In south Cherthala, a panchayat in Kerala’s Alappuzha district, ‘Thaickal’ is more than just the name of a village. It is inextricably tied to the very identity of the village’s most popular crop—the amaranth, or ‘cheera’ as it is known in Malayalam. Its famed red variety, unique to Thaickal, where it has been grown for at least a century, has been a sure source of sustenance for many women farmers. Cultivated for six months of the year in this coastal village, the Thaickal cheera paints the landscape in a pleasing shade of red.
Amaranth (Amaranthus tricolor L.), grown in red and green varieties, is widely consumed across the state. Its leaves are chopped and thrown into a mix of hot coconut oil with minimal spices, transforming them into a delicious stir fry within minutes. Its taste and short cooking duration have made it a staple in Malayali meals. While research suggests that it is the most commonly grown leafy vegetable in Kerala (as of 2021, 2169 hectares were under amaranthus cultivation), the variety from Thaickal has attained a distinct popularity.
Most farmers tending to the growing leaves are women. Few own the land that they work on.
The farmers here prefix it with the descriptor ‘silk’, to emphasise its bright appearance and beauty. Another standout quality is its generous leaf density, or the number of leaves per unit area, in comparison to other varieties such as the Vlathankara cheera, also widely available in the region. With the Thaickal variety, one varambu (raised bed) can yield at least 10-12 kg. Farmers who make harvests early in the season can earn Rs. 100 per kilo—a Rs. 20 advantage over those who only sell during the season’s peak.
In the farmlands dotting Thaickal, the red amaranth is in various stages of bloom. Most farmers tending to the growing leaves are women. Few own the land that they work on. This was true of 58-year-old P. Sathy and her daughter Nisha Mol until shortly before the Good Food Movement encountered them.
“When it comes to working on leased land, the owner will give it to us only for six months,” says Sathy, who has been growing the crop in Thaickal for 45 years. “Even if the amaranth is not ready for harvest, we are asked to pluck it out.” All that is now in the past. “I bought this plot with my income. The registration process was completed just last week,” says Sathy with a smile that rarely leaves her face. “I can stand tall with pride, on my own land. This became possible only because of my earnings from agriculture,” she adds. As she stands on the 40 cents of land that she has just purchased, she articulates a hope for the near future: to own a neighboring plot that may go up for sale soon.
Sathy lives with 40-year-old Nisha and her 101-year-old mother in a modest house adjoining the family’s farm. The harvest from these fields has also afforded Sathy the choice to send her granddaughter to “the big city of Kochi” to pursue a college education. “I feel a deep connection to amaranth—to every part of it,” she says.
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Thaickal and its amaranth have been present in Sathy’s life for as long as she can recall. Both her parents were farmers in the village. “When I was a child, I went to the fields with my mother and learnt the ways of farming from her,” she says. Nisha, too, followed the same path with a daily routine that mirrors her mother’s: the duo begin their day at 4 am, retiring from the fields in the late hours of the evening.
Cultivation is at its height during the first half of the year. Under steady climatic conditions, the crop is ready for harvest in exactly 26 to 28 days. Given Thaickal’s propensity for flooding, the seeds are cultivated on raised beds, constructed by workers hired for the purpose. Once the seeds are sown, leaves emerge each week, ready to head to the vegetable market on the 28th day.
The most time-consuming aspect of the everyday labour in amaranth farming is watering the crop—a task that must be undertaken twice a day.
The harvest has a guaranteed timeline, and this is why farmers like Sathy and Nisha consider the crop to be a fortune maker. “This morning, I sold amaranth from that section of my land for Rs. 1,200. The money from the sale is here, in my pocket,” Sathy says with a laugh. From the six months they invest in amaranth cultivation, the mother-daughter duo typically earns around Rs. 5 lakh.
The leafy vegetable thrives under bright sunlight. “It is able to resist diseases because of the heat,” Sathy says. “During the monsoon, on the other hand, there are high chances of pests attacking the leaves.” Late at night, she and Nisha step into the fields with a torch to spot leafhoppers and caterpillars lurking among the leaves and the soil, to manually remove them. But they’re unable to do this as often as they’d like to. “After doing the day’s work, when I see my bed, I fall asleep out of exhaustion,” says Sathy.
The most time-consuming aspect of the everyday labour in amaranth farming is watering the crop—a task that must be undertaken twice a day. In its early stage of growth, it is delicate and cannot withstand the force of water flowing from a hose. So, farmers sprinkle it gently with water from a pot, a process that could take four to five hours. The result is that farm work leaves them with little time to cook meals of their own.
While it is possible to cultivate the Thaickal cheera on an elevated plot, farmers largely put a pause to cultivation in June which ushers in the rainy season in Kerala. Sathy and Nisha turn to paddy farming during this period.
“For generations, we have prepared the seeds and stocked them for the following year,” says Sathy, who is particular about storing them in a clean cotton cloth. “If you keep them in a plastic tin, they may not sprout,” she says. Amaranth seeds are minute in size, almost lost to the naked eye. “Preparing them and transplanting them for sowing is like raising a child. A seed will stand straight only on the third day. And if it is not quenched with water on the fourth day, it will wither. This means being constantly present in the fields,” Nisha says.
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Thaickal’s amaranth has gained just enough fame on social media for people from other parts of Kerala to come seeking a taste of it. “An Idukki resident travelled to my farm after watching a video about it. He purchased seeds from me. Later, he called to complain that the produce was not as bright and tasty as it was here,” Sathy recalls. The buyer even accused her of handing over lower-quality seeds, so as to dupe him. Sathy rubbishes these claims, asserting instead that the difference lies in the conditions in which the amaranth is grown: the sandy soil in Thaickal, she believes, must imbue the crop with some special attributes.
In Alappuzha, she has 10-15 regular customers who visit her to buy the leafy vegetable. Additionally, 30 previous customers are reminded to return to Thaickal every time the family has produce that is ready to go. It may not be a large pool of customers, but those who come buy in bulk. If they find themselves with unsold stock, Nisha will go to the nearest market to find takers. They have not yet been in a situation where they are left with rotting produce.
Each day begins with the arrival of one particular customer—a vegetable seller—who comes for fresh amaranth before he opens the shutters of his shop in Cherthala. One day in February, with two hours to go before daybreak, Sathy sat on the steps of the verandah of her home, sipping a steaming cup of black coffee. The customer had not arrived by 4:30 am, as he usually does. The delay was not unexpected given the rains that had lashed Cherthala the previous night. The amaranth fields were submerged, but Sathy and Nisha did not want to deviate from their routine. They looked hopefully towards the dark pathway leading into the house for the flash of a two-wheeler.
The customer eventually arrived and made his way into the fields. By the light of torches and mobile flashlights, they waded through ankle-deep muddied waters to reach the bed of the amaranth that was ripe for harvest. Sathy plucked them out and bundled them up, and with Nisha’s help, she foisted the produce weighing 10 kg on her head. They slowly walked out of the field and rested easy only after the bundle had been carefully placed in the customer’s vehicle.
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The renowned quality of the Thaickal amaranth has suffered in the last four years because of leaf blight disease—the appearance of cream-coloured spots that deteriorate into disfigurement of the foliage. Sathy cannot place a finger on the exact cause. “I don’t know if these are changes caused by nature,” she says. Research points to the soil-borne fungi Rhizoctonia solani Kuhn, which thrives in humid conditions.
The holes in the leaves from pest attacks is another issue. Sathy has steadfastly stayed away from the usage of pesticides, with an insistence on following organic methods of cultivation. She approached the officials at south Cherthala’s Krishi Bhavan, seeking a solution, and was advised to use a decoction made from tobacco. But Sathy found it to be ineffective. The only alternative then was to discard the affected leaves, significantly impacting the weight of the amaranth that can go for sale, which also eats away at the expected income. But this is what they must do. “The customer will not buy it if they see even one damaged leaf,” she explains.
The natural fertilisers used on the farm include chicken manure, cow dung and ash. Though they resist the usage of chemical inputs, Sathy notes that the expenses are mounting. “Earlier, 3 kg of chicken manure was priced at Rs. 70. Now a packet barely weighs 15 kg, and we have to pay Rs. 140 for it,” she rues. Despite the rising costs, they persist, since most of the work is done with minimum reliance on external labour.
The steady income that arrives with the toil put into amaranth cultivation motivates farmers like Sathy and Nisha to return to the fields every day. “This is easy if you are willing to make the effort. All the hard work from morning to evening is worth it,” says Sathy. “We have no other inheritance to speak of. We are people who live on a daily income. Farming is all we have,” Sathy sums up, standing next to the eye-catching, red-hued amaranth leaves fluttering in Thaickal’s winds.
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Should a can of cola be taxed similarly to a pack of cigarettes? The Government of India now effectively thinks so. Under the new Goods and Services Tax (GST) rules, the tax on carbonated sugar-sweetened beverages has been raised to 40%, placing these drinks firmly in the country’s ‘sin goods’ category alongside tobacco and alcohol. The goal behind such sin taxes, more politely called health taxes, is to make unhealthy products more expensive so people consume less of them, while also generating revenue to offset the public health costs associated with their consumption.
India’s consumption patterns make the case for such measures particularly urgent. The country is experiencing a rapid rise in non-communicable diseases (NCDs) such as diabetes, cardiovascular disease, and obesity, which now account for around 60% of all deaths nationwide and have increased sharply over the past few decades. This trend is closely linked to changing lifestyles, including higher consumption of processed foods, sugary beverages, and diets high in salt and fat.
In many countries, these taxes are structured as specific levies based on sugar content or volume rather than just price, because the harm comes from how much people consume, not how much they spend.
India’s move to levy a higher tax rate on sugary beverages is broadly in line with the World Health Organization’s recommendations, which argue that higher taxes on tobacco, alcohol, and sugary drinks can reduce consumption while raising public revenue. Health taxes are typically applied to products linked to NCDs such as diabetes, heart disease, and obesity. They are designed not just to raise prices, but to change behaviour, encourage reformulation by manufacturers, and signal public health priorities. In many countries, these taxes are structured as specific levies based on sugar content or volume rather than just price, because the harm comes from how much people consume, not how much they spend.
Despite being widely implemented globally, how much do we really know about the effectiveness of these taxes? In this column, I take a look at current scientific evidence to highlight their potential and limitations.
Before I started writing this column, I emailed a colleague—a health economics professor—to ask his opinion about the effectiveness of such taxes. He responded optimistically and pointed me towards several recent studies suggesting that taxes on unhealthy food and drink can improve diets and reduce disease. At first glance, the evidence pointed towards a clear positive corelation between such taxes and improved health outcomes. But as I started reading the papers more carefully, I realised that most of the evidence did not come from observing what actually happened after taxes were introduced. Instead, much of it came from economic modelling.
This is not necessarily a problem, but it is important to understand what modelling means in this context. Much of what we know about health taxes comes from simulations that first estimate how consumers are likely to respond to price increases and then project how those changes in consumption might affect health outcomes. A large systematic review of health taxes in 2017 found that modelling was the most common research method used in this field, far more common than real-world evaluations of the actual taxes.
There are good reasons for this. Measuring how people respond to price changes in the real world is extremely difficult. When a government introduces a tax on sugary drinks or ultra-processed food, the price goes up, but many other things change at the same time. Companies change product sizes or recipes, supermarkets run promotions, new products appear, and people switch to cheaper alternatives that may or may not be healthier. Isolating the effect of the tax from all these other factors is methodologically hard, especially over long periods of time. Ideally, researchers would track the same households for years and observe exactly how their purchasing behaviour changes as prices change, but that kind of data is expensive to generate and often difficult to access, particularly in low- and middle-income countries.
It is relatively straightforward to show that people buy fewer taxed drinks when prices rise. It is much harder to show that they consume fewer calories overall or develop fewer chronic diseases as a result.
As a result, researchers often rely on models. Typically, they estimate how sensitive people are to price changes (i.e., what economists call price elasticity) and then simulate what would happen to consumption patterns and health outcomes if prices increased by a certain amount. In the Indian context, for example, one recent study used household consumption data to estimate how different income groups respond to food price changes and then used a microsimulation model to project the effects of higher taxes on foods high in fat, sugar and salt over the next 30 years. The researchers simulated changes in nutrient intake, body weight, and the incidence of diseases like diabetes and heart disease and then estimated the impact on healthcare costs. The results suggested that higher taxes could reduce disease and health spending over time, but these results depend heavily on assumptions about how consumers respond to prices, how companies respond to taxes, and how changes in diet translate into changes in health many years later.
This approach is common in countries where comprehensive real-world data is limited. Even where taxes have been implemented, such as sugar taxes in Mexico, the UK, and parts of Europe, the clearest evidence tends to come from purchases rather than health outcomes. It is relatively straightforward to show that people buy fewer taxed drinks when prices rise. It is much harder to show that they consume fewer calories overall or develop fewer chronic diseases as a result. Health outcomes take years to change, and by the time they do, many other factors have changed too.
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The moral debate on health taxes is as complicated as the economic one. Opponents of health taxes often argue that such policies are paternalistic. The argument is that if adults choose to drink sugary beverages or eat unhealthy food, that is a personal choice, and governments should not interfere in private decisions. This view draws on a long liberal tradition in political philosophy that places a high value on individual autonomy and freedom of choice. From this perspective, health taxes are seen as governments acting like overbearing parents, nudging citizens toward ‘better’ behaviour whether they want it or not. Food industry lobby groups often amplify this line of argument to resist the introduction of such taxes, framing them as unjustified intrusions on personal freedom.
What looks like a free choice is often heavily influenced by the food environment people live in. Taxes, in this view, do not remove choice but alter the environment in which choices are made.
But public health ethics looks at the issue differently. The case for health taxes is not just that individuals make unhealthy choices, but that these choices are shaped by environments, marketing, pricing, and availability. In other words, what looks like a free choice is often heavily influenced by the food environment people live in. Taxes, in this view, do not remove choice but alter the environment in which choices are made.
There is also the question of who bears the costs. Diet-related diseases such as diabetes and heart disease place a large burden on public health systems, which means that the costs are shared by society, not just by the individual consuming sugary drinks. This creates what economists call a social cost, and one of the classic justifications for taxation is to make the price of a product reflect its true social cost.
At the same time, health taxes raise concerns about fairness. Critics often argue that these taxes are regressive, meaning they take up a larger share of income from poorer households, who also tend to consume more of the taxed products. Supporters, however, argue that lower-income groups also suffer disproportionately from diet-related diseases, meaning they may also benefit the most from reduced consumption.
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If health taxes are not a silver bullet, what else should governments do?
One of the most consistent findings in public health research is that taxes work best when they are part of a broader policy package rather than a standalone measure. Prices do influence behaviour, but so do many other things: what is available in school canteens, how food is marketed to children, how products are labelled, and what kinds of foods are subsidised by governments. In other words, the food environment matters as much as (and sometimes more than) individual willpower.
This is particularly important in countries like India, where diets are changing rapidly, and ultra-processed foods are becoming cheaper and more heavily marketed. Taxing sugary drinks and other unhealthy foods may reduce consumption, but it does not automatically make healthier food more accessible or affordable. An important difference between health taxes on tobacco and alcohol and health taxes on food is that consuming food (even if unhealthy) is not optional. People do not need cigarettes or alcohol to survive, but they do need nutrients. For many low-income households, cheap packaged foods and sweetened beverages are not just treats but an affordable source of calories, which means that if prices rise, more affordable and accessible alternatives must be made available.
An important difference between health taxes on tobacco and alcohol and health taxes on food is that consuming food (even if unhealthy) is not optional.
This makes it important to think about taxes and subsidies together. If governments raise taxes on sugary drinks and unhealthy foods, they could use that revenue to subsidise fresh produce and essential cereals, invest in businesses that produce healthier alternatives, improve school meal programmes, or invest in public health campaigns. In this approach, the goal is not just to discourage unhealthy consumption, but to actively make healthier diets more accessible.
The GST overhaul of 2025 does reflect this policy direction to some extent. Taxes on suar-sweetened, carbonated, and caffeinated beverages have been raised to 40%, while rates on essential foods such as vegetables, fruits, and some nuts have been reduced from 12% to 5%. Some relatively healthier convenience foods, such as pasta and prepared soups, have also seen their tax rates lowered from 18% to 5%. However, other foods high in sugar, fats, and salt such as fruit juices, jams, ice cream, confectionery, instant noodles, packaged snacks, and even traditional Indian sweets, are now taxed at 5%, down from earlier rates of 12–18%. In several cases, these reductions have occurred despite calls to increase taxes on such products.
This perhaps points to the limits of relying on taxes alone. Around the world, there is a strong case for regulation beyond taxation. Restrictions on marketing to children, clear front-of-pack warning labels, limits on trans fats, and reformulation targets for salt and sugar have all been used in different countries. These policies often receive less attention than taxes, but in some cases, they may have a larger impact because they change the default choices available to consumers rather than relying on individuals to respond to price increases.
Ultimately, health taxes are best understood not as a solution on their own, but as one tool among many. The real challenge is not just to make unhealthy food more expensive, but to make healthy food more affordable and accessible.
Also read: Food fortification 101: Can foods built in with nutrients counter malnutrition, deficiencies?
Cover Art by Sharath Ravishankar
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What others saw as trash, I saw as my calling.
Having grown up in Chennai in the 1980s, the sight of overflowing garbage bins in residential areas and careless dumping on the roadside was an everyday occurrence. When I moved overseas after my marriage, spending years in different countries, my relationship to waste changed, owing to a difference in laws pertaining to its management and the way in which these laws were implemented.
During this period, a habit that stayed with me was segregating the trash we generated in our home. It became second nature, and so, when we returned to India in 2017, I wanted to be a little more mindful about waste. I began by managing the organic waste in our home. Through sheer coincidence, I came across a social media post from my friend about composting at home—cementing my belief that this was, in fact, a mission meant for me.
I then joined the Namma Ooru Foundation (NOF), a non-governmental waste management organisation, as a volunteer. Here, my eyes were opened to the magnitude of waste Chennai generates. As of January 2025, data from the Greater Chennai Corporation (GCC) suggests that the city produces 5,900 tonnes of waste daily.
Volunteering at NOF also taught me about the powerful role individuals can play in managing it. For close to a year, I was engaged in their waste management awareness initiatives in schools, colleges and even temples. In the process, I learnt about the regulations governing solid waste management (SWM).
Back home, in my neighbourhood of Kasturba Nagar, Adyar, the status quo remained unchallenged; things went on as they always have. One day, as I sat on my balcony and tried to savour a cup of coffee—with the satisfaction that I was part of a worthy cause—I was forced to confront the view before my eyes: overflowing dustbins right outside my apartment building. Deep down, I knew I had to do something about it. I decided to take the first step, going door-to-door to raise awareness among my neighbours, one conversation at a time.
There was no looking back after that.
In 2018, segregation at source and door-to-door collection of segregated waste were still alien concepts in Chennai. This meant that I had to appeal to two stakeholders—the residents of housing societies, and the local government.
I approached the GCC and Ramky Enviro Engineers Limited, the private company commissioned to handle waste in my ward. They promised to send a separate vehicle to collect and process segregated waste, but on one condition: a hundred households in my locality had to segregate waste at the source.
It was obvious that the catalyst should be the residents themselves. I knocked on the doors of 2500 households located on eight main roads in Kasturba Nagar, explaining the basics—how to segregate, where the segregated waste goes, and where the mixed waste goes. While some welcomed the idea, others shut their doors on it. The few who joined me became the founding team behind the Residents of Kasturbanagar Association–ROKA. The movement was kickstarted with the Azhagiya Adyar event in June 2018, which featured workshops on composting led by experts in the field and activities for children based on the principles of SWM. The response to the event boosted my confidence.
I had to know and understand the system in and out, because I strongly believe that systems change behaviour faster than slogans do.
By 2019, we had seven resident volunteers who took on the task of talking to more people from different neighbourhoods about waste segregation. It was a task that called for footslogging, convincing, rapport building and understanding garbage—and people—better.
Parallely, I was also visiting the facilities installed by GCC across Chennai, establishing contacts with ward- and zonal-level officers and senior officials. I had to know and understand the system in and out, because I strongly believe that systems change behaviour faster than slogans do.
Most of our afternoons and evenings across 2018 and 2019 were spent ironing out the basics, from training conservancy workers to use tricycles for collection (modified with baskets at the back for waste), to recommendations about where residents should buy their coloured bins—green for organic, blue for dry, and red bin for sanitary & domestic hazardous waste.
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In the early years, we were keen to learn from other groups who had gone through their own journeys of trial and error with similar initiatives. We paid a visit to Bengaluru’s HSR Layout, where lane composters (located in shared spaces like public roads to process the organic waste collected in the neighbourhood through aerobic composting) had been installed to understand the day-to-day operations and challenges on the ground. This visit, combined with meetings with members of the Solid Waste Management Round Table (SWMRT)—a collective of practitioners in Bengaluru promoting the adoption of sustainable methods—helped us to chart the way ahead for ROKA. To this day, SWMRT are our go-to experts for troubleshooting and sharing knowledge on composting ideas and equipment like recyclers.
It has been my dream to create model spaces for in-situ or decentralised waste management systems, which can serve communities, schools, temples, restaurants and offices, and which can be replicated in similar spaces across Chennai. To some extent, we have achieved this dream in our own community through the We Segregate project, which has been running successfully since October 2023. Its main focus areas are community composting and low-value plastics (flexible and multi-layer plastics like provision packaging, biscuit/chocolate wrappers, milk packets), a problematic category in plastic waste, both in terms of collection and processing. To aid in the collection of such packaging material separately from other waste items, a ‘punch-the-plastic’ hook was designed by students at the Indian Institute of Technology–Madras. The We Segregate project is supported by the Okapi Research and Advisory and Chennai Resilience Centre, and funded by the Urban Ocean program, whose objective is ending ocean plastic pollution globally.
We could gauge residents’ acceptance of the project from the incremental improvements in segregation levels in 1005 households. They could see the results of their efforts, as their organic waste was converted into compost—and readily available for their own gardens. This transformed their involvement from one of mild interest to a more proactive approach.
We could gauge residents’ acceptance of the project from the incremental improvements in segregation levels in 1005 households.
Having recognised that numbers and figures are, undoubtedly, a measure of success, ROKA and Okapi have been diligently maintaining as much data as possible over the last two and a half years. The wet waste processed through community composting is about 11 metric tons, and the compost generated is 3700 kg. Of low-value plastics, we have collected nearly 850 kg and sent them to SPRECO, a Chennai-based social enterprise whose focus is recycling.
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While ROKA’s projects progressed at the community level, we were also exploring ideas to expand the scope of our work to schools and colleges. Coincidentally, in 2019, the GCC’s Chennai High School, located at Kamaraj Avenue in Adyar, became the venue for a waste collection drive we undertook in collaboration with the corporation. Little did we know about how it would define our mission in the years to come.
What started as awareness drives among students slowly expanded into building in-situ compost to show them how organic waste from kitchens can be turned into manure. Soon, we built a kitchen garden on the terrace of the school; the produce grown here is used to prepare meals in the school’s kitchen. When we noticed an excess of food waste, we installed a food waste treatment plant (biogas) in December 2024. Now, the produce from the garden goes to the kitchen, the organic waste from the kitchen goes to the biogas plant, which produces biogas that is used for cooking in the kitchen and manure that is eventually used as a fertiliser for the garden—creating a circular system within an educational institution. Since December 2024, a total of 5000 kg of food waste has been converted into biogas, helping the school save on 12 LPG cylinders in the process, making this a ‘model school’ for circular management of organic waste.
The initiative paved the way for us to take up similar steps in more corporation-run schools. Currently, ROKA works with three such institutions, for awareness about solid waste management and the installation of biogas plants. Of these, the biogas plant in Chennai High School, Thiruvanmiyur, which was established in November 2025, has processed close to 1300 kg of food waste thus far. We continue to build new relationships with more schools and colleges.
Since December 2024, a total of 5000 kg of food waste has been converted into biogas, helping the school save on 12 LPG cylinders in the process, making this a ‘model school’ for circular management of organic waste.
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Once a group of individuals curious to learn from other communities, today ROKA has assumed the role of a mentor for those who want to venture into waste management practices, aiding them in the replication of the Kasturba Nagar model. For example, the apartment building Clover By the River in Kotturpuram began composting its wet waste under Okapi and ROKA’s support. Recently, Kalakshetra Colony in Besant Nagar undertook a door-to-door campaign to improve waste segregation and collect soft plastics under our guidance. There has been a growing interest in information from experts, especially from gated communities that fall under the ‘bulk waste generator’ category.
Over the years, we have encouraged a shift in perspective, so that people look at waste as a resource.
I should not forget to mention our bi-annual dry waste collection drive, started in 2019, which has now become a city-level movement. Over the years, we have encouraged a shift in perspective, so that people look at waste as a resource. When it is segregated and collected homogenously, it becomes an economically viable venture for the aggregators or recyclers through decentralised waste collection drives.
Through it all, my husband and son have been my pillars, living this life right alongside me. There are tough days, but moments like a 94-year-old stranger calling to cheer me on reminds me, this—ROKA’s impactful work—matters!
Cover Image Credit: Aparna Ganesan and Nanda Kumar
Dawn has only just enveloped the Kukudi village in Nabarangpur, Odisha’s maize basket, when 41-year-old Krushna Randhari sets off for a field, carrying a hoe. He quickly gets to work, loosening the soil between rows of tall hybrid maize plants that have dominated the landscape for about 12 years.
As his hands fall into a rhythm, memories of a past when his family, which belongs to the Bhatra tribal community, cultivated traditional varieties of corn—or ‘maka’ as it is locally known—come flooding back. Red, white, yellow, purple, even saffron-coloured cobs used to be sown with pulses before the monsoon. They were integral to rainfed intercropping systems (including millets, tubers and vegetables, too) commonly practised in Adivasi districts, which sustained nutrition at a household level.
These native varieties adapted well to local conditions, ensuring resilience during times of unfavourable weather. Their seeds were treasured and preserved across three or more generations (150–200 years) for their taste, ability to last in storage, and resilience against drought.
What does this mean for gleaming pearls of rainbow-hued maka, and the farmers who relied on it for nourishment?
Then came the Mukhyamantri Maka Mission, launched in 2023, which boosted yields and marketable surplus in Odisha, widening the state’s embrace of hybrid seeds which began during the Green Revolution. While traditional maize produces around 10–15 quintals per acre, hybrid varieties yield 35–40 quintals per acre in comparison. In the process, hybrids have also increased dependence on chemical inputs, whose costs steadily rise, and hardened the soil, depleting its fertility. Over the course of mere decades, local agrobiodiversity has eroded, driven by a productivity gap.
What does this mean for gleaming pearls of rainbow-hued maka, and the farmers who relied on it for nourishment?
Maize production in the state has grown from 7.3 lakh metric tonnes in 2019-20 to 11.3 lakh metric tonnes in 2023-24—a Compound Annual Growth Rate (CAGR) of 11.5%, according to the Odisha Economic Survey 2024-25. Under the MMM scheme, the state government allocated Rs. 481.94 crore over five years to expand cultivation across 45 blocks in 15 districts.
Farmers receive seed support along with an incentive of Rs. 2,500 per acre to cover the cost of bio-inputs and fertilisers. Line sowing is promoted, using 6 kgs of seed per acre. The traditional practice of intercropping maize with legumes to improve soil fertility is encouraged. The recommended pattern follows a 1:2 ratio of maize to legume rows.
Operational guidelines also encourage on-farm preparation and use of bio-inputs such as jeevamrutha, beejamrutha and neemastra. Forty-five Farmer Producer Organisations (FPOs) have been engaged to procure maize directly from farmers and ensure better price realisation.
The scale of adoption has been significant. During the 2025–26 kharif season, 17,365 farmers reportedly cultivated maize over 14,228 hectares under the MMM, producing 87,846 metric tonnes. Average yields rose from about 3.18 tonnes per hectare under traditional practices to between 5.3 and 7.8 tonnes per hectare with hybrids and improved agronomy. Support was also extended to sweet corn cultivation, benefiting 1,293 farmers and yielding over 10,600 tonnes.
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Randhari’s hometown Nabarangpur aside, the top maize-producing districts include Keonjhar, Koraput, Ganjam and Gajapati, which have emerged as hubs of this transformation. Nabarangpur alone has produced over eight lakh tonnes a year.
Randhari cultivates maize on six acres and baby corn on two. While he initially received hybrid seeds and training under the MMM, he says poor germination rates pushed him to buy seeds from the local market. “I purchased varieties like DKC 9165 and DKC 9081 at Rs. 600 per kg. They yield up to 35–40 quintals per acre,” he says. But these returns come at a cost: the farmer spends Rs. 10,000–12,000 per acre on chemical fertilisers and insecticides.
In the Asanga village of the same block, which has access to lift irrigation (a method that transports water using water-lifting devices, such as electric pumps), hybrid maize cultivated in the rabi season is a major cash crop, spanning across nearly 900 acres. “Last year, I harvested about 285 quintals from nine acres and sold most of it at Rs. 1,800 per quintal,” says 38-year-old Hemananda Mali, who earned roughly Rs. 4.5 lakh. Production depends heavily on urea, DAP, potash, micronutrients and supplementary organic manure like Gobardhan Gold to improve soil fertility and promote plant growth.
But these returns come at a cost: the farmer spends Rs. 10,000–12,000 per acre on chemical fertilisers and insecticides.
In the neighbouring Koraput district, 12 acres of Duryadhan Bisoi’s farm have been devoted to hybrid maize for over a decade. After low yields from MMM-provided seeds, the 55-year-old farmer shifted to commercial hybrids such as CP333, CP555 and Adventa. “These seeds cost Rs. 800–1,000 per kg and around 7–8 kg is required for an acre. Among them, CP555 delivers the highest yield, around 30 quintals per acre, but at a steep cost,” Bisoi says.
Veteran cultivators of the crop like Bisoi fear that farming it is becoming increasingly unviable; market prices fall while fertilisers and pesticide bills run into thousands per acre. Beyond economics, he points to the long-term ecological impacts which cannot be ignored after three years pass, when the changes in the soil become palpable.
In recent years, drops in prices have been attributed to slowed-down demand from the poultry and ethanol industries. Simultaneously, the lack of local processing facilities has flooded rural markets with grain. “Traders from outside the state are buying maize at very low prices,” says Bisworanjan Parida, Regional Coordinator, Access Development Service, the NGO which serves as the MMM’s programme secretariat.
In recent years, drops in prices have been attributed to slowed-down demand from the poultry and ethanol industries.
To address this, district administrations are collaborating with private agencies. In Nabarangpur, for instance, a maize starch factory began trial runs in 2025, and is expected to procure large volumes directly from farmers. Plans are also underway to establish poultry feed units, improve storage infrastructure and promote decentralised, community-run processing units.
However, Parida stressed that strengthening FPOs and building robust price-support mechanisms remain critical. “Farmers need protection from sudden price crashes and returns closer to the minimum support price (MSP) during market stress,” he says. At the time of publishing this article, the MSP for maize hovered around Rs. 2,400 per quintal.
Also read: Katarni’s comeback: How an aromatic Bihari rice escaped obscurity
Hybrid maize lacks the taste and digestibility of traditional varieties, say farmers. The switch to high-yielding varieties has had the most direct impact on their own diets, as the use of maize shrinks in local kitchens. “It spoils quickly and can’t be stored for months,” says 36-year-old farmer Parbati Beheradalai from the Betarsingh village in Gajapati district. “We eat very little of it. Even our cattle don't prefer fodder made from it.”
Mandia pej, a porridge made from ragi, maize and rice, was once a staple across southern and western Odisha. With native maize disappearing, the dish is now prepared without it. “With every lost variety, we are losing the foods that sustained our communities for generations,” says Sumitra Pujari, a 32-year-old farmer, also from Betarsingh.
Whichever native maize varieties have not yet been lost to time or profit, are now grown in small quantities—only for household consumption. Stunningly, these cultivars are able to produce a harvest in the poorest of seasons, making them ideal for times of climate crisis. Farmers in Nabarangpur and Koraput districts recall that red, white, yellow, and mixed-coloured maize could survive delayed monsoons and other unpredictable weather because the seeds of these crops, preserved and used over multiple generations, were genetically diverse and learnt to adapt. They continue growing under low soil moisture.
Traditional maize may recover after intermittent periods of drought by producing smaller cobs, but hybrid maize shows poor pollination rates and incomplete grain filling under the same stress conditions. It is acutely sensitive to even minor shifts in rainfall or a rise in temperatures during flowering.
And yet, hybrid maize proliferates. This expansion of maize monocultures has reduced common grazing lands in Adivasi regions. Tribal households rear cows, bullocks, goats, and sheep, which are integral to both their livelihoods and cultural practices. Livestock was once central to manure supply and draft power in hilly terrain, besides offering a financial safety net during emergencies. “Earlier, our cattle and goats grazed freely on village commons and forest edges. Now those lands are all under maize cultivation ,” says Prasanna Beheradalai, a 55-year-old farmer from Betarsing. As grazing land disappears, many households are abandoning livestock rearing, cutting off access to organic manure. “We now buy chemical fertilisers because there is no dung left,” says Surendra Pujari, another farmer from Betarsing.
Also read: The uncertain future of Aarey Forest’s tribal agriculture
Odisha’s experience with millets offers a possible way forward. The Shree Anna Abhiyan (formerly known as the Odisha Millets Mission) was launched in 2017 to promote the cultivation, consumption and overall commercial value of millets in the state. Under this programme, in 2024, Odisha became the first state in the country to formally recognise and release four finger millet landraces—Kundra Bati, Laxmipur Kalia, Malyabanta Mami and Gupteswar Bharati—integrating them into policy and procurement systems.
This expansion of maize monocultures has reduced common grazing lands in Adivasi regions.
“A similar approach is needed for promising traditional maize varieties,” says Debabrata Panda, Assistant Professor at the Central University of Odisha. Bringing them into formal seed and food policy frameworks can strengthen agrobiodiversity conservation and improve tribal food security, he adds.
State officials say the concern is recognised. “In the initial phase, we prioritised high-yielding varieties because of their productivity," says K. S. Redish Kumar, State Coordinator, MMM, Access Development Service, Bhubaneswar. “In the coming years, we plan to establish community seed banks to conserve traditional maize and link them to nutrition and food security programmes.”
Edited by Anushka Mukherjee and Neerja Deodhar
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Editor's Note: To work in ecology science and biodiversity conservation in India is to undertake the work of a lifetime. For many, but especially women, this work is as much a career as it is a calling, with challenges that pertain to the job itself—such as reasoning with authorities—as well as their personal journeys and identities. In this series, the Good Food Movement highlights female scientists, activists and community builders whose visions and labour have ensured forests, wetlands, and species across flora and fauna live another day.
Until a decade ago, Shweta Hule’s mornings were defined by an unchanging routine: she would stand at the jetty in Maharashtra’s Vengurla, waiting for her fisherman husband to arrive at the shore and hand over the day’s catch to her. It’s a familiar routine for those who belong to the local Gabit community, whose women engage in the more informal aspects of the fishing economy such as cleaning and selling, while the men set out to the sea.
This stretch of the southern Konkan region is far lesser known than bustling Goa—only two hours away—though its landscape is equally lush: home to mangroves that glisten evergreen, taking root in the brackish water of the Mandavi Creek that eventually yields to the Arabian Sea. Married into Vengurla 34 years ago, Shweta took notice of the mangroves and the ecology surrounding them. One day a flying fish leaping out of the waters caught her attention; on another, she was mesmerised by egrets and herons. She recognised the mangroves only by their local name, ‘chippi’ or ‘hippali’.
It was after the 2004 Boxing Day tsunami that ravaged the western coast that the woody shrubs entered local consciousness. “At the time, news channels spoke about how regions where mangroves were present suffered lesser destruction,” she recalls. Armed with this awareness and moved to sustain the local ecosystem, Shweta wished for nothing more than to take Vengurla’s children through the mangroves on little boats and point out their uniqueness. It’s a dream that she made come true.
She now leads Swamini, a self-help group comprising eight women—most of whom are wives and daughters of fishermen—that has pioneered community-based ecotourism through mangrove safaris in Vengurla’s Mandavi creek since 2017. Conducted in small, manually rowed boats, these safaris take visitors deep into the estuary, through the dense mangroves, where the women introduce a landscape that they have come to know intimately. They point out different species, explain how different aquatic animals take shelter and breed in root systems, and engage tourists in identifying resident and migratory birds by sight and call.
The group has hosted hundreds of visitors over the years—primarily nature enthusiasts, students, and researchers. Swamini’s work has drawn recognition and felicitation from state bodies like Maharashtra’s Mangrove Cell as well as other associations, such as the Mangrove Society of India and the Ministry of Environment, Forests and Climate Change as environmental changemakers.
Beyond its work in raising ecological awareness, Swamini is also rewriting gender roles in Vengurla’s society; once forbidden to climb onto fishing boats, their courage in starting an all-women mangrove safari was nothing short of revolutionary.
Maharashtra has a 700 km-long coastline. As of 2021, over 30,000 hectares of mangroves belonging to 20 different species adorn the belt. Eight of these are found in the Sindhurdurg district, making it one of the most biodiverse regions along the state’s coast.
In the 2010s, Maharashtra’s Forest Department—and its Mangrove Cell in particular—partnered with the UNDP-Global Environment Facility (UNDP-GEF), spawning many alternative sources of income for people whose livelihoods depended on the sea, says N. Vasudevan, the then Principal Conservator of Forests in the Mangrove Cell, and also the Chief Nodal Officer for this project in Sindhudurg.
In 2013, while attending an annual fisherwomen’s meeting in Malvan, Shweta and other fisherwomen were given an opportunity to travel to Kerala for a workshop—a journey that proved to be a turning point. It was during training sessions in Kerala that she witnessed how mangroves sheltered soil and biodiversity. “Women here balanced their household chores and engaged in other small projects to revive the landscape,” she recounts.
Like her, many of the group’s women were curious about the mangroves but had never ventured into the thickets.
Back home, she wanted to undertake a project far different from the typical, smaller-scale ones encouraged by the UNDP (like crab and oyster farming): a mangrove safari. “Though I knew little of mangroves then, I knew this much—to save this beautiful coast, we had to teach people how these forests hold ecosystems together. The coastal regions of Maharashtra and Kerala were similar in terms of parisar [terroir] and weather conditions. If they could start an initiative there, why not us?”
Later that year, Shweta recruited a group of younger women from Vengurla under the banner of a self-help group she had established a few years ago. The endeavour required women who were hardy and passionate about nature—whom Shweta recognised and took on with her keen eye. Like her, many of the group’s women were curious about the mangroves but had never ventured into the thickets. “If we were to become guides for tourists, the first leg of awareness, knowledge and dedication would have to start with us!” she says. This was particularly crucial as most of the women had studied only up to Class 7 or 10 in Marathi medium schools. “We could barely pronounce the complicated Latin and Greek names of the plants around us, let alone spell them,” says 39-year-old Sai Satardekar.
Brimming with enthusiasm, the eight women got in touch with the UNDP co-ordinator for Vengurla at the time, Durga Thigale. Durga and Dhanashree Patil, the Head of Botany at the nearby Balasaheb Khardekar College, became the group’s teachers, projecting images of flora and fauna onto screens and by turning the khadi (a delta region where water from the river and the sea mingles itself) into a diligent classroom. They studied in Shweta’s verandah and quizzed each other. Scientific names and characteristics became a verse they repeated as they went about their days, washing utensils and cleaning fish. Their young children, who accompanied them to workshops and training sessions, imbibed this knowledge and a natural curiosity about mangroves—pointing to trees and identifying them.
Such was their determination that they felt confident enough to officially launch their mangrove safaris in under two months. Durga helped prepare the project report for the UNDP, and aligned Swamini’s vision with funding frameworks. “Eventually, we received funding amounting to nearly Rs. 6 lakh under the UNDP-GEF project. We bought two boats, oars, and life jackets,” Shweta adds.
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Traditional fishing boats use horsepower engines. Swamini decided to row hodhis (smaller, hand-rowed boats) along the length of the creek so as to not disturb the mangrove’s biodiversity. “Macchimaar mahilaanche sharir ghatta astaat. Pan hodhi valvaaycha kahich anubhav navhta [Fisherwomen’s bodies are sturdy. But we had no experience taking on the waters on our own],” Shweta says.
Traditional fishing boats use horsepower engines. Swamini decided to row hodhis (smaller, hand-rowed boats) along the length of the creek so as to not disturb the mangrove’s biodiversity.
Her husband, Satish Hule, who owned a former fishing business in Vengurla was pivotal in supporting the SHG. “We trained for eight days under Satish dada’s guidance. At first, our boats spun in all directions and we glided straight into the mangroves, getting tangled in the branches,” chuckles Sai. Rowing took a toll on their bodies; but they grew more sure-footed once they began to apply technique and not just stamina. “Many villagers mocked us, saying we would give up in a few days,” says 39-year-old Ayesha Hule. “It feels good to prove them wrong.”
For the Mangrove Cell, Swamini’s mangrove safari was an exemplar of low-impact, non-invasive tourism. “The key players in conservation are local communities who are rooted in the ecosystem. Our objective behind promoting alternative livelihoods, including ecotourism, was to offer both an ecological and economic incentive to conserve mangroves,” Vasudevan says. “We receive hundreds of proposals and have noticed that enthusiasm peters out after a point, which is why we have a rigorous screening process. But Swamini had that rare determination powering them through all obstacles,” he adds.
Conservation spoken of in the abstract rarely stays with people. But when someone is taken to the trees—invited to touch the bark, trace the roots, notice the flowers, and understand how each part plays a role—the experience becomes tactile and sensory. These encounters made conservation feel personal, to both the members of Swamini and the tourists they would meet.
“We receive hundreds of proposals and have noticed that enthusiasm peters out after a point, which is why we have a rigorous screening process. But Swamini had that rare determination powering them through all obstacles.”
I step into the boat on the morning of the safari that lasts for approximately an hour. Each boat holds up to ten people. We push off from the docks, and the oars cut silently through the water. The mangroves rise like tall gods on either side of us. I can see beneath the surface; the bed of the creek and the rocks encrusted with oysters.
The women identify each tree with ease and talk about its physical and medicinal properties. Sonneratia alba bursts into white bloom every June and July, whose fruit is pickled when raw. Avicennia marina and Avicennia officinalis belong to the same species group, but can be distinguished by their leaf shapes—one triangular and the other rounded—and by their shared yellow flowers and heart-shaped fruit. Rhizophora mucronata is a visually striking mangrove tree with dense clusters of aerial roots, whose bark is traditionally crushed into a powder as a remedy for diabetes.
“We used to refer to these birds as bagle [egrets]. We later learned the names of the many distinct birds such as the Grey Heron, the Great Egret, the Malabar Hornbill, and the Indian Cormorant,” Sai says. “Our conversations with wildlife enthusiasts open new doors for us. For instance, a bird-watcher identified 52 bird species a few months ago in a single day!”
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The salty soils of the intertidal pose an inhospitable barrier for most woody plants, but the mangrove is uniquely adapted for these conditions. The roots of different trees have varying shapes and forms, and are typically spread in a 5 m radius from the main trunk. They are either thin as a pencil, rising like a cone out of the sludge, or bent like a knee. “Most plants can access oxygen from gases trapped in the soil, but mangrove roots are also submerged underwater twice a day during high tide,” Ayesha says. These special breathing roots called pneumatophores grow upwards from the soil and have lenticels—pores that cover their surface and repel water during oxygen exchange. The roots of the mangroves spread out into the water and shelter juvenile fish and hatchlings in their tangles. “During the shifting tides, fish like sea bass, red snapper and tiger prawns lay their eggs here, safe from predators.” Sai says.
The mangroves have a self-sustaining logic. Fully ripened fruits fall from the trees during low tide and take root as saplings, eliminating the need for sowing. What the earthworm does for a field, the scorpion mud lobster does for mudflats—turning the soil endlessly to raise volcano-like mounds that crumble during high tide, only to be rebuilt. With every burrow, the lobsters aerate the mud, recycle nutrients, and renew the ground on which the mangroves grow. Together, the trees that seed themselves and the creatures that work the earth form an ecosystem where regeneration occurs on its own.
The women, too, have an unspoken understanding amongst themselves. When one feels the toll of the oars, another silently takes over. “We have now safely rowed tourists out of sticky situations, such as when one of our paddles floated away. This is only because of the many experiences we have accumulated on the creek,” says Radhika Lone, another member of the group.
In 2020, Swamini attempted to go beyond ecotourism, experimenting with regenerating mangroves through a plantation drive. But their nursery lacked the ability to provide a consistent supply of saline water twice a day. “The land where we planted nearly 2,000 saplings was elevated, so tidal water couldn’t reach it,” says Shweta. “About 60-70 of these trees have survived but their growth is much slower than the ones that have naturally reproduced and been nourished by seawater,” adds Sai.
Their work in revitalising Vengurla’s mangroves continues in other ways; any harm to the wooded shrubs is like a stab to their own hearts—like they’d feel about their own children being hurt. “When we first started the safari, we waded into the creek to clear out all the garbage that people dumped. This included plastic that clogged the breathing roots’ pores and thread from nirmaalya [devotional offerings] that could get entangled around them or choke the tiny fish who called this landscape home,” says Ayesha.
Their work in revitalising Vengurla’s mangroves continues in other ways; any harm to the wooded shrubs is like a stab to their own hearts—like they’d feel about their own children being hurt.
The disappointing outcome of the plantation initiative does not cut as deep as the threat of local politics stemming from both gender and caste-based discrimination. Tensions ran high, especially in the infancy of the project, in response to the group presenting a new model of leadership. “We faced the ridicule and wrath of fellow villagers. They cut the ropes that anchored our boats in the dead of night, so that they would drift out to sea. They would slash our paddles or mislead tourists who wanted to book a safari with us,” says Shweta. “But we had a stubbornness that kept us afloat, we were determined to not give up, no matter what came our way,” Ayesha adds.
Swamini think of themselves as environmental guardians. They routinely partner with NGOs and encourage Vengurla’s students to assist them in cleanup drives. School children from surrounding regions and even metropolitan cities such as Mumbai and Pune visit the village and are taught about the importance of sheltering mangroves and keeping the environment clean. Under their vigilance, nearly 200-300 new trees have flourished along the banks of the Mandavi, says the UNDP’s Durga Thigale.
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Shweta Hule still wakes up in the wee hours of the morning to sell the first catch in Vengurla’s main bazaar. Like her, all the other women of Swamini have other livelihoods. The group was born not out of economic necessity but from a deep, self-driven passion to protect an ecosystem. “Initially, it was difficult to juggle Swamini with our other chores,” say Ayesha and Radhika. “Tourists flock to Vengurla during the summers, and the season plateaus during the rest of the year. We were satisfied with our pre-existing businesses, income generation was never our goal.” The initiative averages at 12-15 rides every month. Participants are charged about Rs. 300 per person for the boat ride, enabling each woman to earn about Rs. 25,000 every year. “These earnings help us tide over difficult times in our homes and in our independent businesses,” adds Radhika.
Like the mangrove which grows slowly and is self-sufficient, the project has lent all the women associated with the SHG a distinct identity. “‘Aatmanirbharta’ —this emotion has driven our work. Women are always identified in relation to their male relatives. The feeling of doing work that is ‘mine,’ that I am recognised by, is unparalleled,” says Ayesha. “Being a guide has also instilled a lot of confidence in me. We are now invited to train women starting similar initiatives in nearby towns,” adds Radhika.
Like the mangrove which grows slowly and is self-sufficient, the project has lent all the women associated with the SHG a distinct identity. “
There is an easy camaraderie between the women, who gather in the kitchen of a homestay owned by Shweta and her family before a safari— laughing, sipping on their tea, and heatedly discussing the panchayat elections. It doesn’t take a trained eye to notice that these women are both co-workers and companions. “We bicker too, but make up as quickly. We recognise that our shared vision and cause is far greater than any individual differences in opinion that we may have,” Ayesha says.
Edited by Shobana Radhakrishnan and Neerja Deodhar
All images by Aditya Manoharan
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Ngupetso Kapfo has worn many hats over his lifetime—government servant, carpenter, timber merchant. But none lasted long enough to feel familiar and instinctive. The work was steady, sometimes profitable, but it stirred a restlessness in him that did not leave him. The timber business felt neither economically nor ecologically sustainable, taking more from the hills than it returned. At that crossroads of his life, he turned uphill, to the mist.
Today, his kiwi orchard has grown to over a thousand trees and is two decades old. It grows on the slopes of Phek district in Nagaland, where clouds sit low and the air stays cool—producing around 75,000 kg of fruit every seas “Kiwis need the mist to grow,” he says simply. The fruit needs these high altitudes, cold winters, and slow seasons. It is here, among curling vines, that Kapfo found steadiness, and something close to joy.
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Kapfo’s first encounter with kiwi came at the Pfutsero Horticulture Farm, not far from Phek, where he learnt about both the promise that the fruit held and the discipline it demands. “In 2007, I planted my first hundred saplings, beginning from the top of the slope and working my way down,” Kapfo says. He gradually expanded the orchard each year and the land revealed its rhythms to him.
Much of that rhythm is shaped by pruning. “Pruning is one of the most important parts of ensuring a healthy yield,” he says. In summer, Kapfo trims the excess leaves and branches so that sunlight and air can circulate freely through the trees. In winter, the cuts are more deliberate. They help train the tree’s structure, spacing out branches and directing the plant’s stored energy toward timely flowering and better-quality fruit—especially important in Phek’s cold, short growing seasons. Years of working with wood have contributed to Kapfo’s intimate understanding of the trees; his arms move robustly and the light ‘dhak-dhaks’ of the shears echo in the hills.
Nothing here is wasted—weeded plants, pruned branches, and organic matter are all used to build soil fertility.
From the beginning, Kapfo chose to farm organically. An NGO trained him in better soil practices, teaching him vermicomposting and ways to return all of the field’s produce into the earth. Nothing here is wasted—weeded plants, pruned branches, and organic matter are all used to build soil fertility. He also uses makhruvu, a locally found plant ground and mixed with water, to nourish the vines and keep pests at bay.
“Fertiliser is slow poison for men,” Kapfo says. “It may offer short-term gains, but it harms the soil, the farmer applying it, and the people who eat the food.” Organic farming, for him, is a way of staying true to all three. This circularity is aligned with Kapfo’s practised belief of mindful living . His orchard is now certified organic by the Nagaland State Horticulture Department.
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Earlier, Kapfo harvested the fruit by following his experience and instinct. Now, he carries a small but telling tool: a hand refractometer. He slices a kiwi, rubs a drop of juice onto the lens, holds it up to the light, and checks the sugar levels. If the reading is low, the fruit isn’t ripe enough. It stays on the tree.
In these hills, modern tools are not replacing traditional wisdom; they are sharpening it. Precision becomes a way to protect quality without chemicals.
He also demonstrates his grafting process. “I cut a two-knot branch to act as the scion [the desired portion to be grafted]. Don’t slice too close to the soil.” He makes incisions on the rootstock [the bottom portion of a grafted plant] and the branch—“Join it with tape and make sure to align both sides carefully so that the tree grows upright,” Kapfo adds.
He slices a kiwi, rubs a drop of juice onto the lens of the refractometer, holds it up to the light, and checks the sugar levels.
Kiwi cultivation has grown steadily across India, evolving from a niche segment to a highly desired product because of its nutritional benefits. By 2024, growing health consciousness, greater exposure to global food cultures, and improvements in cold-chain infrastructure had already accelerated kiwi consumption across metropolitan and tier-1 cities. By 2025, the market was valued at ₹54.4 billion. But domestic demand still far outpaces supply. Most kiwis eaten in Indian cities are imported, even as places like Phek offer the ideal conditions for their cultivation: high altitude, cool temperatures, and heavy rainfall.
Nagaland’s kiwi story began in villages like Thepfume and Thipuzu, with varieties such as Hayward and Bruno.The state produced 1650 tonnes of kiwi in 2023-24. Yet farmers continue to face challenges and much of the harvest struggles to reach markets efficiently as a result of poor transport, lack of cold storage and small landholdings. What is grown with care often loses value after harvest.
Most kiwis eaten in Indian cities are imported, even as places like Phek offer the ideal conditions for their cultivation: high altitude, cool temperatures, and heavy rainfall.
Recent exchanges with New Zealand—the world’s leading kiwi exporter—have opened up conversations around better orchard management, post-harvest systems, and branding. But for farmers like Kapfo, the future still unfolds one season at a time.
Also read: In Uttarakhand’s Shama, kiwi cultivation has restored faith in agriculture
In his orchard, the vines curl slowly, the mist settles gently, and sweetness is measured drop by drop. Kiwi may be putting Nagaland on the global map, but here in Phek, it is still a deeply meditative act. It is visible in how Ngupetso Kapfo explains his process of growing, pruning, and waiting, and in the way he shuffles around the orchard, attentively tending to every tree. His work is a testament to slower, steadier ways of growing. In these hills, patience is not a virtue. It is the method.
On a bright January morning in Tamil Nadu’s Kuravapulam village, Sivaranjini S. closes the door to her kitchen, picks up a spiral-bound notebook, and walks into the paddy fields adjacent to her home. Her husband, Saravanakumaran P., follows her into the fields, adjusting his blue rubber boots as he walks past a line of palm trees that mark the boundary of their land.
At first glance, this farm in the Nagapattinam district resembles any other paddy field in coastal Tamil Nadu. But a closer look reveals a mosaic of differences. Each small plot on the farm is devoted to a distinct variety of rice: some short and sturdy, others tall and swaying; some with slender grains, others bold; some still green, others gold and amber, ready for harvest.
Thriving amid farmlands that practice monoculture, it is an archive, a laboratory, a protest, and a wager on the future.
The couple moves methodically from one plot to the next, carefully noting the colour of the leaf sheath (the lower part of a leaf that covers the stem and protects it), the angle of the flag leaf (the final, topmost one), the length of the panicle (a loose branching cluster of flowers), the hue of the grain, and the presence of pubescence (fine hairs) on the husk. Every trait is diligently recorded in the notebook Sivaranjini carries.
Across two parcels of land, they are growing around 2,200 traditional rice varieties—a living seed bank whose treasures are cultivated, documented and regenerated every year. What began in 2015 with 177 varieties collected from their home state has, over a decade, grown into the Arivar Traditional Seed Centre, a self-sustaining collection of seeds from across India. Thriving amid farmlands that practice monoculture, it is an archive, a laboratory, a protest, and a wager on the future.
The roots of this effort can be traced back to Sivaji R., Sivaranjini’s 75-year-old father, who has been farming in Karurpambulam, a village 2 km from Kuravapulam, for over five decades. Like many farmers whose approach was shaped by the Green Revolution, Sivaji cultivated high-yielding varieties (HYV) in the initial years of his career, supported by chemical fertilisers. The yields were high, and so was his income. He was also a rice merchant who procured HYVs from other farmers to sell to consumers. “I used to be very proud of the profit margins,” Sivaji recalls.
But his perception changed in 1988, when local fishermen approached him with an unusual request: they wanted traditional rice varieties from the region that would remain unspoiled for three days at sea, unlike their HYV counterparts, which were more vulnerable to humidity and heat.
His consequent search for these traditional grains led him to rediscover several native varieties such as Soorakuruvai, Kallurundai, Kulivadichan, Poongaru and Panamarathu Kudavalai—hardy red rices commonly called ‘Karuppu nel’ (black rice varieties). Once grown regularly by farmers in his father’s generation, they were well-suited to the region’s ‘manavari’ (rainfed) conditions. Gradually, he started growing Soorakuruvai and Kallurundai on his land alongside HYVs.
The 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami lent a new urgency to his efforts. When seawater inundated coastal farms, traditional salt-tolerant varieties, once dismissed as outdated, suddenly became crucial for restoring the land. During this period, he interacted with Nammalvar G., an agricultural scientist who played a pivotal role in kickstarting the organic farming movement in Tamil Nadu. At the time, Nammalvar was collecting traditional seed varieties to revive the affected coastal farms. Sivaji offered the Soorakuruvai grown in his farm for the cause. This meeting deepened his understanding of the impact of chemical farming, and the significance of traditional varieties.
A clear-eyed view of a natural disaster’s effects on soil health persuaded Sivaji to shift to a path of preserving seed variants that are intimately tied to the region. By the late 2000s, he had transitioned fully to organic methods. But his investment in seed conservation would start only a decade later, nudged along by his daughter and future son-in-law.
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In 2012, Sivaranjini and Saravanakumaran got married and moved to Chennai, where he practised Siddha medicine (a Tamil Nadu-based traditional system of healing). Like any urban couple, they led a life of comfort.
In 2014, news reports of farmer suicides in Vidarbha unsettled Saravanakumaran. “Agrarian distress in India is complex,” he says. It is shaped by indebtedness, crop failures, volatile markets, water scarcity, climate change and institutional credit systems. Yet for Saravanakumaran, one element stood out: the increasing dependence of farmers on purchased inputs, particularly seeds. “Earlier, farmers saved a portion of their harvest as seed for the next season. That autonomy has been reduced. We felt seed sovereignty was central to farmer resilience,” he says.
The quest for seed sovereignty drew him to his father-in-law’s experiments with indigenous rice. In 2015, he and Sivaranjini made a decision: they would systematically collect traditional paddy varieties, building on Sivaji’s thriving native ones, and conserve them on the family’s land.
They bartered the traditional varieties of Tamil Nadu for seeds from other states like Orissa, Rajasthan, Kerala and Karnataka, gradually building a bank.
Giving up on urban comforts, Saravanakumaran, now 44, took up teaching at a Siddha college in Nagapattinam four days a week to ensure a steady income. The remainder of his time was spent on the farm. Sivaranjini, who is 35, joined her husband in dedicating her life to rice conservation efforts. Her day typically starts at 5 am, spending the early morning hours tending to household responsibilities before stepping into the farm. Since they choose to harvest manually, Sivaranjini must ensure that each variety is carefully dealt with by agricultural workers.
The family travelled across India, meeting with several farmers through seed festivals, food festivals and farmers’ networks. They bartered the traditional varieties of Tamil Nadu for seeds from other states like Orissa, Rajasthan, Kerala and Karnataka, gradually building a bank. Recently, they also procured a few varieties from Sri Lanka.
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As the number of varieties grew, conserving their seeds became increasingly complex. Unlike conventional cold storage seed banks, the Arivar model relies on in-situ conservation, growing each variety afresh every year, regardless of the vagaries of weather. “One year brings drought, another floods, and then cyclones. Seeds must be cultivated regularly so they are exposed to changing climatic conditions. If we only store them, they lose the strength to adapt,” explains Saravanakumaran.
Every planting season, the couple divides their three acres in Kuravapulam and Sivaji’s two acres in Karurpambulam into hundreds of micro-plots. Though paddy is predominantly a self-pollinating crop, maintaining such vast varieties on five acres comes with challenges like cross pollination and a loss of genetic purity. For instance, the Karuppu Kavuni rice should appear black in colour. If it does not, it signals that the strain may have been contaminated or mixed with another variety.
“Conservationists have a responsibility to ensure seeds retain their genetic purity to preserve their identity and the traceability of their traits. This demands a specific scientific understanding,” says Sivaranjini.
A training session in 2018, led by ecologist Dr Debal Deb, known for his work on indigenous rice diversity, served as an eye-opener. The family learned systematic cultivation and documentation methods based on DUS (Distinctiveness, Uniformity and Stability) descriptors, formalised by the Protection of Plant Varieties and Farmers' Rights Authority. This includes 62 morphological characteristics of rice, such as plant height, grain type, leaf angle, and panicle structure. Since 2018, during each harvest, the Arivar farm has been recording morphological characteristics for each variety.
“Ideally, a three-foot isolation distance should separate each variety. Due to land constraints, this is not always possible. Instead, we stagger the sowing times so that flowering periods differ by 50% between adjacent plots, reducing chances of cross-pollination,” says Saravanakumaran, explaining one of the learnings from Dr Deb’s sessions.
Though paddy is predominantly a self-pollinating crop, maintaining such vast varieties on five acres comes with challenges like cross pollination and a loss of genetic purity.
With traditional paddy, the right intent only goes so far; a scientific evaluation of varieties is a necessity. Consider Seeraga Samba, an upland variety with small grains, best known for its use in biryani. When it is cultivated for years in delta regions such as Nagapattinam, the variety gradually adapts to local climatic conditions and its grains tend to become slightly larger, while still retaining their characteristic incense-like aroma. Over time, such subtle shifts make it harder to distinguish between the original upland variety and those adapted to delta environments.
After harvest, seeds destined for the seed bank are carefully sun-dried. Each variety is assigned a tag with a unique number, which is then recorded alongside its name in the family’s meticulous archive. The tagged bunches are carefully packed into white cloth bags and stored in a well-ventilated room. On every new moon day, the seeds are brought out and sun-dried between 9 am and 11 am to maintain the right moisture balance and preserve their germination capacity. “The work is painstaking and repetitive, closer to archival curation than routine farming,” adds Sivaranjini.
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Their journey has not been without setbacks. The farm lies in a rainfed coastal area, making it vulnerable to erratic monsoons and saline intrusion. “The first year tested us severely,” says Sivaranjini. Drought conditions in 2015 forced them to rescue seedlings into grow bags. Of the initial 177 varieties, only 130 survived. Subsequent years brought heavy rains, cyclonic winds and fluctuating temperatures. “It was an early lesson: conserving diversity means accepting loss. We have lost at least 500 varieties due to climate impact since 2015,” says Saravanakumaran.
Largely, the centre exchanges seeds through a barter system, allowing the grains to remain accessible to cultivators regardless of their socioeconomic status.
Daily threats from rodents, peacocks, migratory birds and wild boars keep the family busy. “Our crops mature earlier than neighbouring fields, so birds arrive here first,” Sivaranjini says, demonstrating how she claps and crushes plastic bottles tied to fencing nets to create deterrence through sound.
The labour-intensive processes followed at Arivar come at a cost. The Tamil Nadu government provided a one-time grant of Rs. 3 lakhs during its early years. Since then, the centre has largely been self-funded. Saravanakumaran’s teaching income covers the operational expenses.
Largely, the centre exchanges seeds through a barter system, allowing the grains to remain accessible to cultivators regardless of their socioeconomic status. “Financially, it is challenging to run the seed centre with just one person’s income. We are able to meet all our basic needs. We consciously set aside a desire for other comforts as our work at the seed bank is going to ensure food security for our children and their children. This thought helps us lead a content life,” says Sivaranjini.
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Over the past decade, at least a hundred farmers from Tamil Nadu and its neighbouring states have sourced seeds from Arivar, according to the centre’s records. During the harvest period, between December and April, the family organises a ‘Vayal Kankatchi’ (Paddy Field Exhibition) to raise awareness among local farmers. “Many who come for the exhibition gradually start cultivating native varieties, first for their own families, and later on a commercial scale. Over the years, they have gradually expanded the acreage dedicated to traditional seed varieties,” says Sivaranjini.
For the family, seed conservation is inseparable from policy awareness.
In 2022, Sivaranjini received the Chief Minister’s State Youth Award from the Tamil Nadu government in recognition of her conservation work—a rare public acknowledgement for labour otherwise invisible. The impact of the family’s work extends far beyond their fields, arriving at their own dinner table. They have always relied on regional varieties like Soorakuruvai and Kulivadichan, but today, most of the rice they consume comes straight from their seed conservation efforts. After reserving what is needed for the seed bank, the remaining grains are mixed together and taken to the kitchen, where they are cooked for daily meals, bringing centuries of agricultural heritage to their plates.
For the family, seed conservation is inseparable from policy awareness. Saravanakumaran argues that farmers must understand legislation that affects seeds, water bodies, dams and credit systems. “Self-reliance is not only about cultivation. It is about awareness, and there is a great need to politicise (educate and organise) farmers on these lines,” he says.
Asserting that action itself is resistance, he adds, “Traditional rice varieties were protected for generations by small and marginal farmers. But now they are becoming niche and expensive, sometimes sold in urban organic markets at Rs. 200 per kg or more.”
Sivaranjini closes her notebook and looks across the mosaic of ripening grain; the fields shimmer, not as a uniform sea of green, but as a spectrum. A spectrum that demonstrates how conservation need not be confined to research institutions or gene banks. In a modest room of her home, every seed stored in a cloth bag carries the potential to thrive in the fields. It will endure owing to daily observation, handwritten notes, and stubborn commitment.
Edited by Aathira Konikkara and Neerja Deodhar
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Every Wednesday and Saturday, a small park in Mumbai’s suburb of Bandra comes alive with volunteers in shirts, cargo pants and hats, ready to brave the heat and grow food. Here, they spend their mornings tending to trees, carefully harvesting Malabar spinach, bananas, lemongrass, and bird’s eye chillies (among other produce), and breathing in the scent of earthy compost as they open a fresh pit. Located in the heart of a neighbourhood otherwise populated by coffee shops, restaurants, and boutique stores, this food forest, known as Dream Grove, stands apart: since 2018, it has welcomed people from all walks of life who have an inclination to learn. For some, it is a short jog away from home; for others, it is an initiative worth travelling to from far-flung suburbs.
Dream Grove is just one among many food forests that have sprung up across a city whose green cover has been shrinking for decades. A study found that Mumbai lost 42.5% of its green cover between 1988 and 2018. More recent estimates from the Mumbai Climate Action Plan suggest the decline has worsened, with over 2,000 hectares of urban tree cover lost between 2016 and 2021. In a city where every square metre is staked, urbanisation, land reclamation projects and vertical expansion have left its residents with an alarming 1.2 square metres of open space per person (a figure that does not account for how much of it is actually green)—almost nine times lower than the minimum amount of urban green space recommended by the World Health Organization.
The Brihanmumbai Municipal Corporation (BMC) has undertaken several greening projects, such as approving nearly 1,25,000 square metres of land to be converted into lawns, the Coastal Road Landscaping Project and converting Mahalaxmi Race Course into a 'Central Park'. However, all these will feature promenades, manicured lawns, hedges and gardens as prominent parts of their design, focussing on aesthetic landscaping and beautification while guzzling water and giving little in return to the land.
They tend to be modest in size, occupying a few hundred square metres, shaped by urban land constraints.
In this extractive landscape, enter the urban food forest: an ecosystem designed to mimic the natural architecture of a forest, with multiple layers and canopies—mycelial networks, underground tubers, grasses, vines, shrubs, short and tall trees. Everything inside it is edible, and it is possible to plant diversely in a compact space. In a world where farmland has been so fixedly differentiated from urban spaces, where food supply chains grow increasingly fragmented and consumers drift away from where their food comes from, urban food forests provide a restorative and sustainable solution to growing green things in a warming world.
While there is no official count, Mumbai is home to a small but growing number of such food forests, often tucked into housing societies, parcels of land on institutional campuses, or reclaimed public parks like in the case of Dream Grove. They tend to be modest in size, occupying a few hundred square metres, shaped by urban land constraints. Most are initiated by individuals or collectives—ecologists, educators, or citizens who care about the world—rather than commercial farmers.
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While the term ‘forest garden’ was coined by Robert Hart in the UK only in the 1980s, and the term ‘food forest’ emerged from the Australian permaculture movement around the same time, both terms were shaped by observing traditional practices that integrated trees into agriculture. Urban food forests are a conscious return to permaculture, an approach to agriculture that integrates land, water, other environmental resources and people, and minimises waste.
Most urban food forests are intentionally designed ecosystems that emulate natural forests. They are typically distinguished by their layered planting (from ground cover to canopy), high species diversity, and reliance on natural processes—like mulching and microbial activity—rather than external chemical inputs. Even young plantations growing in as small a space as a parking lot or a rooftop can be categorised as a food forest. What distinguishes them most is the combination of ecological design, biodiversity, and low-input, self-sustaining growth.
Urban spaces and farmlands weren’t always as rigidly separated as they are now. Indian cities, including Mumbai, also have a long farming history—reminders of a time when the wadis and gaothans that now form part of a thriving metropolis were home to thriving fields. Sun-drenched fields of paddy and vegetables, including okra, tomatoes, coconut and spinach, once stretched across modernised Bandra. The residents of Mulund, a suburb in Mumbai’s northeast stretches, recall climbing up trees of cashew, bor (Indian gooseberry) and jackfruit to pluck fruit as children. Data shows that groundnuts, nachani, tur, urad and other pulses were widely cultivated in nearby Thane in the ‘90s, along with other horticultural crops such as chickoos, bananas and mangoes.
Urban spaces and farmlands weren’t always as rigidly separated as they are now.
These food forests seem to pop up in corners which are vacant or in disuse. Access to land is one of the biggest challenges, so people work with what’s available: spaces that are easier to access, or where someone is willing to take ownership. Schools and orphanages, for instance, often double up as learning spaces, while neglected plots—dirty, overlooked, written off—end up becoming the easiest to reclaim and slowly coax back to life.
The very nature of urban food forests—nourishing spaces brought alive with toil and care—allows them to bloom in the most unexpected of landscapes. When the St. Jude India Childcare Centre (part of the Tata Advanced Centre for Treatment Research and Cancer Education), a residential facility for children undergoing cancer treatment, was established in Kharghar, the idea was to repurpose some of the neglected space on campus, run over by construction dumping. “We suggested that instead of an ornamental garden, why not create an edible forest?” Manasvini Tyagi, a permaculture practitioner attached to the project, recalls.
And thus, Earthen Routes (previously Green Souls) was established in 2013: a community food forest farm on a small part of this campus. It began modestly, with just 500 square metres, but served a greater purpose. “Its fruits, vegetables, flowers, and herbs could provide fresh, nutritious food for the children undergoing treatment,” Tyagi adds. While accommodation at the centre was free, families still had to arrange their own food, making the idea both practical and urgent.
What significance do food forests hold, particularly in urban spaces, as opposed to regular tree plantation? While any tree can support some biodiversity, food forests are designed to generate it—abundantly and continuously. “Because every fruiting tree is first a flowering tree, everything planted in a food forest is either a host tree or a feed tree to pollinators,” says George Remedios, who has spent over a decade working on food forest and ecological restoration projects across Maharashtra, Goa, Andhra Pradesh and Tamil Nadu.
He observed how the presence of flowering plants quickly attracted sunbirds, garden lizards, spiders, and other insects. Unlike conventional plantations—often made up of a few species planted in uniform rows—food forests bring together a diversity of flowering, fruiting and understory plants (the layer of vegetation located under the main canopy but above the ground, comprising saplings, shrubs, herbs and young trees). This layered mix creates continuous sources of nectar, food and shelter, allowing more complex food webs to form.
Shweta Wagh, an ecologist and professor at the Kamla Raheja Vidyanidhi Institute for Architecture and Environmental Studies (KRVIA) in Mumbai, has been involved in developing part of the campus into a food forest. A space that was once overflowing with debris, that quickly became water-logged in the monsoon and buzzed with mosquitoes, is now teeming with an entirely different kind of life. Pollinating insects are regularly seen in the space, while birds such as bulbuls and flycatchers visit the trees and water sources placed around the garden.
Unlike conventional plantations—often made up of a few species planted in uniform rows—food forests bring together a diversity of flowering, fruiting and understory plants.
Both Wagh and Remedios point to how conventional urban greening emphasises a manicured aesthetic and avenue trees which have large canopies and provide shade, like the Gulmohar and ornamental Ficus species. Food forests, on the other hand, are an opportunity to gently re-introduce native species, and plant them alongside other trees. The planting palette at KRVIA reflects a mix of native and useful species. Trees such as Arjun, Umbar (wild fig), Chukrasia, and Ritha contribute to ecological diversity, while fruiting species like mango, guava, jamun, banana, mulberry, and lemon provide food. Herbs and medicinal plants, including tulsi, lemongrass, shatavari, and khus are grown. “We also grow seasonal crops such as pumpkin, beans, snake gourd, radish, spinach, and mustard greens,” says Wagh.
Food systems scholar Dr. Madhura Rao sees urban food forests as most valuable when they complement, rather than replace, existing food systems. Their strength lies in proximity—offering hyperlocal produce, creating shorter supply chains, and enabling people to build more intimate relationships with the food they eat. In a metro city like Mumbai, land scarcity and regulatory entanglements make institutional support all the more important for food forests to flourish. With supportive policies, such as easier access to land, clearer regulatory pathways, and links to community kitchens or schools, these spaces could contribute in small but meaningful ways to urban nutrition.
In a metro city like Mumbai, land scarcity and regulatory entanglements make institutional support all the more important for food forests to flourish.
Dream Grove, once a dumping ground for construction waste, has now become a refreshing patch of green. Fruiting trees, tubers, herbs and spices all grow alongside each other. “The first fundamental of designing it was that no biomass should leave the premises,” says Premila Martis Parera, the co-founder of Dream Grove. An ex-banker turned environmental-care advocate, she observed eight years ago that leaf litter across the city was usually incinerated or carried away to landfills. Parera stepped in as a mentor, while co-founder Marie Paul emerged as the community anchor, who mobilised the neighbourhood and built local support. With her roots as a church gospel singer, she brought a strong connection to the community along with the ability to rally people. Together, with local governmental support and a dedicated team, they committed to doing things differently.
The park had been dumped with construction rubble and poor soil, which created a hard, alkaline foundation with poor drainage. To restore the soil, Team Dream Grove began rebuilding it manually. They dug trenches and filled pits with fallen leaves and other organic waste. These layers acted like underground sponges, improving drainage, storing water, and creating a habitat for microorganisms. “Soon after our initial effort, Marie saw a mulberry tree fruiting for the first time. It was a marvel!” she says.
Its democratic ethos invites people across class and caste lines to come into its fold and learn about new methods of organic growing, care and sustainability.
As important as soil revival is a continued effort to nourish it through processes like growing compost. Dream Grove volunteers line the pits with dry leaves, vegetable waste, soil and a sprinkling of earthy, black compost from the previous batch, which acts as a ‘starter,’ like in bread-making.
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At Earthen Routes, seeds are treated with care. “I use heirloom seeds. I save them from what I eat and grow them again—brinjal, tomato, bhindi, and plant different varieties of the same vegetable.” Tyagi sources seeds from trusted networks, including farmer-led seed festivals.
The progress and nature of an urban food forest is also determined by who comprises its stakeholders. Its democratic ethos invites people across class and caste lines to come into its fold and learn about new methods of organic growing, care and sustainability. “We deliberately involved our gardeners in the process. There was a learning curve in the beginning: we’ve been trained to use pesticides at the first site of an infestation. But if people find practical value in the landscape—through fruits, leaves, or herbs—they are more likely to care for and sustain it,” Wagh says.
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Food forests provide a variety of produce while being a means to re-acquaint oneself with the earth, and get one’s hands dirty. The yields are fairly small, ranging from a few handfuls (think a few sprigs of lemongrass or a couple of bananas each) to a few kilograms every week, depending on seasonal challenges and how well trees and shrubs flourish.
Growing food also means being respectful of the ecosystem one is building. Parera says Dream Grove’s volunteers often find leaves and fruit that have been bitten into, before harvesting them. “This is the first share—of the insects and other pollinators. We, those who work the earth, get the second share. Where produce is sold, it then goes to consumers in markets.” Wagh also nods to this sentiment of communally sharing what you grow. “We distribute the produce among students, faculty and our campus staff and gardeners who help us maintain the forest. Often, it is simply placed on the table for anyone to take.” The shares are small but deeply gratifying.
In this way, the urban food forest remains inclusive: complete strangers arrive at its gates to learn composting and to start vegetable gardens of their own. For example, strangers visit the KRVIA campus to ask for leaves of banana and turmeric for their own kitchens.
Growing food also means being respectful of the ecosystem one is building.
There are many challenges to growing and sustaining a food forest in urban areas. For starters, they are volunteer-based, which means that there is often a shortage of hands on deck. “Volunteer participation is inconsistent,” says Parera, “which is a major limitation of community-led initiatives. Many people are moved by and appreciate the space but cannot commit time regularly.”
In cities like Mumbai, where real estate is its own currency, every bit of land is sought to be made economically productive and viable. For some initiatives, navigating bureaucracy and red tape is an inevitability. Securing land permits, for example, can be a slow, uncertain process, often involving multiple approvals and constant follow-ups. Also, local authorities’ understanding of greening initiatives often stands asymmetrical to what may benefit local neighbourhoods.
For some initiatives, navigating bureaucracy and red tape is an inevitability.
These plantations require upfront investment and sustained care in their early years—costs that can be difficult for individuals or small community groups to bear alone. “We’ve stopped valuing the land in ways that aren’t immediately economic. Green cover, soil, all of that gets pushed aside, but the cost doesn’t disappear. It just shows up later, be it in terms of climate emergencies or natural disasters, in ways we’re not really accounting for yet,” says Parera.
This is where institutional support becomes crucial. Trusts, foundations, CSR initiatives and governmental support, as Dr. Rao points out, can help fund not just the initial planting, but also soil restoration, maintenance, and on-ground staff during the critical first few years. Their involvement can turn what might otherwise remain short-term experiments into stable, long-term ecological spaces.
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An urban food forest can be an opportunity to introduce forgotten or heritage crops. “There is potential for much diet diversification,” says Wagh. “While pruning, you already get a handful of stems and leaves which you can use in everyday cooking. We’ve planted fennel and mustard greens here for instance, which you won’t always find in markets.”
Rao also emphasises their pedagogic value. Participation in growing food—especially among children and young adults—can reshape how people understand food systems, from production to nutrition. “Even when a food forest isn’t highly productive, it has immense educational potential,” she notes, pointing to emerging evidence that such engagement fosters a deeper awareness of food’s role in health and wellbeing.
At a time where cities are becoming sterile and sanitised landscapes, where sunlight bounces off of the glass and metal of buildings and concrete structures, even small patches of green can help.
The banana trees which sway in one corner of Dream Grove were planted at the very inception of the food forest by a young boy, who delighted in seeing their growth when he returned as a teenager. The original plant may be gone, but its saplings—its grandchildren—have taken root, carrying the cycle forward. We grow up and grow older alongside the forest.
At a time where cities are becoming sterile and sanitised landscapes, where sunlight bounces off of the glass and metal of buildings and concrete structures, even small patches of green can help, says Remedios. For Wagh, the KRVIA project remains an evolving landscape rather than a finished garden. As trees grow, soils improve, and species interact, the space continues to change. The food forest is less a fixed design than a space in continuum. It would perhaps do us good to carry some of its playful messiness into our sterile cities.
“With all the environmental damage in the world with continual wars, we must be heartened by this opportunity to build deep soil and rejuvenate a little corner of the earth. That is why we named it Dream Grove Bandra, a dream to create Bandra's sacred grove that serves as a model for the rest of the city,” Parera says.
Edited by Anushka Mukherjee and Neerja Deodhar
Marquee photo credit: Team Dream Grove
Cover photo credit: Manasvini Tyagi
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Long before dawn breaks in the villages of Tamil Nadu, a determined group of women begins its journey to the Cauvery. With fish crates tied to their scooters, they ride through narrow paths and dusty roads in the Dharmapuri district towards the river, which is more than a source of water or livelihood to them. Their very lives move to the rhythms of the Cauvery—a companion, guide and shaper of identity.
These resilient, hard-working women, from the Sembadavar and Meenavar communities, have set off in the early hours of the morning to fish. Their profession, linked to their caste, has given them a deep understanding of the Cauvery’s flow, season and moods. With hands shaped by decades of practice, the women—now in their 40s and 50s—cast their nets and wait; much of this work is driven by instinct, memory and respect for a river that has nurtured them for generations. Here, the learning happens by observing, as younger women accompany their elder female relatives to work, who pass down the more technical skills in an informal, everyday manner. Their methods remain traditional, resembling their ancestors, and the main change in their functioning is institutional rather than technological: many fishers are now part of cooperative societies, making them eligible for government support and subsidies.
Much of this work is driven by instinct, memory and respect for a river that has nurtured them for generations.
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In the river’s middle stretch (the Dharmapuri and Krishnagiri districts), they find catfish, particularly butter catfish (Ompok bimaculatus). Further downstream (the Erode and Salem districts), the catch largely comprises species introduced into this riverine ecosystem, with the Nile tilapia (Oreochromis niloticus) being the most common, followed by the Olive barb (Systomus sarana) and the Mozambique tilapia (Oreochromis mossambicus). Aside from the monsoon, which represents a lean season to the fishing communities, these species are available year-round, with daily catch rates fluctuating seasonally.
At the riverbank, some women step into round, hand-crafted boats called coracles and glide into the calm waters, often just as the first light touches the hills. In the past, these boats were made from wood and other natural materials. Modern fisherfolk use FRP (fibre-reinforced plastic) coracles, which they purchase with their own funds, or obtain through government subsidy schemes. These modern versions of the traditional round boats are more durable, lightweight, and easier to maintain, while staying true to the purpose of the older wooden design.
At the riverbank, some women step into round, hand-crafted boats called coracles and glide into the calm waters, often just as the first light touches the hills.
The day does not end at the riverbank; after fishing, they travel to the local market where each woman sorts, scales and slices fish with expert precision against the backdrop of tiled stalls. Here, the fisherwomen transform into processor-vendors. One of them watches over tubs filled with live fish, ensuring they stay fresh for customers. Another, sharpening her knife, works swiftly and efficiently, preparing the day’s catch.
Even as men from their communities participate in fishing, the women have mastered net mending, another skill passed down from mother to daughter. Under the shade of trees, they can often be found sitting together, repairing fishing nets by hand. This is delicate, careful work that requires patience; each knot they tie is customised for effectiveness amid the river’s depth and current.
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Over the past decade, learning to drive scooters has given them a greater degree of autonomy and mobility in a space typically governed by men. This translates into the confidence they feel about their labour, which is often held back by a lack of financial support, fair prices and recognition. They continue to persist, forming self-help groups, taking part in local cooperatives, and finding ways to speak up and support each other. Many offer coracle boat rides to tourists at nearby waterfalls—a stream of regular work, even when catch rates are low. Another avenue to amplify earnings is by cooking the fresh catch into meals with local spices and traditional recipes for travellers, in makeshift stalls or near their homes by the riverside.
The bigger hurdle before them is climate change, which has altered fishing patterns, rendering them unpredictable. The overall catch has declined, especially for native high-value species, leading to reduced earnings for fishers. Changes in rainfall patterns, including unseasonal and intense rains, disrupt fishing schedules by creating unsafe river conditions, while prolonged low-water periods limit boat movement. As a result, the number of effective fishing days has decreased, making the livelihood more uncertain and vulnerable.
The Cauvery has a long history of dam construction spanning nearly a thousand years. To date, about 97 dams have been built along the river. As a result of extensive upstream regulation, water availability has steadily declined over time. The lower stretches of the river are the first to be affected, where the fishing operations are closed. Reduced river flow has consequences for both fisheries and livelihoods: lower water levels alter fish habitat and migration patterns, which affect the composition and availability of fish species. Indigenous (native) riverine species decline under such conditions, while hardy exotic species, which can tolerate low-flow and disturbed environments, tend to increase.
The bigger hurdle before them is climate change, which has altered fishing patterns, rendering them unpredictable.
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Against this backdrop, the fisherwomen of the Cauvery are forced to adapt and persevere. They’re adjusting their fishing practices by changing their fishing zones, targeting whatever species are available and using more durable boats and nets that can handle changing conditions.
To label them as labourers would be to underestimate them; they are keepers of a fragile ecosystem and the guardians of its future. Their work is inseparable from the ebb and flow of the Cauvery: every fish caught, every basket mended, every tide studied is an act of resilience. As we look towards a future shaped by sustainability and social justice, these women deserve to be seen not just as background figures in a fishing economy, but as central leaders in riverine life in rural Tamil Nadu.
Authors: Anjana Ekka, V. L. Ramya, Sangeetha M. Nair, Roshith C.M., Vijay Kumar, S.K. Manna
Acknowledgement: This compilation of photographs and field observations was documented by the research team as part of the institute project funded by the Indian Council of Agricultural Research (ICAR).
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