ‘harfule bhaji’, ‘merevaili/gundure bhaji’, ‘kodvo bhaji’, ‘chaie bhaji’ (a vegetable preparation of tubers), ‘chudtechi bhaji’, ‘kayriyo’ (seeds of Entada Scandens, which are boiled and cooked), and shirmundli (a wild creeper found in the forest).

In some villages of Canacona, the tender stem of the wild banana plant, known as ‘ghabo’, is also consumed during the monsoon. Harvested during the budding of the banana flower, it is added to the local vegetarian delicacy ‘khatkhate’.

Along with leaves and stems, wildflowers of plants like ‘churchurechi fula’ (Pavetta indica) are also consumed.

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

A looming ecological threat

While accounts of these wild greens may paint a thriving picture of Goa’s biodiversity, much of the state is constantly under threat due to concretisation and urbanisation. As per the 2011 Census, 62% of the state’s population was already urbanised. A population projection report released in 2020 predicts that by 2036, 88% of the state’s residents will live in towns and cities.

Chari, who frequents Goa’s forests, attests to the decrease in proportion of wild greens owing to habitat loss. “Nowadays, construction can be observed even in forested areas. In the summers, some villagers light forest fires to clear land for farming, which results in the burning of seeds that would otherwise have sprouted in the monsoon,” she states.

Moreover, awareness about monsoon greens is lacking in urban and semi-urban areas. Miguel Braganza, formerly an officer with the Agriculture Department of Goa and Secretary of Goa’s Botanical Society, states, “Common veggies like taikilo and kudduko, once commonly found even on roadsides, are becoming rare. [In recent times] panchayats and municipalities have used brush cutters to clear open spaces. The regeneration of these plants is not taking place.” Brush cutters are employed for aesthetic reasons and out of a belief that the proliferation of wild greens will attract snakes and other creatures.

To combat this lack of awareness, the Agriculture Department has begun promoting monsoon vegetables. “Monsoon greens are not just flavourful additions to our plates—they act as natural cleansers, boost immunity, and help the body adapt to seasonal changes,” says Geeta Velingker, Scientist (Home Science), Krishi Vigyan Kendra South Goa, Margao.

Others, like Kulkarni, believe that it is difficult to replicate the same taste and nutritional qualities when these vegetables are domesticated.

She adds that these vegetables are high in micronutrients such as fibre, iron, and calcium. “Embracing these local treasures not only keeps us healthy but also connects us back to the land, our culture, and sustainable living,” she says.

Also read: For Odisha’s Chuktia Bhunjias, preservation by drying is tradition—and sustenance

Solutions, in your own backyard

Additionally, many of these vegetables can be grown in one’s own backyard—a means to enjoy fresh produce. “Any wild plant can be domesticated and cultivated once it is understood,” says Braganza. He suggests growing species of Colocasia, yams, and even spiny gourds. “For example Rajat Rudresh Prabhu, a young entrepreneur and farmer from Ponda, is growing spiny gourds on a commercial scale,” he adds.

Others, like Kulkarni, believe that it is difficult to replicate the same taste and nutritional qualities when these vegetables are domesticated. “Vegetables and plants that grow in the wild taste better, probably because of the soil profile and water quality. This seasonal produce is a gift from nature, which we need to nurture and conserve for future generations. I believe that sustainability begins with our plates.”

{{quiz}}

(Additional editing by Neerja Deodhar)

When you lift open the lid of your compost bin to peek in, you may see little more than scraps in disarray—coffee grounds clinging to a banana peel, wilted spinach tangled with bits of newspaper, perhaps even a trail of ants. But just beneath the surface, an extraordinary transformation is underway. An entire cast of microbes, fungi, and worms are breaking down your waste with quiet precision. You can’t see them, but they are everywhere, turning your peels and leftovers into soil.

The microbial engine

Composting starts with bacteria—the first responders.These bacteria perform two functions: decomposition and mineralisation. First, they release enzymes that decompose complex compounds like proteins, fats, and carbohydrates into simpler molecules they can absorb. Second, they convert organic compounds into inorganic minerals like nitrogen, phosphorus, and potassium. Some of these inorganic minerals further decompose to result in ions that can be absorbed by plants. Others form long intricate chains that resist decomposition to form humus. In the course of this hustle, they generate heat and create nutrient-rich material that worms can further process.

Compost piles are mini ecosystems, around which a food web spins itself.

Mesophilic bacteria, which thrive in moderate temperatures, eat sugars, starches and soft scraps, and thereby, release heat. As the temperature rises, another kind of bacteria, heat-loving thermophiles, take over. These thermophilic bacteria become active beyond 40°C, helping the compost’s core to heat up to 55–60°C. This stage is critical—temperatures above 55°C sanitise the compost by destroying any budding weed seeds and pathogens. However, be careful: temperatures beyond 60-65°C can strangle useful microbes that are breaking down your compost. Keep turning and mixing your compost pile once a week to prevent excessive heating.  

Among the microbes in your compost pile are Actinomycetes—filamentous bacteria that look like fungi. They secrete enzymes that facilitate them to break down what bacteria and fungi cannot—tough, woody material like bark, stems, and newspapers. Some kinds of Actinomycetes occur in the thermophilic stage, while others appear as the pile cools down. Their presence reveals itself as delicate greyish-white threads, appearing on the periphery of your compost pit like a spirit of the netherworld.

Fungi are another species that come for leftovers left by bacteria. Though some thermophilic fungi exist, most are mesophilic and announce their presence once the compost pit starts cooling. Whatever is too dry, acidic, or low in nitrogen for bacteria is ably digested by fungi—think cellulose, lignin, and other complex compounds found in plant fibres, present largely in brown matter.  

Compost piles are mini ecosystems, around which a food web spins itself. Bacteria and fungi form the primary rung of this web; but snails, slugs, and centipedes play their own roles in the process of decomposition. 

Also read: The science of scraps: How to get composting right

Unexpected visitors

In some home compost systems, earthworms are the final alchemists. Earthworms typically appear in the maturation phase of composting—once the pile has cooled down to below 30°C and the material is largely decomposed. They eat their way through partially decomposed matter, digesting and excreting it as vermicast—a substance rich in potassium, phosphate and nitrogen, and other micronutrients. Worms also aerate the pile naturally, supporting aerobic conditions and speeding up decomposition.

Even if you haven’t added worms to your bin, don’t be surprised if a few show up on their own to the house party once your compost matures. They know where the good stuff is, and make it even better! 

It’s important to distinguish this from vermicomposting, where specific worm species (like Eisenia fetida) are deliberately introduced and managed in controlled conditions—cool, moist, and having low acidity (i.e. avoiding vinegar-soaked and citrus foods) so as to not irritate worms and disrupt your bin’s pH balance. Vermicomposting is also much faster than traditional composting. 

Even if you haven’t added worms to your bin, don’t be surprised if a few show up on their own to the house party once your compost matures. They know where the good stuff is, and make it even better! 

But in compost systems where worms don’t participate—like hot compost piles or sealed aerobic bins—it’s microbes that continue the work until the very end. As the temperature drops and the pile enters the curing phase (where temperature drops back to 20–40°C), mesophilic bacteria, fungi, and actinomycetes return to break down whatever’s left: woody fibres, resistant compounds like lignin, and organic acids. These microbial communities quietly stabilise nutrients, reduce ammonia levels, and ensure the compost is mature, mellow, and ready to nourish.

Also read: Setting up a compost bin at home: Do’s and don’ts for feed and airflow

The stages of decomposition in thermophilic composting

Composting unfolds in phases.

1. Mesophilic Phase (20–40°C): Begins right after scraps are added. Mesophilic bacteria multiply rapidly.
   
   
2. Thermophilic Phase (45–70°C): The pile heats up, and thermophilic bacteria take over, and do the heavy lifting. They break down proteins, fats, and pathogens.
   
   
3. Cooling Phase: As easy-to-break-down food becomes scarce, microbial activity slows down. The temperature drops.
   
   
4. Maturation/Curing: Fungi and worms arrive, and humic acids form (organic compounds which play a crucial role in soil health and plant growth, which form naturally during long-term decomposition). Life becomes soil.

You’ll know your compost is done when it looks nothing like what it did at the start—dark, earthy and crumbly; smelling like a forest floor after rain.

Inside every compost bin, an ancient system of renewal is at work, which needs neither a machine nor a manual. Every time you add to your compost and stir the pile, you’re not just managing waste. You are feeding an invisible universe.

Also read: Don't dump it, compost it: Why peels and scraps shouldn't be tossed into your garden

Cover photo (desktop) by sippakorn yamkasikorn on Unsplash

Cover photo (mobile) by Jonathan Kemper on Unsplash

‍

{{quiz}}

At the heart of the Kashmir Valley, where the still waters of the Dal Lake run deep, grows a humble yet special vegetable—the lotus stem. It is known as nadur or nadru/nadroo in the local tongue. The vegetable holds significance in Kashmiri traditions and cuisine—an ingredient that lends an earthy sweetness to everyday dishes, which is also treasured as a delicacy on special occasions. 

For generations, farmers and fisherfolk have harvested nadur from the Dal Lake, which is nestled between the mighty Zabarwan Range and the busy city of Srinagar. 

Mohammad Abbas’s family has been harvesting the crop for over 60 years. The farmers step onto their narrow wooden boats and row out into the lake's interior. Wherever the soil is hard and compact, they dive into the waters to pluck the stems manually, emerging with bundles of long, delicate white stems. When the soil is loose, they use a tool known as kaeyshum (a long staff typically made of study woods like willow and deodar, with a slightly curved end, allowing fisherfolk to gently rake the riverbed) to extract the crop. “Not everybody can wield this tool,” says Abbas with a chuckle. “You need years of experience, patience and skill. My father and uncle taught me the intricacies of this trade, which I have now passed on to my children,” he adds. 

Nadur has been a source of livelihood for thousands in Kashmir. Firdous Ahmad, who has been in the business for 12 years, says that the vegetable holds a place in his heart. “This is the king of all vegetables.” But increasingly, this way of life is under threat. The Dal Lake, which once spanned over 22 sq. km, has now shrunk to 18 sq. km, and struggles against an escalating environmental crisis. 

The lake is the nucleus of Kashmir’s tourism, but the fragile ecosystem it houses is now in distress. Nearly 44 million litres of waste from Srinagar, including polluted water, untreated sewage, domestic and tourist waste, and human excreta, flow daily into the Dal’s waters, contaminating them. Additionally, nearly 50,000 people reside along the lake's banks. Tourist shikaras, agricultural and domestic practices around the lake, as well as encroachments have contributed to its deterioration. Srinagar’s rapid urbanisation has outpaced the capacity of existing sewage systems. Even Sewage Treatment Plants (STPs) that have been installed to treat wastewater around the Dal lake often malfunction, exacerbating the crisis.

Levels of poisonous substances like nitrates, phosphates, lead, and arsenic have crossed thresholds of what is considered safe drinking water, also poisoning the lake’s aquatic life in the process. Fisherfolk and vegetable growers who depend on the lake to feed their families bear the brunt of the lake’s slow death. 

Also read: The perilous future of Kashmir's once abundant trout

A dire need for change

Nadur farmers call for urgent action. The surrounding areas must be equipped with proper drainage systems, and nets must be installed at the end of rivulets to filter out waste, they say. The first lotuses bloom in April, and the stems mature by mid-September. After this, harvest commences and continues till the following April.

“Earlier, we could harvest around 550 bundles, or 750 kilos, from one kanal (kanal is a traditional unit of land measurement, roughly equivalent to one-eighth of an acre). Now, production has fallen by nearly 50%,” Abbas says.

‍Nearly Rs 23,900 lakh have been allotted to the restoration of the Dal in the last five years, Kashmir’s Home Ministry Affairs department says, but it is unclear how many of these funds have been utilised, pointing to administrative bottlenecks.

Akhtar Malik, a scientist at the Centre for Biodiversity and Taxonomy, Kashmir University, says that a bountiful harvest of nadur is an indicator of the lake's good health. Even previously, natural disasters have impacted the cultivation and harvest of these lotus stems. For instance, the floods of September 2014 disrupted the entire region around the Dal Lake, affecting marine life and vegetation, including the nadur. After more than two years, when there was still no sign of a new crop, distraught farmers plucked lotus seeds from a neighbouring lake and planted them in this region. About a year later, their efforts came to fruition when lotus stems started swaying underwater again.

Harvesting nadur is tough labour. At the break of dawn, nadur farmers dive into the frigid water—searching by touch in the murky depths. This underwater foraging requires not just skill and patience, but endurance—it is work done in biting cold, often from dawn till dusk, with harvesters spending entire days on boats without breaks.

What makes this labour even tougher today is the deteriorating quality of the lakes. Harvesters are now exposed to contaminated waters that pose serious health risks, including skin diseases, respiratory issues, and other long-term illnesses. Despite these dangers, the work continues—fewer stems, more risk, and dwindling rewards. What was once a steady, seasonal livelihood tied closely to tradition has become a test of resilience against both natural and man-made catastrophes.

Outside of the nadur season, farmers turn to vegetable fields, their hands tending to other roots. But come winter, they return to the waters, where for a day's labour under cold skies, they earn ₹1,000 and a bundle of lotus stems for themselves. Each bundle contains 15 to 16 slender, fibrous stalks, plucked with care and tied tight. Before the 2014 floods, farmers could harvest 40 to 50 bundles per day, but production has dropped significantly due to the contamination of lake waters.

Harvesters are now exposed to contaminated waters that pose serious health risks, including skin diseases, respiratory issues, and other long-term illnesses. Despite these dangers, the work continues—fewer stems, more risk, and dwindling rewards.

‍

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

Saving a traditional ingredient—and culture

Legend has it that nadur found its way into Kashmiri cuisine in the 15th century. Badshah Ghiyas-ud-Din Zain-ul-Abidin, the eighth sultan of Kashmir, was on a leisurely boat ride around the Gil Sar lake. He stopped to admire the lotuses, and his boatmen plucked their stems and added them to that evening’s supper on a whim. Today, nadur features in street food and is popularly cooked with fish, served to visitors, and consumed by families during celebrations.

‍The stems contain Vitamin-C and B-6, potassium, thiamine, copper, manganese and plenty of fibre, making it both a nutritious and flavourful ingredient. “Our elders say that the taste of the vegetable has changed over time, a testament to the deteriorating quality of the Dal Lake,” Afshan Rashid, a Kashmir-based food blogger says. “We also have to spend more time cleaning and peeling the stems as compared to before.”

{{marquee}}

Nadur may be disappearing from the waters of the Dal Lake, but all hope is not lost. Apart from Dal, the lotus stem also grows abundantly in several other wetlands and water bodies across the Kashmir Valley—including the Wular, Anchal, Manasbar and Haigam lakes and the Hokersar wetlands. A case study of the Wular Lake, a freshwater lake located approximately 40 kilometres from Srinagar, tells a similar story of nadur being consumed by contamination and rapid urbanisation, but then recovering and growing abundantly with the revival of the lake.

The stems contain Vitamin-C and B-6, potassium, thiamine, copper, manganese and plenty of fibre, making it both a nutritious and flavourful ingredient.

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

The devastating 1992 floods of Kashmir deposited thick layers of silt across lakes in the Valley. Reports suggest that the Wular Conservation and Management Authority (WUCMA) has strategically dredged and desilted approximately 5 sq. km of the lake, especially in its Saderkoot basin. Altaf Hussain, Coordinator of Water Management at WUCMA says that desiltation was carried out between 2020 and 2023, after which authorities also sowed nadur seeds. “We are essentially restoring it to its original wetland condition,” Hussain says. Their efforts restored not just an ecosystem, but a community’s lifeline. Like a lost love returning, the pink lotuses and its stems are gracefully floating on the lake’s water again, after a nearly three-decade long absence.

This marks hope on the horizon. Similar conservation efforts for the Dal Lake, including managing the water's pH levels, preventing untreated sewage from threatening the river’s life, and a gentle revival effort can ensure that nadur blossoms in its waters again. Urgent and focused action can mean the difference between life and death for Kashmir’s culinary and ecological legacy.

‍

‍

Images by Muneem Farooq Itoo and Suhail Ahmad

‍

{{quiz}}

‍

It’s a drizzly early morning in Odisha’s Sanbahali village, located in the Nuapada district. A group of seven women from the Chuktia Bhunjia community—one of India’s Particularly Vulnerable Tribal Groups (PVTG)—are ready to head into the nearby forest. (According to the 2011 Census, their population in Odisha was approximately 12,350). Armed with bamboo baskets and umbrellas, they set off with quiet determination.

“When the rains come, we forage for wild edible mushrooms like Mala chhati, Bial chhati, Bina chhati, Banji chhati, Bali chhati, and Sargi chhati,” says 63-year-old Padma Jhankar. Locally, mushrooms are known as chhati. Not all wild mushrooms are safe to eat—some can be poisonous. “You need a sharp eye to spot the edible ones,” Jhankar explains, “We rely on traditional knowledge passed down orally through generations to identify forest foods.”

Of the mushrooms that the community harvests, Mala chhati is small, reddish, and typically found in sandy soil. Bial chhati is white and varies in size, also growing in sandy terrain. Bina chhati sprouts from termite nests—it has a long stalk with a small cylindrical head, which is white with a grayish center. Banji chhati thrives around bamboo trees; it is a creamy white with a brown spot on top. Its stalks are thin, and the body is less fleshy compared to others.

Other wild mushrooms commonly harvested during the monsoon include sargi, bali, bhuin, and kusuma. “These wild mushrooms are delicious and always in high demand,” says 37-year-old Hasila Bai from the Salepada village in Komna block. The demand comes both from locals, as well as from non-tribal outsiders, and she sells the surplus harvest in local markets to supplement her family’s income. 

Bamboo shoots—locally known as kordi—are another seasonal delicacy cherished by the Chuktia Bhunjia community. Young shoots are harvested at the onset of the monsoon, between July and September. After harvesting, the tough green exterior of the shoot is removed, and the tender interior is grated into short, thin strips for cooking.

Across the past five decades, Odisha has been witness to natural calamities in 41 years—19 of which were marked by drought, according to the Odisha State Disaster Management Authority (OSDMA). Nuapada, which is among the districts most prone to this calamity, has faced severe droughts in multiple years—10 times in only 20 years, as noted in the OSDMA’s District Disaster Management Plan, 2024.

The Chuktia Bhunjia community, whose livelihood depends on rainfed agriculture—mainly paddy and millets—thus stands at the frontline of climate change. Erratic rainfall, prolonged dry spells and rising temperatures have increasingly disrupted their crop yields.

While traditional crops like millets are resilient to high temperatures and require less water, their productivity has declined, making it difficult for families to meet their year-round food needs. As a result, the community has become increasingly dependent on wild food sources to cope with food scarcity, especially during the lean season or in the event of crop failure. Today, the older generation in particular spends more time harvesting and preserving wild edibles, as farm yields have become increasingly unpredictable owing to the changing climate.

Yet, in the face of these challenges, they have adapted by turning to their traditional food preservation methods, such as smoking, sun-drying, and storing edibles in leaf bags. These practices help them build resilience, ensuring food availability during periods of scarcity. 

Also read: Bastar's secret ingredient? The power of preservation

The ancient magic of fire and smoke

Traditionally, Chuktia Bhunjias have preserved seasonal wild edibles—such as mushrooms, bamboo shoots, and fish—using an age-old smoke-drying technique. Bamboo sticks are used to create a simple rack, on which the mushrooms and fish are carefully arranged, just above the ground. Beneath this setup, a small fire is lit to produce slow, steady smoke rather than open flames. 

To ensure effective drying, a thick cloth is draped over the structure, trapping the rich, aromatic smoke and allowing it to circulate around the food. This slow-smoking process continues for several days, depending on the type of food being preserved. The result is perfectly dried mushrooms and fish that can be stored for long periods—providing both flavour and nutrition during lean seasons. 

Dried mushrooms and fish are not just staples for the Chuktia Bhunjia community—they are also prized for their long shelf lives, making them essential ingredients in many traditional recipes. Sukha chhati bhaja, a stir-fried dish made from dried mushrooms, is one such delicacy that is commonly enjoyed during the winter and summer months.

“Most wild edibles are highly perishable, so we preserve them for consumption during the off-season,” says 37-year-old Jam Bai from Junapani village. For example, bamboo shoots begin to turn brown and develop a foul smell within two to three days of harvesting. To extend their shelf life, the shoots are chopped into tiny pieces and sun-dried for about two weeks to make hendua—a traditional dried form of bamboo shoots. When properly sun-dried and stored in an airtight glass container, hendua can last for two to three years, she adds.  

{{marquee}}

“We preserve hendua for the winter, turning it into a chutney with tomatoes, onions, green chilies, oil and salt. It is relished with rice during winter,” says Jam Bai. The chutney tastes slightly sour and has an earthy flavour. Hendua is also sold in the local weekly markets at a price of Rs. 100-120 per kilo, she adds.  

Wild edible fruits, seeds, and flowers, too—such as kendu, jujube, chironji seeds, jackfruit seeds, tamarind, and mahua flowers—are traditionally sun-dried. Once thoroughly dried, these food items are wrapped in palasa leaves (Butea monosperma) and hung above the chulha or fireplace in the kitchen. The smoke from the fireplace acts as a natural insect repellent and further enhances their preservation. “We collect jackfruit seeds, wash them thoroughly, and dry them under the sun. In summer, we boil them, peel the skin, mash the seeds, add a pinch of salt, and eat them for breakfast,” says 43-year-old Suadi Majhi from Sunabeda village. 

Mangoes collected from nearby forests are also preserved in various ways, one of which is Amba Sadha—a sun-dried mango leather made from fresh mango pulp. The process begins by extracting the pulp and spreading a thin layer over a bamboo tray. After sun-drying it for two days, another layer of pulp is added on top. This layering continues until 5 to 7 layers are formed. It typically takes around 20 days for the Amba Sadha to fully dry. The final product is sweet with a hint of sourness, and serves as a cherished seasonal treat that can be enjoyed long after mango season has passed. 

The age-old food preservation wisdom of the Chuktia Bhunjias is a powerful narrative of sustenance, social harmony, and sustainable living, says Pritisai Majhi, Programme Manager at Sabuja, an NGO working on the livelihood development of tribal communities in Komna.

However, he warns that these foodways are at risk of disappearing and losing their place in this tribal society. 

Also read: Dried to last

The precarity of a food system and oral tradition 

According to community elders, the last two decades have seen significant changes in their food habits. “The younger generation is more inclined to eat rice, potatoes, and fried food. They are not as physically strong as our grandparents once were,” says Naratasingh Chatria, 64, Sarpanch of Junapani Panchayat in Komna block. 

“Tribal foods, which are climate-resilient, culturally rooted, and highly nutritious, are still neglected and often perceived as ‘poor man’s food’ in urban areas,” said Jitendra Kumar Kar, Senior Programme Officer at Watershed Support Services and Activities Network (WASSAN), Bhubaneswar. He emphasised the need to change this narrative, which undervalues the culinary heritage of tribal communities. Kar coordinates the Coalition for Food Systems Transformation in India (CoFTI), a multi-stakeholder panel advocating for indigenous and tribal food cultures, forest knowledge, and agroecology. 

 Local civil society groups in Nuapada claim that the shift from a rich, diversified diet to a cereal-centric food plate has led to poor health outcomes among tribal communities. According to the Poshan District Nutrition Profile (2022), 64% of non-pregnant women in Nuapada were anemic, and 57% suffered from anemia during pregnancy (as of 2020). Additionally, 31% of women were underweight. Among children under five, 43% were stunted, 73% were anemic, and 38% were underweight. Across India, about 4.7 million tribal children under five suffer from chronic undernourishment, which affects survival, growth, learning, school performance, and future productivity, according to United Nations Children's Fund. 

“Providing rice at subsidised rates through the Public Distribution System has jeopardised the community’s traditional food system, which ensured nutritional security for generations,” says Abhishek Hota, Programme Officer at WASSAN, Nuapada.

He stresses that most traditional food knowledge in tribal communities is passed down orally, and the lack of proper documentation could result in the loss of cultural heritage for future generations. 

In response, WASSAN, in collaboration with tribal communities and supported by the Department of Agriculture and Farmers’ Empowerment (DA&FE), Government of Odisha has documented heirloom crop diversity, forgotten food cultures, and traditional recipes across 20 tribal-inhabited villages in Nuapada district. 

“This initiative will play a crucial role in formulating better policies for neglected and forgotten food crops of tribal communities,” says Arabinda Kumar Padhee, Principal Secretary, DA&FE. Conservation and promotion of these ancient foodways will be a key intervention in the coming years. It will help diversify food systems, improve nutrition, conserve biodiversity, and safeguard Odisha’s cultural heritage, he adds. 

“The traditional process of drying food using smoke and sunlight reduces moisture content, inhibits microbial growth, and prevents spoilage,” says Dr. Srikanta Dhar, a specialist at the All India Institute of Medical Sciences (AIIMS), Bhubaneswar. He notes that uncultivated and wild edibles foraged by tribal communities significantly contribute to their intake of calcium, iron, essential minerals, and vitamins. However, he cautions that proper identification, purification, and storage are essential before consumption. In the past, there have been reported cases of tribal deaths caused by consuming improperly prepared mango kernels, as well as poisonous mushrooms or bamboo shoots. 

The traditional food practices of the Chuktia Bhunjia are more than just survival strategies—they are a testament to resilience, cultural continuity, and ecological wisdom.

Also read: In rural Odisha, the Juang community's seeds are gifts from ancestors 

Sukha chhati bhaja recipe 

In a pot, boil water. Add the dried mushrooms and cook for about 30 minutes on medium flame. Add salt and turmeric powder to enhance the flavour. After boiling, drain the excess water. 

 Heat oil in a pan over medium flame. Add chopped onions, garlic, and grated ginger. Sauté until the onions are translucent and fragrant. Add chili powder, cumin powder,turmeric, and salt to taste. Mix well to blend the flavours. 

Add the boiled mushrooms to the pan. Stir everything together and cook for another 20–25 minutes, allowing the flavours to meld. Once cooked, serve hot with rice or chapatis. 

Edited by Anushka Mukherjee and Neerja Deodhar

{{quiz}}