A few kilometres into the outskirts of Tara village in Madhya Pradesh’s Panna district, a yellow flag marks a potholed path leading from the main road to a hastily built settlement. Its entrance is rigged with sharp, metallic wire. One-room shanties with exposed brick-and-cement walls and pockmarked asbestos roofs bear the brutal September heat and lean against each other. Heaps of sand and construction granite crop up at intervals. A group of men are gathered underneath a tree, visibly distressed. They are in the middle of a heated exchange about repairing their homes, which have been impacted by the year’s heavy monsoon. 

These are the displaced individuals left in the wake of the Ken-Betwa Link Project (KBLP), a Rs. 44,605-crore river-linking project that will reportedly transfer ‘surplus’ water from the Ken basin to the Betwa basin through the Daudhan Dam and a 216-km canal. The project, intended to address water scarcity and provide irrigation and drinking water to Bundelkhand, has (or soon will) displaced nearly 7000 families from 8 villages in Panna and 14 from the neighbouring Chhatarpur district. Their everyday lives are now wagered on the temperaments of the weather, and on how long their compensation sums can last.

“Over the years, the promised compensation has fluctuated. We have fought to increase the amount from Rs. 5 lakh to Rs. 12.5 lakh per voter,” says Hisabi Rajput, a local activist who has worked on tribal displacement caused by large dam projects in Bundelkhand for nearly two decades. He is also one of the frontline leaders of the Chita Andolan, a grassroots movement that has emerged in response to the KBLP. The people of Chhatarpur and Panna have built symbolic pyres and nooses in the middle of the river’s waters to express their resistance to the fate that awaits them. 

Compensation, particularly in Panna, has varied widely, Rajput adds. According to multiple accounts shared by affected farmers, some have received token payments of as little as Rs. 10,000, while others have received anywhere between Rs. 50,000 and the full promised amount. Many have received nothing at all.

Hundreds of farmers from the affected cluster of Dondi, Khamri, Marha, Majhauli, Koni, Kathari Bilhata, Gahdara and Kudan in Panna banded together after their homes were razed down in early June, says Rajput. They travelled for over 24 hours before setting up camp near Tara. Four months have passed since then, with no aid in sight, say the villagers. The unfinished houses and piles of construction material which are ubiquitous to their new realities bear little resemblance to the homes and fields they left behind. Life wasn’t always like this. 

I.

Fifty-two-year-old Gond farmer Ruab Lal Adivasi’s 2.5-acre field in Kudan was a small holding, but it was enough to support his family of five. When asked what he cultivated, he responds, “Kya nahi ugat the, didi? Jowar, bajra, urad, arhar, tili, chana, sab kuch tha.” [What didn’t we grow? Jowar, bajra, urad dal, arhar dal, sesame, chickpea—we grew everything!] He followed a mixed-cropping system where land was divided into different patches for legumes, pulses and other vegetables, which were alternately left fallow and rotated. 

Bundelkhand, spanning parts of Madhya Pradesh and Uttar Pradesh, is a predominantly agrarian region where farming remains closely tied to the monsoon. According to a study conducted in 2026, 61% of its total geographical area is arable land, and over 20% is forest cover. Across its varied landscapes, generations of farmers, including Gond, Baiga, Bhil and Sahariya tribes, have cultivated crops while drawing on the surrounding forests for food and other resources. 

Historically, millets have been an important part of Bundelkhand's granaries. Across Madhya Pradesh, however, their cultivation has receded over the past few decades, amid changing food preferences and agricultural policies that favoured other crops, including high-yielding varieties of wheat, rice and soybean. 

Yet indigenous Bundelkhandi millet varieties have steadfastly held their place in the fields of farmers like Ruab Lal. Grown primarily for the household, they carry the memory of an older, fast-disappearing way of farming. “Millets are very hardy crops, which grow well in the mix of alluvial, red and yellow soils we have here,” he says. The red and yellow soils he refers to is the loamy, coarse earth characteristic of the region. “Agriculture is largely rainfed and we are at the mercy of the monsoon. Our friends kodo and kutki (millet varieties) have carried the village during many dry years,” he says. 

Apart from farming, the daily rhythms of Ruab Lal’s family were arranged around their foraging and gathering routines. “The forest was our mother and nourisher—we spent many hours everyday collecting mahua, charwa [chironji], tendu leaves , tamarind, ber [Indian jujube], bamboo shoot and other herbs. We also foraged for other wild vegetables that sprung up like treasures—padora, bitter gourd, shataavari [Indian asparagus], amaranth and other leafy greens. Tubers like yams and mushrooms covered fallen trunks after just one spell of rain,” Ruab Lal says.

When asked how they gather from the forest, Basanti Devi, a 46-year old Gond from Gahdara says simply, “Identifying what is edible and what is poisonous is just part of being people of the forest.” She is puzzled that people can live so far removed from the knowledge of their surroundings. For her, knowing what to pick from the forest and what to leave behind is something learned over generations and woven into everyday life. “Dekhat toh milat. Patal kand palaas ko jam ke pakadta hai. Kaseru kand taalab ke paas milta hai.” [You just need to know where to look. The vines of the Patal kand wrap around the palash tree and the Kaseru kand grows near ponds, in marshy land.] 

These tubers can be cooked with simple spices like chillies and the kaali haldi [black turmeric] that is also collected from the jungle, she says. “Mushrooms are tasty when pickled, and we boil and eat the singhada [water chestnut] seeds as a snack at the end of a long day’s work!” she chuckles.

The forest was our mother—we spent many hours everyday collecting mahua, charwa [chironji], tendu leaves, tamarind and other herbs.

Both cultivated crops and wild edible plants are primarily regarded as subsistence, with only surplus sold in local markets. The people from Kudan, and other villagers sold forest produce in the markets of Panna, with mahua and chironji fetching up to Rs. 250 per kilo. “Along with these, we also sold mushroom varieties like Raj Bhondo, Sarai and Chirko, prized for their medicinal properties and delicious taste by people in the city,” Ruab Lal says. Each family earned about Rs. 20,000 every week just from selling forest produce—especially between March and June when they collected and stored mahua flowers and fruit. “We bartered other commodities like salt, spices and clothing with mahua. Even if we didn’t work for the rest of the year, or our other crops didn’t have a good harvest, these earnings kept us going,” he adds. 

Basanti Devi recalls a time when water was plentiful and farming in Gahdara was easier. “Do-teen taalab aur tanki the. Nadi thi. Gaanv mein sab vyavastha thi. Hamare bachche sukh se khaate aur khelte,” she says, with a weary face. [Our village had everything. The lakes and tanks stored rainwater and the river was close by. We had built channels that directed this water towards the fields. Our children led peaceful, happy lives, spending their days eating and playing.] 

And then, the bulldozers came. 

Also read: In Bundelkhand, century-old ties with mahua trees are being severed

II.

Budhram Gond, a young man in his 30s, describes the eeriness of the night they were forced to leave. “We heard the rumbling echoing through the night. Officials and police stormed in while we were eating dinner or taking a bath and threw us out. We watched our homes being destroyed in front of our eyes,” he alleges. The older men seated around him nod sombrely, almost in resignation—this alleged manhandling was restricted not just to Kathari Bilhata, where Budhram is from, but across the affected cluster of villages in Panna.

In Tara, Budhram picks up a stone from the ground and holds it up. “Kankadi zameen hai. Kya hi ugat?” [The soil here is coarse and rocky. What crops will possibly grow here?] The women say that they had loaded a few sacks of wheat and jowar into the trucks, in anticipation of having to flee their homes, and those sacks contain the last of their foodgrains. They claim they haven’t received any ration supplies for the last six months. 

The soil here is coarse and rocky. What crops will possibly grow here?

Phulmati Adivasi, a 32-year-old Gond from Koni says that many homes had a small kitchen garden with an assortment of vegetables. “We planted spinach, cucumber, chillies, beans and radish,” she says. “We had to leave our cows and goats behind, and have neither milk nor eggs to feed our children. We also had stocks of mahua flowers, boiled gulli [seeds] and dals,” she says. All of it disappeared into the rubble when their homes were demolished. 

Budhram, who owned a 3.5-acre farm in Kathari Bilhata, says they were already preparing their fields for the upcoming kharif season when the threats began. “We had weeded out the residual stubble from previous crops and begun ploughing our fields when forest officials visited our village and told us to stop farming,” he says. “They warned us that if we didn’t, they would take away our bulls and tractors. We were scared, but continued tilling cautiously. How could we just stop?” Budhram asks bitterly. “If we were in our village at this time, we would be preparing to harvest our crops of arhar, moong and sesame. What are we supposed to eat now?” 

Such threats have reportedly been a recurring feature of the displacement process, with officials warning Adivasi farmers against cultivating land even before they had to relocate. This left many families in a cruel lurch. “Many of the affected villages, such as Gahdara, lay along the Ken, where the soil was fertile,” says Rajput. “Farmers have not been fully compensated for their homes and fields, let alone their livestock, agricultural implements, machinery or fruit trees,” he alleges. 

Farmers were already preparing their fields for the upcoming kharif season when the threats began.

The monsoon arrived with a ferocity that inundated the settlement at Tara, turning the land into a mix of muck and slush. “Our ceilings were leaking, and we had no option but to unsuccessfully seal the holes with plastic bags. We couldn’t eat or sit anywhere for at least a fortnight,” Budhram says. Unlike in their native villages, there are no ponds or reservoirs in the settlement for this rainwater to be stored. The villagers dig borewells, attempting to find a vein in the water table, further boring into their meagre compensation. 

Life earlier was hard but familiar. The labyrinth of the dense forests of Panna is a map inked in muscle memory. “We have spent hours chopping firewood and withstanding everything the jungle throws our way,” says Ruab Lal. “Do you think we ever had the ACs and fridges that are now being promised to us? We are not asking for much—just what was always ours,” he says. 

Also read: This land is your land: The story of Ippimala Third Share Producer Co.

III.

The forests of Panna have outlived generations of Adivasis who have sought sustenance and shelter under their canopies. They are living landscapes through which people built livelihoods, inherited knowledge and made sense of their place in the world. Yet, the language of development tries to quantify this ancient relationship.

Cut off from their ancestral forests, most villagers have resigned themselves to the fact that they might never farm again. The idea of becoming a first-generation migrant worker is not an easy reality to reckon with. Diamond, stone and sand mining, which is widespread in the Panna district, along with construction labour have become among the few sources of wage-based work. Much of this work is physically punishing; workers dig, carry and sort stones and ores in the intense heat. 

The mines are a big change to the clean forest air we are used to breathing. I have already developed a persistent cough.

“We are exposed to dust all day long, hauling bags of cement and stone while the sun beats down on us. The pits are precarious—one misstep and I might break my foot. All for Rs. 250 a day,” admits Budhram.

The risks extend beyond physical strain: the fine silica dust released when stone is drilled and cut can cause silicosis, an incurable lung disease that progressively makes breathing and even walking difficult. “The mines are a big change to the clean forest air we are used to breathing. I have already developed a persistent cough,” says Budhram.

Earlier, Ruab Lal showed us a piece of giloy, the climbing vine whose papery bark has several medicinal properties. “Take one bite of this and your fever will vanish in 5 minutes,” he says. Many such herbs were foraged from the forest and used to treat ailments. Now, without access to it, villagers have lost this source of natural medicine and left to their devices. The cost of earning a daily wage thus also includes villagers having to contend with illness, lost income and mounting medical expenses.

The Ken-Betwa project promises to bring water and prosperity to Bundelkhand. But for the families  displaced to make way for it, the project has already meant the loss of the things that sustained them: their farms, forests, livestock and food systems. As the forests are cleared and the river is dammed, an ecological loss is being compounded by a human one. What is being left behind is not simply a displaced population, but a people stripped of the means to feed, heal and sustain themselves, now forced to depend on precarious wage labour and compensation that cannot replace what they have lost. For them, the promised development has not brought a new way of life—it has taken away the one they already had, along with a wisdom and kinship with the Jal, Jangal, Zameen (water, forest, land) fostered over generations.

Also read: Carbon credits in agriculture: A half-baked promise?

Additional edits by Aathira Konnikara

Cover Art by Jishnu Bandyopadhyay

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On a hot Tuesday morning in October, members of the Rationing Kruti Samiti (RKS) gathered for their monthly meeting in one of the leafy bylanes of Kamgar Nagar, Kurla, Mumbai. RKS is a federation of community-based NGOs working to help people avail of the Right to Food under the National Food Security Act (NFSA), 2013. 

The meeting begins with the review of the month. Husna Khan from Youth for Unity and Voluntary Action (YUVA), who works with residents of Vashi Naka, starts by listing the month’s problems: arrogant shopkeepers who refuse to hand over the full ration, poor quality grains, and deletion of names from the ration card. As members go around the room, they enumerate a range of issues: from problems related to Aadhaar-linked ration cards, to agents charging a hefty amount to add names to the ration card.

Under the National Food Security Act, 2013 (NFSA), up to 75% of India’s rural population and 50% of the urban population is entitled to receive food grains at highly subsidised rates through the PDS. Agencies of state governments and the Food Corporation of India (FCI) buy foodgrains at the minimum support price for the central pool for distribution under the NFSA. It is the responsibility of the central government to allocate grains to states according to the number of eligible households. The state government takes delivery, and organises intra-state allocations to Fair Price Shops (FPS), popularly called ration shops, making sure they deliver it to the shop’s doorstep.

The beneficiaries are divided into two categories: Antodaya Anna Yojana (AAY) beneficiaries who are the poorest of the poor, and Priority Households (PHH). AAY beneficiaries get 35 kg per household per month, and priority households get 5 kg per person per month. But the government has recently proposed an amendment to the NFSA, 2013, under which the AAY households will receive 7 kg of grains per person with the maximum per household being 35 kg.

For the year 2025-26, the centre allocated 554.99 lakh tonnes of grains including rice, wheat and nutri-cereals for 79.8 crore end users. But like the proverbial slip twixt the cup and the lip, a lot happens between the allocation and the beneficiary receiving it.

While the Public Distribution System (PDS) has always been one of the pillars of social security in India, the system is not without its limitations. Over the years, studies have recorded that the introduction of the NFSA has reduced leakage of foodgrains from what ration card holders are owed, but digitisation of the PDS system has also created new problems for the beneficiaries.

Universal vs targeted PDS

The origins of the PDS can be traced back to the period of World War II. Reetika Khera, in her book Revdi ya Haq, explains that rationing was born out of scarcity of grains due to the war. According to the Food and Agriculture Organisation, the programme was introduced in only one city–then called Bombay–in 1939, with entitled card holders receiving grains. Towards the end of 1943, 13 cities were getting rationed food grains. Post-independence, the PDS was continued in the first Five-Year plan, which extended it to rural areas strained by scarcity of food grains.

Khera also explains in her book that the Green Revolution further strengthened the PDS. In the 1960s, the Food Corporation of India (FCI) started buying rice and wheat at a minimum support price (MSP) from farmers. And in 1997, the Targeted Public Distribution System was launched.

Generally, universal PDS is much better simply because it avoids this whole problem of exclusion.

Up until 1997, India had a universal public distribution system: all ration card holders could buy ration at subsidised rates. In 1997, this was transitioned to Targeted Public Distribution System (TPDS). People below the poverty line (BPL) were identified, and given ration at subsidised rates.

“Now what happened with that was that it resulted in a lot of leakages and errors,” says M.R. Sharan, a development economist. He explains that there were two kinds of errors: the exclusion of ration card holders, and the inclusion of those who were not eligible to receive subsidised grains.

“Exclusion errors were the bigger problem,” he explains. “Really poor households didn’t have access to subsidised grains.”

Sejal Dand, of Anna Suraksha Adhikar Abhiyan concurs, “Generally, universal PDS is much better simply because it avoids this whole problem of exclusion…anything which is universal has a better chance of actually reaching everybody, especially the most marginalised.”

There are several arguments made against universal PDS. As Khera writes in her book, the first one is the lack of revenue to provide grains to everyone. The second is that it is unfair to give subsidised rates to those who can afford to buy their ration in the open market. But she further points out that this issue can be addressed if we understand that ‘universal’ does not mean ‘uniform’: those who need the food more should ideally get it in more quantity. Dand adds that in the system of universal PDS, many people voluntarily opt out, also putting an end to this notion of having to provide for everyone.

Sharan points out two reasons why universal coverage reduces leakage: one, he offers an example of how this system works in rural areas, where there is almost 80% coverage. 

“Because they said that 80% of households have access to grains, almost everybody in the village had a stake in the system. This included some households that actually had a voice—that had some powers in these villages,” Sharan explains. These families use their influence to curb corruption at the shop level. Secondly, because a majority of households have access to PDS, the really poor households often find themselves in that bracket.

An important flaw with the way coverage is calculated is also that it is based on the 2011 census.

In fact, as Dand and Sharan explained, southern states have not only performed better at PDS implementation, but states like Tamil Nadu have also been successfully practising universal coverage by topping up what is provided by the central government. The state even adds other items like dal, sugar and oil.

An important flaw with the way coverage is calculated is also that it is based on the 2011 census. Dand says, “How can a list that is drawn 5 years, 10 years back actually be allowed? If you read the original PDS control order, it will say that it has to be continuous identification. Where is that happening?”

Vivek Shelar of the NGO Svitech, a member of RKS who works in Ghatkopar, Sakinaka, and Chembur, also points out that since COVID, grains have been given free of cost to the end users. As a result of this, members of the RKS have repeatedly come across cases where shopkeepers humiliate people, label them freeloaders, and use this as an excuse to deprive them of their full quota. Hence, RKS argues that people’s dignity should be respected by giving grains at subsidised rates as per the NFSA, rather than for free.

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

A step towards transparency

The Supreme Court (SC) passed an important order in 2001, recognising food as a right. In an interim order in the People’s Union for Civil Liberties (PUCL) vs Union of India case, the SC affirmed that right to food is a part of Article 21 of the Indian Constitution, which grants the fundamental right to life and liberty. This prepared a ripe background for the NFSA, 2013 to enact the right to food into a law. Economist Jean Drèze says, “The act created a sense of entitlement among people. Now, most of them know what they are entitled to. Earlier, people were not even clear because there was no transparency.” 

Before the Act, ration card holders were completely at the mercy of the dealers, who could lie about not receiving stock. Drèze adds that now they insist on getting the ration allotted to them; portals and apps such as Mera Ration allow them to check that the dealer has received their rations, if necessary.

Sharan, the development economist, further explains that the PDS is working more efficiently than it was 20 years ago, and he attributes this mainly to the NFSA. The figures also support this. In her book, Khera shows that the percentage of diversion of grains dropped between 1999-2000 and 2022-2023. It peaked at an all-India level in 2004-05 at 54%, but had reduced to 22% by the end of this period.  The diversion or leakage of grains can take place at different points of the supply chain: grains can be siphoned off while being transported from the godown to the shops. Moreover, shopowners can also give beneficiaries less than the quota allotted to them, selling the remainder in the open market for a profit.

Shelar says, “The government took time to recognise that food is a right. This Act should have come a long time ago.” 

He agrees that electronic verification is a useful tool to question corrupt dealers, but believes that the benefits are fairly restricted to urban areas. Poor network and lack of smartphones limit its utility in rural settings. Moreover, not everyone is aware of the app. Shelar says shopkeepers also tend to humiliate people for not having smartphones or digital awareness. He adds, “First make people digitally literate, and then carry out digitisation.”

Also read: In an age of food abundance, why does ‘hidden hunger’ hold India back?

Digitisation of daily ration

In February 2017, the government brought out a notification making Aadhar-linked ration cards mandatory. After a series of deadline extensions, the most recent deadline was March 31, 2025. The purpose of introducing biometric authentication via Aadhaar cards was to eliminate “ghost” ration card holders, to deter diversion of grains into the open market, and ultimately ensure that the food reached the beneficiaries.

For some people, the biometrics do not work because of wear and tear of fingers–which could be due to manual labour or age. 

Dand wonders how effective biometric authentication has been to curb corruption. In her experience of working in Gujarat, she has found that the government claimed that thousands were “ghost card holders,” a term referring to a person who does not exist, or has died, or has migrated permanently, and cancelled their cards. This often happened as card holders had not updated the eKYC of the Aadhaar card linked to the ration card.

The Ministry of Consumer Affairs, Food & Public Distribution reports that by the end of 2025, more than 99.9% of ration cards had been linked to the holder’s Aadhaar card. Moreover, more than 98% of transactions had been biometrically authenticated.

But Aadhaar-linking has its own set of issues. Drèze says, “It had created a lot of problems, at least initially. Some people didn't have Aadhaar. Others didn't know how to link their ration card with Aadhaar. Others still were struggling with biometric failures or discrepancies in the spelling of their names between the ration card and Aadhaar, and so on.” 

The mandate also required the ration card holders to submit their biometric information while accessing food grains, to help keep track of the beneficiaries by linking to their Aadhaar data. For this, they had to submit their thumbprints. Some states have also started offering face authentication, recently.

Crucially, for some people, the biometrics do not work because of wear and tear of fingers–which could be due to manual labour or age. Another persistent problem, says Drèze, is that the government keeps redesigning the system. Adding retina and face scanning is a recent example of this; such changes create a new set of teething problems each time. He suggests that a simpler and lasting system, like smart cards, might have worked better.

Technical snags can also hold up ration. For instance, Shelar found that a glitch caused his Aadhaar card to be linked to another family’s ration card. His was one among ten to twelve cases of such incorrect linking that they came across. Some were within the city or state, and some across the state.

Shelar explains, “If someone goes to get ration, the shopkeeper just looks at the Aadhaar card, puts in the number, and gives the ration. They don’t verify whether your name belongs in that family’s card. They see that you are entitled to receive ration, and give it. So, one person gets double the ration, and another person goes hungry.”

Digitisation has also produced a new kind of middlemen: agents who charge for addition or deletion of names, or to update the eKYC.

In a 2021 report, Karthik Muralidharan, Paul Niehaus, and Sandip Sukhtankar showed that Aadhaar-linkage has reduced some forms of leakage–biometric authentication is one such means–but whether the user has benefitted meaningfully from this depends on protocols and implementation. For instance, biometric authentication may be useful to prevent identity frauds, but does not prevent the dealer from giving less ration. Some of the suggestions the authors make include having safeguards against exclusion with offline alternatives, and prioritising the end-user experience rather than financial savings. This reflects the opinion of social workers who believe that digitisation measures have made the beneficiary experience more tedious.

Digitisation has also produced a new kind of middlemen: agents who charge for addition or deletion of names, or to update the eKYC. Ajay Borkar of YUVA, who works in Panvel, has found that ration officers themselves direct people to agents who charge up to Rs. 10,000 to get a new ration card, which should cost Rs.90. Moreover, Panvel is a city where many struggle with digital literacy, says Borkar. He explains that digitisation has allowed people to add or delete names online, adding that the verification request has to be approved by the ration officers, who are prone to do this more urgently if it is filed by an agent. Otherwise, they may keep the applicant waiting for months. With red tape all around, it doesn’t help that the ration office itself has poor bandwidth, delaying the process.

The NFSA has brought much needed reforms. Leakage percentages have dropped significantly. But the everyday experience of the beneficiaries shows there are gaps that need to be plugged, so that people can truly avail of their right to food. As Shelar says, “It is our right. They are not giving us alms.”

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

Artwork by Alia Sinha

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In Gudalur, a misty mountain town in Tamil Nadu’s Nilgiri district, the Kattunayakan tribe looks forward to the period from April through August. To them, these months denote venturing deep into forests, to carry on an age-old practice of honey gathering. It’s hard work—the tribe must gear themselves physically and mentally for their sojourn in the wilderness.

The Kattunayakan honey harvesters are adept at predicting from the ground level whether a hive 60-80 feet up in a tree contains honey. This shrewdness helps them assess whether the climb is worth it. While harvesters keep one eye on the task at hand, their other is on the lookout for bears and elephants. Their children stand beside them to watch and learn. 

It is said that on a honey-harvesting trip, the only things the Kattunayakans carry with them are a knife, the items needed for the puja, rice to eat and a tin for the honey.

Call them ‘honey hunters’ and they don’t like it. They prefer being referred to as ‘honey harvesters’: they wait for the right time, when taking the honey will cause the least harm to the bees and their young inside. 

There is a sacredness to the process of gathering the honey. Before the tribe can venture into the forest, a puja (religious ceremony) is performed. The goal is to seek the protection and blessings of their ancestors and the spirits of the forest. This is followed by asking for pardon from the bees, and giving them thanks. It is said that on a honey-harvesting trip, the only things the Kattunayakans carry with them are a knife, the items needed for the puja, rice to eat and a tin for the honey.

The ‘third’ share, and a pact with nature

“At the centre, we weigh the collected honey and check that its quality is good, with a particular focus on the presence of dust or any other contaminants,” says Jaya M. After this initial check, the honey is sent to a Food Safety and Standards Authority of India (FSSAI) lab. The centre she refers to is the Ippimala Third Share Collection Centre in Srimadurai, also located in Gudalur. In the last season, she says they managed to collect 3,000 kg of wild honey—a bountiful harvest by the tribe’s standards. Jaya, who is 57, has been a staff member with the Action for Community Organisation, Rehabilitation and Development (ACCORD)—the implementation partner of Ippimala Third Share Producer Company—since 1995. She has always marvelled at the deep reverence that Adivasi communities like the Kattunayakans harbour towards nature. Today, this marvel is mixed with relief that they are finally being fairly compensated for their efforts. The inflection point, she observes, was the inception of the Ippimala Third Share Producer Company in February 2025. 

It is owned and governed by its producer-members who are organised into village producer groups. It now comprises 886 farmers from 106 villages. Aside from honey, it collects coffee, honey, pepper and tea directly from producer-members’ homes. Produce is weighed on the spot, so producers carry no transport costs or deductions. Prices are set against newspaper-listed market rates rather than the inferior offers made by traders. This way, no one can coerce them into settling for a lower rate, explains Stan Thekaekara, the co-founder of ACCORD. Honey prices are agreed upon with the producers before each season. Since the company is owned by the Adivasis, all profits belong to them as shareholders.

The establishment of this model rested on a dual purpose: to enhance market access for producer-members, and to bring in a shorter value chain to ensure self-reliance for the Gudalur tribes. The past they were accustomed to involved selling produce to the buyers they could seek out, and often getting cheated in the process. “We wanted to give them bargaining power in a market economy,” says Thekaekara. “The idea evolved from wanting to help the Adivasis become part of mainstream society on their own terms—in a way that they would not be subjected to exploitation by local landowners or employers.”

The establishment of this model rested on a dual purpose: to enhance market access for producer-members, and to bring in a shorter value chain to ensure self-reliance for the Gudalur tribes.

Since honey harvesting is the primary source of income for the Kuttanayakans, the conception of a small honey collective was proposed a decade ago. “That led to people saying, why don't we do the same thing for coffee, tea and pepper harvested by the Paniyas, Kattunayakans, Bettakurumbas and Mullukurumbas (all of which are classified as Particularly Vulnerable Tribal Groups)? That’s when we launched ‘Ippimala’ and created the Third Share brand,” he explains. 

The mention of the ‘third share’ in the company’s name stands for a promise that the Kattunayakans made long ago to the forest: they have an unsaid but consistently honoured pact with the bears of the forest, to leave behind the beeswax for them to lick. In this way, the first share (the beeswax) is for nature. The second share is for the people who depend on nature, such as the children who will consume the honey. And the third share is made available to the consumer. 

Also read: In Bundelkhand, century-old ties with mahua trees are being severed

Reclaiming the forest

‘Ippi. Ippi.’ Growing up, 29-year-old Madhu M. would often exclaim the word when startled. It’s a common expression among the Paniya tribe, to which he belongs. Loosely translated, it means ‘Oh gosh!’. The reasons for Madhu’s startle could be: a snake in the forest; tripping on a twig; or spotting something really beautiful. After all, the forests of Gudalur are home to a kaleidoscope of diverse flora.

The name Ippimala takes from this word/expression. Mala means mountain. Thekaekara adds, “The Paniyas were happy with us using the term, because they don’t want their children to forget it. ‘Ippimala’ is a way of making it permanent.”

The deep-rooted, ancestral ties of the Gudalur tribes to nature were disrupted during colonial times. The Indian Forest Act of 1865 allowed the British Government to establish state control over forest resources. Control was fortified by the Indian Forest Act of 1878, which commercialised timber extraction and restricted local community access. Thekaekara says the Wild Life (Protection) Act of 1972, which banned the hunting of wild animals, further drew firm boundaries around the forest and the rights of Adivasi communities. They continued to be displaced and disenfranchised: cut off from the forest physically and culturally, and no longer free to act upon the forest that was theirs. 

How the profit is shared is decided by the Board at the time; it could be paid as a percentage of profits, or in proportion to the produce each producer supplied through the company.

“They lost easy access to its resources and to the places that mattered to them. These limits grew over the years. In 2007, Mudumalai was declared a Tiger Reserve, and access to the forest was curtailed even further,” he explains. Mudumalai, which borders Gudalur, had been a sanctuary since 1940. After it was declared as a tiger reserve, the families living in the region— Kattunayakans and Paniyas among them — were relocated in phases.

“This changed their food, their access to forest resources and their cultural spaces.” Thekaekara also adds that the Forest Rights Act of 2006 “brought a real improvement.”

He explains, “For the first time, their rights to the forest were recognised again. It helped communities regain some of what they had lost, such as honey collection and other non-timber forest produce, but not all of it. The change is still in progress.”

But during colonial times, the stress on the forests meant the Paniyas were reduced to bonded labourers; the tribes were considered encroachers on land which was once their own. They were pushed to the margins of society. 

The Ippimala Third Share Producer Company builds on ACCORD’s foundational work in the representation of Gudalur’s tribes and their rights. Padmini, a 42-year-old farmer from the Bettakurumba tribe, says the biggest boon is no longer having to scout for buyers for their products. “Previously, we had to take our produce to the market. Now, after picking and drying the cherries, we inform the company, and they send their personnel to our doorsteps, along with a weighing machine, so we can weigh our produce and are paid the amount against the weight. The amount is Rs. 10 higher than the market price,” she shares. 

Beyond the improvement in convenience, the access to broader markets beyond the forest has been a boon. The farmers’ trust in Ippimala has deepened because of the transparency of its workings. “The good part is that the people of the community are involved in every step,” Madhu shares. Every producer is a shareholding member of a producer group, and each group is a shareholder of the Producer Company. Directors are chosen from among the members to represent them on the Board of the company. 

A group's shareholding is based on the number of its members. Each member of a group represents Rs. 1,000 of shareholding, and the shares are issued to the group as a whole, in shares of Rs. 250 each. A group of 10 members holds Rs. 10,000, which is 40 shares of Rs 250. A group of 15 members holds Rs. 15,000, which is 60 shares. A group's stake in the company grows with its growing membership. As in any producer company, all the shareholders are producer groups, so any profit the company makes goes back only to them. How the profit is shared is decided by the Board at the time; it could be paid as a percentage of profits, or in proportion to the produce each producer supplied through the company.

Currently, online sales are facilitated through the company’s website, while offline sales take place at exhibitions and stores in Tamil Nadu and Bengaluru.  

Building an economy of trust

When the idea of a producer company was first pitched, the Adivasi communities were not particularly keen or confident. A troubled history with outsiders was to blame. But, as Subhash Gautam, the CEO of Ippimala Third Share Producer Company shares, trust was earned by following up on promises. “Initially, the community told us that local traders were giving them a comparable price to what we were offering them. And so they did not want to get into this [arrangement]. So we said, ‘If at some point you feel that the market is not paying higher than this, let us know.’ Promptly, within a month, they called us and said that they were not being offered a fair price for bulk orders,” Gautam says. “That’s what led us to set a benchmark price in the market. We saw the producer company as a force that could safeguard the interest of the community.”

However, entering the mainstream market was not without challenges. But Gautam emphasises that they let the products speak for themselves. “In February 2026, the coffee produced by Ippimala Third Share along with Binny Varghese, co-founder of Barista Training Academy which has workshops uniquely crafted for the Indian coffee industry, secured the third position at the India International Coffee Festival in Bengaluru. That has helped boost sales. Then there’s also the fact that the coffee market is slowly growing; there is space for experimentation, people are willing to try new flavours, tastes and lots from different regions.” 

While coffee has been a space for experimentation, tea remains mired in hurdles. 

Thekaekara, who moved to the region in 1984 with his wife Mari–both driven by a deep commitment to the well-being of Adivasi communities–says, “We found that all the Adivasis, except the Mullukurumbas, had lost their land. The members of the other tribes were landless labourers. So we started a successful tribal land rights campaign to help them get the land back. But they only had physical possession, not the title.” Planting tea, the region’s mainstream crop, became a way to change that: as a permanent crop, it served as proof of possession and gave families an income of their own, loosening the landlords’ hold. But, Thekaekara says, “The people who exploited them all these years figured out how to exploit them in a new circumstance by buying the leaf from them.”

But tea is no longer lucrative. Since liberalisation, cheaper imports from countries such as Kenya have undercut Indian tea, and Gudalur’s leaf has become what the trade calls a “filler tea”, used to add strength to blends. Costs have risen while earnings have fallen, and small Adivasi growers are hit hardest. “What they are losing is the independent livelihood that tea was meant to give them,” Thekaekara says. Many young, educated Adivasis now end up as labourers. It was their frustration, and their wish for enterprises of their own, that led to the producer company. Ippimala hopes to make a change, Thekaekara says. “ By bringing together the tea that producers already grow, and by finding new value-added tea products, we hope to raise the income of Adivasi families who have tea farms.”

Also read: The meagre morsels swallowed by Assam’s tea workers

No place for middlemen

A community-owned model is not new to India, Gautam reasons. Brands have implemented them, with success. “The question is whether the farmers and the producers are benefiting from being shareholders, and whether that benefit can be generated by going up the value chain.” At Ippimala, benefit is viewed through a dual lens: the company benefits farmers by collecting produce directly from their homes, ensuring accurate weighing and eliminating transport costs and other deductions. For coffee, this approach alone enabled them to pay Rs. 8–10 more per kilo. The second benefit is that the company returns profits to farmers through in-kind support, including farming tools, baskets and tarpaulins for drying coffee. However, the most significant benefit lies in farmers’ ownership of the enterprise, allowing them to share in its success rather than remain dependent on middlemen, Gautam shares. 

The question is whether the farmers and the producers are benefiting from being shareholders, and whether that benefit can be generated by going up the value chain

For a moment, we pan our gaze to the Paniyas of Wayanad. Despite being promised compensation under the Forest Rights Act, 2006 (FRA), which aimed to redress historical injustice against tribals and forest dwellers, a 2017 report from Current Conservation records that in fact, they weren’t thrilled—and viewed it as ‘a piece of paper’ since they felt community rights were not vested. Another recent study explores how the economic life of the Paniya community in Wayanad has historically revolved around the vallippani system, where workers received valli (paddy) as payment instead of cash. This barter system entrenched subsistence and dependency, forming part of a trifecta of trauma marked by economic exploitation, social marginalisation and generational poverty.  

The harsh realities faced by Paniyas in other areas explains why the community in Gudalur may have been mistrustful of any new models. But Gautam credits their works and investment in the area; this includes the setting up of the Gudalur Adivasi Hospital and community health programme (ASHWINI), and the Vidyodaya School and village education programmes.

Also read: This women-run milk cooperative transformed a Kumaon village

They see their futures in the forest

In urban India, it is believed that forest communities live life at a slower pace, but that is far from the truth. Padmini wakes up with the sun. “The first thing we do after waking up is cook. After that, we collect water on days when it is available. Then we go to work at the self-help group (SHG) where we make lantana elephants (hand-crafted Asian elephant sculptures made from Lantana camara, an invasive flowering shrub), which are then sold. We work in the forest until 6 pm and then return home to cook again,” she shares. She adds that after sundown, they stay indoors, for fear of wild animal attacks. 

Padmini adds that while the forest always provides, the quality of its produce is dictated by a number of variables. “In the case of coffee, if the area receives adequate rain before flowering season, only then will the crop be good. If it doesn’t rain at the right time, we don’t expect anything! It’s the same with cherries. Where we could have harvested 2 kilos of coffee, there is a chance of earning only 1 kilo, if there’s no rain.”

Madhu, who also works in the forest, grows sentimental each time he enters it, as he recalls the stories his parents told him as a child. “In those days, we depended on the forests for food and most of our daily needs. We rarely needed to buy anything from markets. I feel fortunate to have grown up with such a close connection to the forest,” he says. In his stories are strands of shared memories across the tribal communities of Gudalur, who can now envision a new future in a mighty but familiar forest. 

Edited by Anushka Mukherjee and Neerja Deodhar

Cover image by Gokul Gopi

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On a hot, humid day in September, the monsoon has enveloped the mountains and trees in Madhya Pradesh’s Chhatarpur district in a veil of green. After a bumpy climb up a mountain, the road to the village of Pathapur unfurls in an expanse of grassland and forest. Even through the heat-induced haze, the grey-brown-barked, wide-canopied mahua (Indian butter tree) is impossible to miss: rising like a sentinel from the tall grass, its crown and branches outstretched to the sky, the tree marks the landscape long before Pathapur comes into view. 

This is not a sight unique to Chhatarpur. Mahua is a familiar presence across Central and Eastern India, where it is native. The deciduous tree is particularly abundant in the forest belts of southern Chhatarpur and eastern Panna (an adjoining district in Madhya Pradesh), which are home to the Panna Tiger Reserve, a critical wildlife sanctuary. 

Even if you do not catch sight of the tree, you’re likely to encounter the fragrance of its flowers wafting towards you from a few feet away.

Even if you do not catch sight of the tree, you’re likely to encounter the fragrance of its flowers wafting towards you from a few feet away. During its flowering season, from March to April, it sheds most of its foliage, and blooms with fleshy, cream-white to pale gold blossoms clustered densely on bare or newly sprouting branches. These scatter to the ground overnight, filling the air with a honeyed sweetness. The flowers are collected at dawn, if langurs, monkeys, fruit bats and parakeets don’t get to them first. The early bird catches the shower of mahua petals. The tree then bears fruit between May and June. 

Mahua (Madhuca longifolia) has been likened to Central India’s kalpavriksha—the tree of life omnipresent in the livelihoods and culture of the Adivasi communities here, including the Gonds, Baigas, Murias, Mundas and Santhals. For them, mhowga (the consonants always softened in Bundeli) is not simply a tree. Nearly every part of it is sold, consumed or revered: its flowers are food and a source of income; its fruit is eaten and seeds are pressed for oil; its bark has medicinal properties; and the tree itself is woven into rituals, worship and everyday life.  

This age-old relationship now hangs in the balance, as fear, rage and uncertainty loom large over Chhatarpur. Fourteen of its villages will be submerged over the next 8 years for the Ken-Betwa Link Project (KBLP). This controversial project, which was first proposed in 1995, has been pitched as a solution for water-stressed Bundelkhand which will reportedly transfer ‘surplus’ amounts of water from the Ken into the Betwa. These rivers are vital arteries of the region, and eventually drain into the Yamuna. Hydrologists have contested the effectiveness of the project and have pointed out its massive costs to ecology and local communities. 

The ongoing story of imminent displacement in Chhatarpur and other districts like it is a tragic story of the disruption of ancestral livelihoods, and the loss of a kinship with this region’s land and forests, for trees like the mahua have sustained entire communities for centuries. 

The infamous tree keeps bellies full

The census village of Pathapur, comprising almost entirely of the Adivasi Gond community, has neither piped gas nor water connections. Timber collected from the surrounding forests is sold and used as cooking fuel. Residual rainwater from the previous night’s downpour sluices off roofs fashioned from handmade flat bricks and tiles called khaprail.

This age-old relationship now hangs in the balance, as fear, rage and uncertainty loom large over Chhatarpur.

In the absence of roads, the women make their way through the slush with ease and gather at the chabutara—a raised platform built under a massive banyan tree—where villagers meet to worship, rest and discuss public matters. Today, they are visibly worried. “Jungle mein hamare paas sab kuch hai, didi. Mhowga hai, charwa hai. Ab yahan se bhag jaayen, toh kaa karenge batao?” (The jungle gives us everything we need and more. Mahua and chironji trees are plentiful. If we are forced to flee, what will we do?)

Outside tribal hamlets, mahua is perhaps best known for the eponymously named liquor brewed from its flowers. Until the late 1800s, the tree was considered as produce from the commons, and indigenous forest communities like the Gonds, Baigas, Bhils and Santhals were free to collect and store it. It was after the advent of the British that the tree was seen as a threat to public health and morality. The State deemed mahua to be a dangerously intoxicating ‘country liquor’ and imposed a crackdown on not only the spirit’s distillation, but also how and in what amount the tree’s produce could be harvested. The British Raj had a second ulterior motive hidden under the guise of what was ‘civilised’—to monopolise alcohol revenue and mahua trade. Criminalised at home, it began to be shipped to Europe.  

While its colonial associations with infamy linger, the space it holds in the communities we met is very different. For generations, mahua has been lovingly harvested and ritually conserved in Madhya Pradesh. “In the month of Chaitra (March-April), we get up early and carry our baskets to the forest. We have to act fast, because the flowers start cascading at dawn. On a good day, we are able to bring back a few kilos,” Gyaan Rani, a woman in her 30s, says. “We did not plant these trees, we inherited them from our parents and grandparents. They are at least 150-200 years old. This is our peoples’ work, and our ancestors have been doing this for as long as we can remember,” she adds.

We did not plant these trees, we inherited them from our parents and grandparents. They are at least 150-200 years old.

Over 75 lakh Adivasi people are engaged in the trade of mahua, which is classified as a minor forest produce (MFP). Pathapur is surrounded by forest land, and its people rely on the adjacent village of Kharyani for land ownership and farming rights. They sow a variety of crops, including wheat, chana, urad dal, arhar dal, sesame and mustard. Ordinarily, they sell the mahua flowers to local traders for Rs. 150–200 a kilo, earning each household a few lakhs over the season. Most flowers are sold to intermediary traders who aggregate the mahua and take it onward to larger markets, for distilling into local wines and alcohol. These earnings enable them to prepare their fields for the kharif season, and pool savings for important occasions like a birth or a forthcoming marriage. 

News of the displacement has come as a shock to Pathapur. Chand Rani, who is only in her 50s, but who appears to be a village matriarch, has been rocking her grandchild, quiet all this time. A question about whether they have been compensated as is required under Right to Fair Compensation and Transparency in Land Acquisition, Rehabilitation and Resettlement Act, 2013 sets her off. Until 2025, she alleges the villagers had only been notified of Kharyani going underwater. “We were devastated that our fields would be washed away, but also relieved that our forests, at least, would not be taken from us.” That relief was short-lived; a few months ago, she claims, officials arrived at Pathapur to notify them that it, too, would be taken over by the government. The result is that multiple sources of income have been shorn simultaneously, with the people left to unsuccessfully seek recourse at the nearest panchayat of Kupi, which is 25 km away.

From being rooted, to rootless

Mahua has tided communities over during long famines and droughts. Historian Vinita Damodaran writes about what was once the Chotanagpur plateau (modern-day Jharkhand, Chhatisgarh, Bihar, Odisha and West Bengal): “Not only were the fruits made use of as articles of food, but the fleshy corolla constituted a staple article of diet for the poor for several months of the year.”

Many people sought refuge in Panna district’s Tara village after their homes were bulldozed in Dondi, Khamri, Marha, Majhauli, Koni, Kathari Bilhata, Gahdara and Kudan. Their land has been reportedly acquired as compensatory afforestation for the near 8000 hectares of the Panna Tiger Reserve’s core and buffer zones which will be swallowed by the dam.

It is part of the food reserve that allows households to ride out a bad harvest—the dependable friend who never leaves your side.

These displaced individuals reminisce about the many gifts bestowed upon them by the forests that surrounded their villages. Mahua is never absent during conversations like these. It is part of the food reserve that allows households to ride out a bad harvest—the dependable friend who never leaves your side. “Temperamental monsoons and pest attacks would dramatically influence crop yields during some years,” says Harbai Adivasi, a 56-year old Gond woman from Gahdara. “We would always make sure to stock up on mahua produce. Boiled flowers and gulli [seeds] would fill our bellies during these times,” she adds. 

Unripe mahua fruits are sauteed and eaten as a vegetable. Their seeds are pressed to extract oil, used for cooking and lighting lamps, and to relieve aches and illnesses. The flowers are also mixed with wheat, jowar and rice flour to make chapatis, puris and porridges. The women talk over each other, rattling off a long list, and yet the many uses of the miracle-tree don’t end.

Mahua trees have outlived generations of people who depended on them, making the loss of a tree difficult to measure in the language of compensation. For them, neither is the KBLP an abstract water-transfer scheme, nor their relationship with the forests quantifiable on the yardstick of ‘dependence.’ 

Mahua reproduces naturally, its seeds easily dispersed by the wind, birds and insects. However, it takes nearly three decades for a newly planted tree to bear its first flowers. For this reason, trees usually remain rooted to their native clusters, and cannot be easily transplanted elsewhere. “What use will it be by then? We’ll already have been forced to migrate to a city or become daily wage earners. The trees gave us so much, and it is now in this foreign land that we feel their absence more,” says Pirwa Rani, a 27-year old Gond woman from Gahdara. 

“Our forest is our god”

Back under the banyan in Pathapur, the women light up when I ask to see the mahua flowers. They bring large fistfuls of the blossoms and chironji (Buchanania lanzan)—another important forest produce, used as a dry fruit in traditional Indian sweets like kheer and halwa. The mahua flowers, sun-dried and shrunken in size, are velvety and have a faint, heady aroma. Gyaan Rani chuckles and swats my hand away when I try to taste one “Arre, you can’t eat them right now! We still need to roast them to preserve and use them further.”

We go into the forests and pray to the mahua and chironji trees on this day. We also pray to our cows and buffaloes. These are our providers, our gods

Chand Rani, who was, until a half hour ago, in the vulture grip of a fever, energetically starts pounding the chironji with a large rock. The dried purple-black shells split open to reveal tiny seeds which taste mildly nutty. Our profuse requests asking them to stop feeding us are only met with a “Kha lo beta, Amma ke haath ka phir kab milega?” (Eat to your heart’s content, when else will you get to eat something made by an old woman like me?) “This is the snack we crush and pop into our mouths whenever us ladies gather. Our hands are used to the rhythm now!” Chand Rani adds. The traditional Gondi godna on their hands—tattoos which depict different flowers, plants and animals–catch my eye. 

Forest produce like mahua and chironji routinely find their way into Gond festivities. One such Bundelkhandi festival is Halchhat, celebrated two days before Janmashtami. “We go into the forests and pray to the mahua and chironji trees on this day. We also pray to our cows and buffaloes. These are our providers, our gods,” Mugdha Rani, 46, says.

Pathapur’s women offer us a traditional delicacy prepared on Halchhat called ‘murkha’, made by roasting mahua, chironji, sesame, coconut and ghee, served in a bowl stitched from mahua leaves and twigs. It is deliciously fudgy. In my naivette, I ask whether they used sugar or jaggery. “We don’t keep either in our homes! Mahua is a natural sweetener which we use in everything, from tea to sweets,” Gyaan Rani says with a chuckle.

Mahua is also inextricably tied to other occasions in the ritual calendar—including birth, marriage, death, harvest, village worship and relationships with ancestors. “We offer the first mahua flowers of the season to the forest before venturing inside to forage,” says Sumitra Rani, a 74-year old Gond of Kudan village, Panna. “[The tree] is with us from the time a child is born. When the umbilical cord is cut, we preserve it in mahua [liquor] and then bury it. We also apply the liquor to the newborn’s navel—it acts as an antiseptic and heals the wound. We carry the leaves when we take a marriage proposal to the groom’s house,” she says.  

The forest is also the place where all the women from the village used to gather and rest after a long day in the fields. “While keeping a look out for wild animals, of course!” Sumitra Rani adds. “We don’t know if we’ll ever be able to go back to our forests again. I don’t want to accept that that was the last time.” 

In a bid to protect the status of mahua as an indigenous tree, the Madhya Pradesh government declared it a ‘heritage liquor’ in 2021. Modern brands, chefs and entrepreneurs are reinventing it—incorporating it into cocktails, foods and deserts, or positioning it as an ‘artisanal superfood’ and premium craft spirit. But for Adivasi communities, the problem is increasingly more basic: access. Across mahua-growing regions, collectors who need immediate cash or lack storage infrastructure and access to markets can be forced to sell their harvest cheaply, only to buy the same flowers back later at a higher price. 

The forest has nourished us like her children. We don’t have to buy anything except salt and the clothes on our backs.

Adivasis have historically had to give up their land to make space for the industrial development nexus, from dams to mining projects. What does it mean for an ingredient rooted in Adivasi economies and labour to become more valuable elsewhere while the people who have sustained those traditions are increasingly unable to reach it? The threat to the mahua and the communities it nourishes is manifold. One of these threats is that climate extremes are accelerating—such as untimely rains which rot the delicate flowers, or temperature variations which alter its phenology (flowering schedule). 

Gyaan Rani grows misty-eyed as she shares how, amid the hardship of having to collect water and firewood every single day, they feel most themselves in the forests. They have already had to bid goodbye to the homes of their birth in another village. Does another separation await them? This time from the forest that has raised them, fed them and held their lives in its fold? “Mahua-charwa mein hi palat rahe hai didi. Namak aur kapda, bas itna hi khareedna padta hai. Yahan azaad lagta hai. Sheher mein mar jaayenge.” (The forest has nourished us like her children. We don’t have to buy anything except salt and the clothes on our backs. This is where we feel free—we won’t be able to survive in the city.) 

Additional edits by Aathira Konikkara

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Winter is fast approaching, and rising air pollution levels are a significant concern across India during this time. In December 2025, Delhi experienced an Air Quality Index (AQI) of 433 (out of 500), exposing its population to ‘severe’ air quality and placing it among the top 10 most polluted cities in the world. Other Indian cities were not far behind in terms of chronic air pollution. 

While the impacts of air pollution are often discussed in the context of the alarming morbidity associated with it and its effects on overall health and wellbeing, another major public health concern lurks in the shadows—anaemia. 

A deeper understanding of this has emerged recently. In a 2025 study published in Environmental Research: Health, global researchers examined the association between long-term AQI exposure and anaemia: they combined the air pollution data for key pollutants such as PM2.5 (fine particulate matter that measures about 30 times less than human hair), nitrogen dioxide and ozone, and stacked it up against the recorded cases of anaemia in Indian women. The researchers found that long-term exposure to multiple air pollutants was associated with higher anaemia prevalence among Indian women of reproductive age (15-49 years). AQIs are communicated on a scale of 0 to 500, and based on data from the National Family Health Survey, NFHS-4 (2015-16), the research revealed that for every 10-unit increase in AQI levels, anaemia prevalence increased by 5.2% among Indian women of reproductive age. 

Other studies have also established associations between ambient PM2.5 pollution and anaemia prevalence in Indian children (less than five years of age), as well as the impacts of indoor air pollution and anaemia among pregnant women in India.

A cursory search on why anaemia is so widespread in India will point to menstrual health nutritional gaps and plant-based diets as reasons. While these are crucial factors to consider, the recent interest within the research community to broaden the discourse on anaemia highlights that there is more to the blood disorder than meets the eye. Or, in this case, the iron. 

A long battle  

A medical condition caused by a shortage of red blood cells (RBCs) or haemoglobin (iron-rich protein inside the RBCs) in the body, anaemia can be the result of a deficiency of iron (iron-deficiency anaemia) or of vitamins and minerals such as B12, folic acid, copper and zinc (vitamin-deficiency anaemia); a breakdown of RBCs faster than the body can replace them (haemolytic anaemia); the body’s inability to produce enough RBCs to begin with (aplastic anaemia). Inherited blood disorders such as sickle cell disease and thalassaemia also lead to anaemia. While iron deficiency anaemia is often considered to be the most widespread cause, studies have shown otherwise. A venous-blood analysis (diagnostic procedure wherein blood is drawn from the vein) of populations across eight Indian states revealed that iron-deficiency was associated with less than a third of the anaemia prevalence with varying proportions across demographic groups. 

There is more to the blood disorder than meets the eye. Or, in this case, the iron. 

Anaemia impacts oxygen delivery to various tissues in the body. Short-term symptoms include fatigue and shortness of breath, but over time, it can cause cardiovascular, respiratory and neurological complications, and affect maternal as well as fetal health. According to the Institute for Health Metrics and Evaluation, University of Washington, dietary iron deficiency is among the top 10 causes of death and disability combined, across age groups in India. 

India’s battle against anaemia–a long and complicated one–began with the National Nutritional Anaemia Prophylaxis Programme (NNAPP) in 1970. Over the decades, the government has introduced various other programmes, each time modifying beneficiary groups and altering the dose of iron and folic acid (IFA) supplemented through these interventions. In 2018, a broader approach to combating anaemia was initiated with the Anaemia Mukt Bharat (Anaemia Free India, AMB) programme that introduced a 6x6x6 strategy–six beneficiary groups, six interventions and six institutional mechanisms to implement and monitor the progress. 

Beyond IFA supplementation and building awareness about dietary diversity, the AMB programme also emphasises the need to monitor and screen non-nutritional causes of anaemia, including malaria, fluorosis and haemoglobinopathies. These conditions impact the structure and production of RBCs. 

In June 2026, the Union Health Ministry added a seventh pillar to the programme and launched the 7x7x7 strategy; ‘low birth-weight babies’ was added as a beneficiary group, along with the intervention of ‘eating right’ and the institutional provision of digital monitoring of anaemia.

On paper, it looks like India’s battle with anaemia has intensified with time. As reported by NFHS-4 & NFHS-5 (2019-21), anaemia continues to affect more than half of Indian women, adolescent girls and children (aged 6-59 months). India registered a decrease in anaemia percentage between NFHS-3 (2005-06) and NFHS-4. However, NFHS-5 data registered an increase in anaemia prevalence across demographics. The most recent survey, NFHS-6 (2023-24), excluded anaemia from the list of parameters measured, owing to concerns about the testing methodology. 

It might be time for India to look beyond the plate to find answers for its anaemia conundrums.

A 2022 research paper on the challenges faced by India in combating anaemia aptly summarises the state of affairs: “Over 50 years of national policy on anaemia can be best described as shooting shadows, with overemphasis on food fortification and IFA supplementation and little heed to the complexity surrounding the incidence of anaemia.”

It might be time for India to look beyond the plate to find answers for its anaemia conundrums. 

Also read: The meagre morsels swallowed by Assam’s tea workers

Where does the environment fit in this puzzle?  

“Anaemia is a complex public-health problem and cannot be attributed to a single factor,” says Dr. Sagnik Dey, Professor, Centre for Atmospheric Sciences, Indian Institute of Technology, Delhi. Dey is also one of the co-authors of the air pollution and anaemia study. “Nutritional deficiencies, infections, sanitation, socioeconomic conditions, and other factors all contribute to its prevalence. Environmental exposures may represent an additional risk pathway, and therefore they need to be considered alongside these established determinants,” he explains.

Anaemia prevalence increased with higher AQI even within the same AQI category, highlighting the need for a more nuanced look at air quality communication and associated health risks.

While the authors in the paper highlight that the mechanism by which air pollution impacts anaemia is not clear, chronic inflammatory responses due to pollution exposure may have a role to play. It is well-established that during inflammation, the body pushes resources to manage it–RBC production is slowed down and iron availability is restricted in response, leading to an anaemic state. Dey and other researchers also found that anaemia prevalence increased with higher AQI even within the same AQI category, highlighting the need for a more nuanced look at air quality communication and associated health risks.  

The impacts of air pollution on anaemia have gained some attention. Another research study conducted by the International Institute for Population Sciences, Mumbai, reveals the links between desertification and land degradation and anaemia prevalence across 75 districts in India. The study found that 56.2% of women aged 15-49 in desertified districts and 49.8% in degraded districts across India were anaemic. Similar results were also observed for children aged 6-59 months (61.7% in desertified districts and 41.8% in degraded districts), highlighting an association between land desertification/degradation and anaemia. 

“Environmental factors receive little attention in anaemia policy. Our own findings make that gap hard to ignore. Across 75 drought-prone districts, we found that desertification and land degradation were themselves significant, independent predictors of anaemia,” shares Dr. Sayeed Unisa, who is currently a Professor and ICSSR Senior Fellow at the School of Public Health, DY Patil University, Mumbai. Unisa is a co-author of the land degradation study.  

India's anaemia strategy remains almost entirely a health ministry conversation: IFA supplementation and dietary counselling, while land degradation sits with the agriculture and environment ministries.

“India's anaemia strategy remains almost entirely a health ministry conversation: IFA supplementation and dietary counselling, while land degradation sits with the agriculture and environment ministries,” she adds. “The two rarely meet in policy design, largely because the causal chain is indirect: degraded land drives poverty, poor sanitation, reliance on firewood, and heavier workloads for women fetching water and fuel, and it's these downstream effects, not the land itself, that get measured and targeted.” 

For vulnerable populations, like the indigenous communities of India, the interactions with their immediate environments also play a crucial role in the onset of anaemia, as highlighted by the Chiguru Cohort Study. A multidisciplinary study initiated by various research institutions in Karnataka, the Chiguru Cohort primarily aims to understand the impacts of substance use on child growth and development in the indigenous communities of Karnataka’s Chamarajanagar district. However, both maternal health and women’s health parameters are also being monitored in the study. 

In a policy brief published as part of the study, researchers highlight that addressing anaemia in these regions requires aligning relevant programmes with the “geographical realities of forest peripheries.” The brief explains that the remote location of these communities adds challenges such as access to healthcare and anaemia outreach programmes. Another study from the cohort also emphasises the role of culturally appropriate dietary diversity in improving anaemia rates among the community. This includes encouraging and supporting the foraging and cultivation of green leaves such as drumstick, colocasia and amaranthus, as well as wild legumes that are widely consumed by the community members. Additionally, the policy brief and other research articles also highlight the patchy implementation of the Forest Rights Act (FRA), 2006, as an impediment to indigenous communities’ access to forest resources. 

Also read: Mess on my plate: India’s students are fixing their college diets

More studies, more interventions 

Considering the growing evidence on how environmental factors impact anaemia, Dr. Suparna Ghosh-Jerath, programme Head–Nutrition and Food Policy, The George Institute for Global Health, New Delhi, states that a comprehensive assessment of anaemia is vital as we move forward. 

Ghosh-Jerath explains that the AMB, with its ‘Test, Treat, Talk and Track’ approach, recognises the multifactorial aetiology (study of all causes and origins) of anaemia and includes strategies for screening, treatment, management of non-nutritional causes, deworming and behaviour change. However, the very scale of implementation often makes the programme uniform across diverse contexts.  

“Further gains will therefore require a context-specific, localised, and data-driven approach that will assess the relative contribution of factors such as where the affected population lives, how food in the region is cultivated/consumed, prevalence of chronic infection, inflammation or genetic haemoglobin disorder, and the presence or absence of water security and other environmental, socio-economic stressors,” she adds. “All these will aid in a contextual understanding of anaemia and allocation of resources towards the most relevant determinants of anaemia in specific populations and geographies.” 

With the Chiguru study, the researchers found that the prevalence of anaemia was 60% among reproductive women in the region, as opposed to the 46% stated in NFHS-5 data for Chamarajangaar district. While testing methodologies varied between the two analyses, the Chiguru study was able to place these findings in the context of forest-dependent communities for a better understanding of the disorder.

While these frameworks are being built, the researchers also call for some immediate intervention and policy measures to address the high rate of anaemia in Indian populations. Both Ghosh-Jerath and Unisa point to the overlaps between anaemia, soil health, and water security to establish preventive measures.

Bundling iron-folic acid supplementation with watershed and drinking-water schemes in these specific 75 districts would address cause and consequence simultaneously.

“Soil and water conservation works directly on the same pathway that produces anaemia in degraded/desertified districts—poor drinking water, poor sanitation and poor food security. Bundling iron-folic acid supplementation with watershed and drinking-water schemes in these specific 75 districts would address cause and consequence simultaneously,” shares Unisa. 

Dey stresses the need for interventions that focus on reducing exposure to major environmental sources of indoor and outdoor pollution and integrating these measures with existing anaemia control programmes. “From a research perspective, we also need better longitudinal studies to understand the biological mechanisms through which environmental exposures may contribute to anaemia,” he adds. 

Ghosh-Jerath adds that the bottom line is examining the multifactorial aetiology of anaemia through a cross-sectoral lens. “Anaemia may not be solely approached as a nutrition problem. Only food and nutritional supplements may not solve it,” she says. 

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

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In Andhra Pradesh’s Parvathipuram Manyam district, change is afoot. Farmer Arika Ramesh no longer sees his one-acre holding in Kariguda village as a mere cotton field. Foxtail millet, little millet, sorghum, okra, maize and beans punctuate the cotton crop. Horse gram, red gram and black gram fill the spaces between rows. Along the borders, ridge gourd, bitter gourd and bottle gourd climb over supports, while marigolds grow near the fences.

Until three years ago, the same field had little crop diversity. Ramesh, 42, who belongs to the Savara tribal community, was accustomed to growing Bt cotton as a monocrop. Initially, his harvest was seven quintals per acre, but over time, the yield fell while spending on fertilisers and pesticides only increased. “The soil began to feel hard and tight under our feet,” he recalls. “Earlier, it was soft and loose. We were spending more, and harvesting less.”

With the inputs tied to one crop and one buyer, there was little room to plant anything else on the field.

The problem at hand was larger than Bt cotton. For a family growing one crop on rainfed land, a weak harvest meant having no option but to buy more food from the market. Like many farmers in the area, Ramesh sourced his Bt cotton seed and chemical inputs from local dealers and traders, on the condition that he sold his harvest back to them. With the inputs tied to one crop and one buyer, there was little room to plant anything else on the field.

In 2023, Ramesh began changing the way he farmed: cotton was no longer monocropped. Its harvest dwindled to five quintals an acre, against the six to seven quintals in earlier years. But none of these are choices that the farmer mourns or plans to reverse.

Making room for food crops

Since 2023, roughly a hundred farmers in Bhamini Mandal block, many of whom belong to the Savara community, have adopted diversified organic cotton farming techniques, marking a shift from genetically modified seeds, chemical inputs and a dominant cash crop in the region. As part of a project undertaken by a resource support organisation and a national bank’s Corporate Social Responsibility (CSR) arm, Ramesh was among the farmers chosen, and his three-decade-old field was developed as a demonstration farm so that his peers could observe and learn about the underlying approach.

Biddika Lokanadam, a community resource person who works in the Maniga, Bhamini and Burujola panchayats, observed that farmers were more willing to experiment after seeing the results of the approach on another’s field. “When they see different crops growing together, they understand that the field can give them more than one harvest,” Lokanadam, 36, says of farmers accustomed to monocropping. A resident of Boddaguda village, he switched to the diversified organic cotton and encouraged others to adopt the same model. “We saw that the cotton balls were fuller. We also saw honeybees around the farm,” says farmer Biddika Roja (37), who witnessed the demonstrations. “We realised that if we take care of the soil, the soil will take care of our crops.”  

With millets and pulses feeding families like Roja’s and Lokanadam’s, the reliance on market produce decreased, vegetables could be eaten fresh, and any surplus could even be sold locally, incrementally adding to household incomes.

The reliance on market produce decreased, vegetables could be eaten fresh, and any surplus could even be sold locally, incrementally adding to household incomes.

Feeding the soil that feeds us

For Arika Ramesh, the first, most crucial step was restoring the field. Having reduced his dependence on fertilisers and pesticides, he employed compost, crop residues, and farmyard manure instead, as well as organic preparations such as Jeevamrutha and Ghana Jeevamrutha. (Jeevamrutha is a fermented liquid preparation made with cow dung, cow urine and locally available ingredients such as pulse flour and jaggery. Ghana Jeevamrutha is its concentrated solid form.) Both are used to improve soil fertility, promote root growth, and enhance the soil’s water retention.  

The transformation was slow. “Under natural farming methods, you have to keep feeding the soil and wait for it to recover… At the start we did not see much change. It took us nearly two years to return the soil to its former state,” Ramesh says. Planting a diversity of crops was part of the prescribed recovery process. Unlike a field with bare soil between rows of a single crop, the intercrops keep much of the ground covered. Their leaves and stems shade the soil, reducing direct exposure to the sun, and helping slow down moisture loss. The cover also reduces the amount of heat that would otherwise scorch the soil’s surface during periods of hot weather.

After harvesting, crop residues are left behind on the field where possible. They gradually break down and add organic matter to the soil, providing nutrients to the next crop. When used in combination with compost and farmyard manure, this helps improve soil structure and fertility.

This intercropping system is based on symbiotic relationships between different crops, and reduces the need for chemical inputs.

Then came the signs Ramesh could see and feel. “Slowly, the soil turned softer and began to hold moisture better. We saw earthworms again!” He picks up a handful, observing its porosity and the way it crumbles in his hand. “The soil is alive again,” he rejoices.

The pulses and other legumes growing alongside the cotton contribute in another way: through their association with soil bacteria, the rhizobia bacteria in their roots fix atmospheric nitrogen and contribute to nutrient cycling within the cropping system. Their dense foliage also helps cover the soil and can suppress weed growth. “This intercropping system is based on symbiotic relationships between different crops,” says K. Ratnakumari, Assistant Director of the Department of Agriculture in the Palakonda Division (in the same district). “It reduces the need for chemical inputs and helps maintain a healthier soil ecosystem.”

Also read: Why Akkadi Salu, an ancient practice of intercropping ragi, deserves a comeback

More than a harvest

During the six-month cotton cycle (June to December), Ramesh earns approximately Rs. 20,000 to Rs. 25,000 from surplus intercrops. His wife, Sarojini, has noticed this change most clearly in her monthly budget. “Earlier, we’d reserved funds up to Rs. 1,000 so that we could vegetables on a weekly basis,” she says. “Now I just walk onto the field and pick what we need. The vegetables are fresh, and better yet, they come straight from our own soil.” During the months when the vegetables are in season, Ramesh’s household saves roughly Rs. 2,800 to Rs. 4,000 a month.  

This is a far cry from the past, when the entire family’s well-being was tied to one crop. “Previously, cotton was everything to us. It was like white gold. If the cotton did well, we earned, but if it failed, we were staring in the face of a financial crisis.”

The amounts may be modest in comparison to earnings from cotton farming, but the impact they have the lives of women is substantial.

Crop diversification is changing who stands to benefit from the field, too. Women have traditionally undertaken much of the farm labour, while men have enjoyed privileges such as taking decisions about seeds, purchasing inputs, and finally, the sale of the harvested cotton. Today, women are gaining greater control over the earnings in their families. Roja, for instance, has become a familiar, successful presence at the local weekly market. In the 2025 kharif season, she earned about Rs. 16,000 from her sale of vegetables, and another Rs 4,500 from pulses. “I used to depend on my husband for money, but now, I have my own income. I can spend it on household expenses and other needs without having to ask anyone,” she says. The amounts may be modest in comparison to earnings from cotton farming, but the impact they have the lives of women is substantial.

Also read: Tomato truths: Seed saving is serious business

An altered relationship with chemicals

The shift from chemical-based monocropping to diversified intercropping is transforming how some farmers perceive and experience their labour. “After working in the cotton field, my skin would itch and burn,” Kadraka Samvayya says. A 58-year-old resident of Palavalasa village, he now opts for natural solutions and feels more assured about his health and safety.

His experience is echoed among other cotton growers. In a 2005 study of cotton-farming households in three Indian villages, 83.6% of the 323 pesticide exposures recorded were followed by symptoms of poisoning, from mild to severe. The women who mixed the chemicals and refilled spray tanks were as much at risk as those spraying.

In present times, farmers like Samvayya are using leaf-based pest repellents such as Neemastra, which is made by fermenting neem leaves with cow urine, cow dung and water. Such tonics and pastes are prepared locally rather than being purchased from dealers. Similarly, Kashayam--a low-cost herbal input used in natural farming--is made by mixing leaves from 10 plant varieties, including neem, custard apple, castor, papaya, and mango, with cow urine, cow dung, turmeric, ginger and garlic paste.  

Farmer Biddika Somayya, a resident of Kariguda, attests to seeing fewer pests on his farm. “Earlier, we saw many bollworms, especially pink bollworms, but their numbers reduced drastically after we adopted organic techniques and used Neemastra and Kashayam. We have also observed that intercropping helps reduce pest infestations in cotton,” the 42-year-old says.

These changes do not imply that cotton has disappeared from the local farming system. Instead, its role is being altered.

What happens beyond the field?

Whether this approach can gain wider acceptance depends on more factors than individual farmers’ interest and initiative. “Access to suitable non-Genetically Modified (GM) cotton seeds remains a major challenge,” says Uday Kumar Nagubandi, Programme Manager for Sustainable Seed Systems at the Centre for Sustainable Agriculture, Hyderabad. Bt cotton seed, he explains, is only a phone call away: local dealers deliver it to the farmer's door, often along with fertilisers and pesticides. No such form of access exists for non-GM seeds.

Obtaining organic certification can also be difficult for small farmers when the costs have to be borne individually.

More than 96% of India's cotton area is under Bt cotton, the Union Agriculture Ministry told Parliament in 2024. Farmers who want to move away from it must turn to traditional, locally-adapted varieties. These are often better suited to local soils and rainfall, but with the market being taken over by Bt cotton, they are hard to find in the quantities farmers need. Markets pose another challenge: organic production does not automatically fetch a higher price, particularly when farmers sell several different crops in small quantities. “Farmers need buyers who recognise the value of their produce,” Nagubandi says. Obtaining organic certification can also be difficult for small farmers when the costs have to be borne individually.  

For farmers like Arika Ramesh, the challenge now is to keep crop diversification viable through the seasons, amid pressure to return to a single crop that has a pre-established market. Cotton still anchors the farm economy, but its success is increasingly tied to what grows around it and what the soil it is growing in can support. For now, Ramesh remains undeterred. On his field, cotton and food compete less for space, instead growing in a unified farming system.

The aforementioned project on diversified cotton intercropping was undertaken by the Watershed Support Services and Activities Network (WASSAN), in collaboration with HDFC Parivartan. The author is a consultant with WASSAN.

Also read: This women-run milk co-operative transformed a Kumaon village

Edited by Anushka Mukherjee and Neerja Deodhar

Editor's Note: The planet we inherited as children is not the planet we will someday bid goodbye to. The orchestral call of cicadas in the evenings, the coinciding arrival of the monsoon with the start of the school year, and the predictability of natural cycles—things we thought to be unchanging are now at risk. An altered climate, declining biodiversity and warming oceans aren’t distant realities presented in news headlines; they affect us all in seen and unseen ways. In ‘Converging Currents’, marine conservationist and science communicator Phalguni Ranjan explores how the fine threads connecting people and nature are transforming with a changing planet.

There is something very mystical yet mathematically clean about a carbon credit.

Your company emits one metric tonne of carbon dioxide here. Somewhere else, on a different continent, a project claims to prevent, reduce, or remove one tonne. That reduction/removal is measured, verified and issued as a carbon credit, which is then bought and used to offset emissions elsewhere. And the equation is treated as balanced.

But did that reduction/removal really take place? Who checked it? Would it have happened naturally anyway? If the reduction occurred in a forest in India while emissions came from a factory two continents away, who is accountable?

As carbon markets move from a niche mechanism into global climate policy, these questions become critical.

Frameworks and guidelines aside, a carbon credit is only as credible as the claimed reduction behind it: genuinely additional, accurately measured, and not double-counted.

By 2025, 80 emissions trading systems (ETSs) and taxes had been implemented globally, covering 28% of global emissions through a direct carbon pricing mechanism. When the EU launched its ETS (a global first) in 2005, this number hovered at 5%. Even as carbon credit prices dipped last year, entities were willing to pay more for removal to meet year-end compliance goals. The World Bank estimated that over half of global emissions from the power sector and almost half from industries now face a direct carbon price. Reportedly, a carbon credit in 2026 can average €25 to €80 per tonne (roughly ₹2,500 to ₹8,500 per tonne), depending on the type of project and location.  

Recent debates are increasingly about whether traded credits even represent real climate benefits. Article 6 of the Paris Agreement provides a framework for international cooperation to facilitate climate action and mobilise finance, including for developing countries. Subsequent sub-articles govern internationally transferred mitigation outcomes and establish the UN crediting mechanism. But, frameworks and guidelines aside, a carbon credit is only as credible as the claimed reduction behind it: genuinely additional, accurately measured, and not double-counted.

How carbon credits work

For this system to work, a tonne of carbon is taken as a theoretical unit. To issue a credit, a project must establish the quantity of emissions that would have occurred without it. The difference between this hypothetical baseline and the emissions from the project is used to calculate the reduction, for which credits may be issued.

But we can never observe both realities: a world in which the project did not happen, alongside one where it did. We can only estimate or model the former, which makes assumptions and calculations critical here.

This is where additionality becomes important: did this carbon-saving happen because of the project, or would it have happened anyway? Imagine a factory planning to install cleaner technology. If it does so regardless of carbon-credit money, a credit is not creating any climate benefits in this case. However, if the money from credits is what enables or makes the factory switch to cleaner tech, then that reduction may be additional.

A carbon market puts a financial value on greenhouse gas emissions, but buying a credit does not physically erase the buyer’s emissions

There are also two concepts here: a credit and an offset. A carbon credit is a tradable accounting unit representing one tonne of CO₂-equivalent emissions reduced, avoided, or removed. When that credit is ‘retired’ or used to compensate for emissions elsewhere, that’s an offset. Offset-oriented projects can include landfill methane capture, renewable energy, forest conservation, improved cooking technologies and engineered carbon removal.

A carbon market puts a financial value on greenhouse gas emissions, but buying a credit does not physically erase the buyer’s emissions; it offsets it elsewhere to reach a net zero in tally.

Also read: Life with plastic, not all fantastic: The paradox of a transformative material

Overstated benefits?

A 2024 analysis covering one-fifth of the credit volume issued until then (about 1 billion tonnes of CO₂e) found that less than 16% of those credits represented genuine emissions reductions. Even the verification system has a built-in weakness: project developers themselves select and pay the auditors who verify their credits. A 2025 study found that 64% of a prominent carbon credit registry’s certified auditors had been involved in problematic projects where over-crediting had been acknowledged by them, or identified by peer-reviewed research. A different 2026 analysis of 44 REDD+ (Reducing Emissions from Deforestation and Degradation) projects found that the projects had reduced deforestation, but claimed avoided deforestation was 10.7 times higher than independent evaluations supported. Further, a 2024 study conducted by the University of Pennsylvania examined 51 cookstove projects (to replace firewood stoves with clean-burning stoves) across 25 countries (~40% of all issued credits from cookstove methodologies as of 2023), and found that they had been over-credited, receiving roughly 9.2 times more credits than the actual emissions reductions justified.

A project can have meaningful impact on the ground and still generate (or sell) more carbon credits than it actually saves

It is not that carbon projects are ineffective; it’s much more nuanced than that. A project can have meaningful impact on the ground and still generate (or sell) more carbon credits than it actually saves, if the modelling, baselines, and assumptions aren’t robust.

There are also examples where projects have benefitted communities through incoming revenue. The World Bank documents a list of such projects from across Africa where initiatives including recycling, agriculture, biodiversity conservation, REDD+, carbon tax, and solid waste management have provided tangible community benefits while generating credits. Costa Rica, a leader in carbon markets, has established strong benefit-sharing policies so that a measurable part of the revenue from credits reaches local communities.  

Weaknesses and uncertainties

There are inherent weaknesses in any model. Carbon stored in forests can be released by fire, logging, or degradation, undoing achieved carbon removals, creating a problem called non-permanence, while the same reduction could be counted more than once (double-counting). Emissions can also shift elsewhere through leakage, for example, restoring and protecting one patch of the forest might shift deforestation activities to another part.  Cookstoves (vs wood fires) can deliver genuine benefits by reducing household air pollution, fossil-fuel use, and pressure on forests. But benefits depend on what fuel households would otherwise have used, whether the new stove is used, how often, and whether old stoves remain in use.

The UN’s Article 6.4 mechanism, originally drafted in 2015, has been revised over the years to introduce standards addressing additionality, baselines, leakage, validation and verification, while 2025 rules specifically address non-permanence and reversals. A dedicated mechanism registry is also being established to track Article 6.4 units.  

Also read: Fish and seasonality: How year-round demand and extraction hurt our seas 

Accountability vs. the easy way out

There are two types of credits: credits for carbon removal, and credits for emission reduction/avoidance. A company can replace fossil fuels and redesign its production processes to reduce emissions, or it can continue emitting but keep buying credits. Those are not equivalent forms of climate action, and this is where accountability comes in.  

Carbon removals are complementary mechanisms, not justification for continuing emissions that could have been reduced in the first place. Offsetting does not change the fact that an industry released CO₂. What matters is whether it was avoidable, or mitigated, or whether a credit was an easier way out than re-examining industrial processes.  

There is no ‘undo’ button in nature. It makes sense to avoid, reduce, and substitute where possible, and compensate only for genuinely residual emissions.

The IPCC Sixth Assessment Report clearly states, “In addition to deep, rapid, and sustained emission reductions carbon dioxide removal (CDR) can fulfil three different complementary roles globally or at country level: lowering net CO2 or net GHG emissions in the near term; counterbalancing ‘hard-to-abate’ residual emissions...in the mid-term; and achieving net negative CO2 or GHG emissions in the long term…”.  

There is no ‘undo’ button in nature. It makes sense to avoid, reduce, and substitute where possible, and compensate only for genuinely residual emissions.

Carbon markets and the Global South

Carbon markets are being presented as a potentially lucrative new source of finance for the Global South: least-developed countries could generate substantial mitigation from land-based projects, attracting private capital that would then fund conservation, agriculture, and rural development.  

It sounds attractive. Countries could turn their capacity to store or avoid emissions into a tradable economic asset. But revenues reaching countries and communities are modest  compared to bilateral development aid, and baseline amounts required to meet SDGs. Emerging credit-generating infrastructure and land are in the Global South, while credits are ultimately bought by companies in wealthier, higher-emitting countries. There is also an emerging, increasingly murky scenario of unclear and ambiguous benefit-sharing with local communities.  

Does selling credits leave developing countries enough room to meet their own climate goals while still pursuing development?

So, who gets that money? Who controls and benefits from the land and project? Does selling credits leave developing countries enough room to meet their own climate goals while still pursuing development?  

Projects in developing countries can be cheaper because land, labour, and infrastructure may be cheaper, and these countries could use this investment for cleaner infrastructure and sustainable development. Carbon markets can transfer finance across borders, but the arrangement creates a difficult asymmetry. Without strong benefit-sharing, ownership and accountability rules, they risk becoming another market in which value is extracted from here and benefits are claimed elsewhere. This can reproduce an old imbalance in a new form: the Global South supplies the land, labour, and monitoring, while intermediaries capture a substantial share of the value, and the buyer gets the emissions-reduction claim.

And then there is India

India is becoming both a destination for carbon projects, and a carbon market.

The Indian government’s Carbon Credit Trading Scheme is a domestic compliance and offset mechanism, which, officially, has been “notified with the objective of reducing, removing, or avoiding greenhouse gas emissions from the Indian economy by pricing such emissions through the trading of Carbon Credit Certificates (CCC)”.  

India currently has about 50 active carbon farming projects, but a strategy presented as a win-win for farmers might have different ground realities.

India's market is still at an early stage, but the Bureau of Energy Efficiency has approved methodologies covering renewable electricity, hydrogen, industrial energy efficiency, landfill methane, livestock methane and mangrove restoration, among others. India's Carbon Credit Trading Scheme (CCTS) has notified 490 entities across seven energy-intensive sectors and assigned greenhouse-gas intensity targets, but Carbon Credit Certificates are yet to be issued.  

Meanwhile, the country already has extensive experience with voluntary carbon projects where accountability and transparency become greyer, as those projects do not fall under the regulatory framework of governments.  

India currently has about 50 active carbon farming projects, but a strategy presented as a win-win for farmers might have different ground realities. In a 2024 study examining 841 farmers involved in carbon credit projects across seven villages in Haryana and Madhya Pradesh, researchers found that women (4%), small farmers, and marginalised communities were grossly underrepresented. 99% had not received monetary benefits from carbon credits. Some of the agricultural practices being credited also pre-dated the carbon projects, raising additionality concerns.

Then there is the matter of farmers’ benefits: a 2025 study of 500 farmers in Karnataka found financial transparency was the weakest dimension of trust in carbon-credit projects, highlighting concerns around receiving promised revenues.

Additionally, another study of a forest carbon project in Haryana found that participating households, particularly small and marginal farmers, experienced livelihood losses from restrictions on land use, delayed benefits, and foregone benefits from crop, fodder, and fuelwood. Safety nets to mitigate these risks were largely absent.

Also read: In an age of food abundance, why does ‘hidden hunger’ hold India back?

Can carbon credits still do any good?

A carbon project can deliver a genuine climate benefit and support action that might otherwise struggle to attract capital, and there are examples of that. A genuinely additional, high-integrity project would reduce emissions, protect ecosystems and/or deliver social benefits while directing private capital toward mitigation.

Is one credit a moral sanction for high-emission behaviour? What happens when paying for a reduction elsewhere becomes easier than reducing emissions at source?

A credible carbon project requires conservative baselines, demonstrable additionality, transparent monitoring, independent verification, protection against weaknesses, safeguards against double counting, and meaningful benefits for the people living where projects operate: the ten core carbon principles of the Integrity Council for the Voluntary Carbon Market (ICVCM).  

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We live in a world where industries continue emitting while buying carbon credits; people take multiple private jet trips and buy credits without optimising flights; and countries with historically high emissions finance mitigation in ‘poorer’ countries to count towards their own climate claims.  

I’m not sure any of us really imagined this to be an aspect of globalisation.  

Is one credit a moral sanction for high-emission behaviour? What happens when paying for a reduction elsewhere becomes easier than reducing emissions at source?  

Carbon markets are not inherently useless, but they are still flawed. They’re not magical emission erasers, or a ‘tax’ that lets big players turn a blind eye. Neither are credits a band-aid for the planet, nor an assurance to stop holding them accountable.  

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Across India, stakeholders in the food and beverage industry are on their toes in a scenario that has arrived with little notice. The Food Safety and Standards Authority of India (FSSAI), the government body responsible for regulating the production, distribution, storage and sale of food, has been knocking at the doors of businesses, such as e-commerce platforms, to hold them accountable to the rulebook that defines the quality of food in the country. Its series of crackdowns on warehouses have led to the discovery of glaring violations of hygiene basics and other mandated standards to safeguard the health of consumers.

The raids, led by food safety inspectors, have been relentless and unsparing in going after all kinds of establishments. Here are the most noteworthy actions taken by the authority thus far:

“Repurposed” noodles under scanner

When FSSAI officials raided an instant noodles manufacturer’s facility in Rajasthan, they found broken noodles discarded on the factory floor being repurposed for the making of bhujia, a fried snack. The broken noodles were reportedly not subjected to heat treatments necessary to ensure that they were safe for reuse. In addition to violations of hygiene standards, the FSSAI raid also found evidence that the brand was allegedly producing its bhujia variants without requisite licenses. The inspectors revealed that 1925 boxes of expired goods were found at the factory. The brand has now been prohibited from manufacturing certain snacks.

Asafoetida, only in name

The food regulator issued orders to two leading spice brands, prohibiting them from manufacturing compounded asafoetida—hing as it is commonly known in India—on the grounds that the samples were reportedly ‘sub-standard’ and in contravention of provisions under the Food Safety and Standards (Food Products and Food Additives) Regulations, 2011. Raw hing, on its own, has an overpowering smell and flavour. A pinch of the compounded version, a powdered blend of asafoetida with gum arabic as a binding agent and edible flour to reduce pungency, is suitable for cooking. 

Food safety rules mandate that compounded asafoetida must contain a minimum addition of raw hing to prevent dilution. In the notice issued to one of the brands, the FSSAI said that the presence of Alcohol Soluble Extract was 0% as opposed to the prescribed standard of not less than 5%. The alleged violation in the case of another brand manufacturing asafoetida was that the samples were found to contain ‘excess starch’. 

A ban on analogue paneer?

Analogue paneer, a non-dairy product made using vegetable oils, emulsifiers and starches as substitutes for milk solids, has been the subject of authorities’ and the public’s ire for two years now. Food business operators have been found using this as a replacement for authentic paneer, which is entirely composed of dairy. The practice of using analogue or ‘synthetic’ alternatives, which resembles paneer in its texture and appearance but is nowhere close to its nutritional value, has widely drawn censure for misleading consumers.

On 22 September, the FSSAI issued a draft amendment to the FSS Regulations, 2011 “to restrict manufacturing and sale of analogue product as paneer”. If this regulation comes into force, products which are already licensed under “Analogue in Dairy Context” (they replace milk constituents partly or entirely with non-dairy ingredients) will have to discontinue using the word ‘paneer’ in their labeling and marketing.

Also read: Is the paneer on your plate real?

No “100%” claims

The Indian consumer is familiar with catchwords such as ‘100% pure’ being liberally used in the advertising of food products. Brands have declared themselves ‘organic’ or ‘natural’ without facing any interrogation of such claims. This has not been the order of the day in recent weeks. The FSSAI issued an order to a major brand demanding the withdrawal of products marketed with ‘misleading 100% claims’. Absolutist assertions of being ‘100% pure’ or ‘100% tender’ cannot be verified and only serve as a bait to draw in buyers, who are led to believe that they are making choices centering their health. 

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

Front-of-label packaging: look out for red hexagons 

The Supreme Court is presiding over a public interest litigation that demands front-of-pack labelling (FOPL)—prominently displayed labels on the front of food packs, to enable consumers to make informed choices in purchasing packaged food products. 

In an affidavit submitted before the court, the food regulator has proposed displaying a red hexagon with a white background on the front of packaged food containing salt, added sugar, and added fats beyond the recommended levels. Under the proposed system, a product will be obliged to carry this label if any one nutrient of concern exceeds the prescribed limit. The FSSAI has suggested a transition period of one year for brands to bring their packaging protocol in line with the new rules. The court has reserved its verdict on the proposed plan.

Also read: Fine print nation: Do nutrition labels meaningfully inform Indian consumers? 

E-commerce platforms face heat

Five online e-commerce/instant delivery apps have come under the FSSAI’s radar over propagation of “misleading claims”. The action pertained to the display of ‘non-compliant product information’on dates and dairy products. This is not the first time that an e-commerce platform has been at the receiving end of the food regulator’s scrutiny. In July, following several consumer complaints, the FSSAI issued nine notices to a quick commerce app for delivering expired and contaminated food products. According to the food regulator, one complaint pointed out that the app allegedly did not do anything beyond issuing a refund when concerns regarding food quality were raised. 

Curb your (junk) enthusiasm 

The new vigour of enforcing a safer food consumption culture is also making its way to the doorsteps of schools. The FSSAI has proposed the restriction of sales of foods high in salt, sugar and fats within a 50 metre-radius of schools, in a move meant to encourage healthy eating habits among children. If implemented, the rules will not just affect small retailers and food vendors in the vicinity of campuses, but will also impact major brands which produce chips, soft drinks and other junk foods that have a pull on children. The proposal is part of the food regulator’s larger ‘Eat Right’ campaign, aimed at inculcating nutrition-centric consumption behaviour from a young age.

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Artwork by Alia Sinha

Nutrition is often framed as a result of individual choices: eating a balanced meal, consuming more protein-rich food, including more leafy vegetables in one’s diet. But in many societies, including India, the presence of a particular food item in a household does not necessarily mean that every family member has equal access to it. Gender, age and one’s position in the household often determine who eats first, who is served larger portions, and who is expected to sacrifice when food is scarce.

Women frequently eat after other family members, satiate their appetite with leftovers, or reduce their intake so that children and other male relatives have enough to eat—treating their own needs as an afterthought. Women who eat well, demand one more serving, and don’t willingly sacrifice are seen through a lens of shame, making nutritional availability a gendered issue. Worse still, owing to prevalent social/religious beliefs, a menstruating family member may be forbidden from consuming certain nutrient-rich foods, such as eggs. Demanding dietary improvements from women proves futile when the food on their plate is beyond their control.

Demanding dietary improvements from women proves futile when the food on their plate is beyond their control.

The human body is not immune to the impacts of such everyday adjustments and sacrifices. “Nutrition also depends on whether you are having your meals at the right time, in the right quantities, and the way you’re having them—if you’re eating too fast, if you’re having very little of everything, or eating something that barely qualifies as a meal,” says Dr. Kaavya Sreedhar, a Gurgaon-based gynaecologist, currently practicing at Manipal Hospital. Consuming enough calories, in diets dominated by carbohydrates and fats, may not translate into a nutritious meal. When it comes to menstrual health, fullness or satiety is not a guarantee of positive outcomes—especially in urban contexts, where diets include inexpensive, energy-dense ultraprocessed foods, one can consume enough or more calories while still falling short on essential micronutrients. 

UNICEF notes that poor nutrition among adolescent girls and women can have consequences across the course of life and contribute to intergenerational cycles of malnutrition. The National Family Health Survey-5 (2019-2021) found that around 57% of women aged 15-49 in India were anaemic, including 59.1% of those between 15-19 years. This reality is particularly harsh for adolescents, because puberty and menarche—the first menstrual cycle—are accompanied by rapid bodily growth and changes.

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While the NFHS-6 (2023-24) shows a decrease in Body Mass Index (BMI), indicating a rise in malnutrition and undernutrition, the survey has excluded estimates of anaemia along with other significant population-level indicators, including mortality rates and sex ratio. Public health experts have raised concerns about anaemia’s omission, since the NFHS has, in the past, provided critical evidence to assess whether government interventions were effective in tackling iron deficiency. The government cites the inaccuracy of the finger-prick blood testing method used in previous surveys as a reason for the removal of the metric. In a response to Parliament in July this year, the Ministry of Health and Family Welfare said that the Indian Council of Medical Research (ICMR) will provide the replacement data based on blood samples sourced through the venous method (blood drawn from the veins), though it has not publicised a timeline/deadline. 

The National Family Health Survey-5 (2019-2021) found that around 57% of women aged 15-49 in India were anaemic, including 59.1% of those between 15-19 years.

Disconnected policies and outcomes

Various policies, including the Scheme for Adolescent Girls (SAG) and the Rashtriya Kishor Swasthya Karyakram (RKSK), have made considerable progress in improving menstrual hygiene and awareness. The nationwide Menstrual Hygiene Scheme focuses on increasing awareness, enhancing accessibility to sanitary napkins, and promoting sustainable disposal facilities among girls in the age group of 10-19, alongside educating and sensitising school teachers, Auxiliary Nurse Midwives (ANM), Accredited Social Health Activists (ASHA) and Anganwadi workers.

But nutrition becomes a loosely integrated thread within these policies, and this is not for a lack of focused schemes; India has extensive frameworks to address anaemia and malnutrition, including the Anaemia Mukt Bharat and the Weekly Iron Folic Acid Supplementation (WIFS) that has a special emphasis on the menstruating population. India has also successfully implemented programs like Integrated Child Development Services Scheme (ICDS) and Poshan Abhiyan to improve the nutritional goals of school-going children. However, there are no programs linking menstrual health and nutrition. Dr. Sreedhar observes, “Any kind of conversation about nutrition, in and around puberty or menstrual cycle, is completely absent.”

Most menstrual hygiene interventions at the government policy-level assign schools as the sites of action. This approach has made significant progress, but it also excludes girls who are out of school– those who work as child labourers, and those who drop out early due to poverty or early marriage. Dr. Arundati Muralidharan, co-founder of the think tank Menstrual Health Action for Impact (MHAi), explains: “The minute you are out of school, there is no menstrual health or hygiene intervention. For an adult woman, for the next 30 years of your menstruation, you don’t exist unless you are pregnant or have given birth. We fall out of the health system altogether.” 

When household resources are limited, spending on menstrual products, healthcare or nutritious food tends to compete with other essential expenditures. According to NFHS-6 data, the percentage of Indian women in the age group of 15-24, who use ‘hygienic methods of protection’ during periods, has seen a minuscule rise from 77.6% to 79.2%. Food insecurity and menstrual health can reinforce one another as manifestations of existing socioeconomic gaps.

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Expanding the conversation beyond hygiene

India has come a long way in the context of menstrual hygiene, from rolling out a Menstrual Hygiene Scheme in 2011—making it one of the earliest countries to do so across the world—to declaring menstrual health and hygiene as a fundamental right this year. Despite being introduced as an all-inclusive policy, the Menstrual Hygiene Scheme has been limited in its scope and has not been further developed to accommodate the varied needs of the population. Most of these programs proceed to treat malnutrition through a diagnostic approach, which tests and treats the issue through supplements. This often ignores the fact that in India, food is something that is invisibly governed. Further, current awareness programs place the onus of nutritional responsibility on the menstruating individual rather than addressing systemic gaps. 

According to Dr. Karan Babbar, who teaches Economics at the Xavier School of Management, Jamshedpur, “Indian policies have traditionally approached menstrual hygiene, adolescent health, maternal nutrition and anaemia through somewhat different programme structures. There is value in having specialised programmes, but the danger is that we end up with vertical programmes addressing interconnected problems separately.” Thus, envisioning conceptually complementary policies does not guarantee an integrated approach on the ground. These services ought to be presented as a package. 

Most of these programs proceed to treat malnutrition through a diagnostic approach, which tests and treats the issue through supplements.

“A nutrition-sensitive menstrual health approach would recognise that the nutritional needs of a 12-year-old adolescent, a woman in her reproductive years, a pregnant woman and a woman approaching menopause are not identical,” adds Dr. Babbar, whose work lies at the intersection of gender, health and development. 

The way forward

Effective utilisation of the mid-day meal scheme in Anganwadis and schools, by catering to region-specific nutritional needs, can be an effective way to ensure these needs are met, says Dr. Muralidharan. However, this cannot be a substitute for household food security. She notes that nutritional levels can be tracked at the local level with the help of ASHA and Anganwadi workers. Local self-help groups, who are in constant touch with communities, are also helpful sources, as they are involved in grassroots-level implementation of health and nutrition schemes, especially in rural areas. However, it is unrealistic to depend on them to implement a coherent plan without allocating proper time, training, resources and adequate monetary incentives.

A nutrition-sensitive menstrual health approach would recognise that the nutritional needs of a 12-year-old adolescent, a woman in her reproductive years, a pregnant woman and a woman approaching menopause are not identical.

The most efficient way to tackle this issue is to bring together various departments, including Health and Family Welfare, Women and Child Development, and Food and Public Distribution. Until policy gaps are fixed, nutrition will continue to be an overlooked factor in the discussion on menstrual health. 

Also read: Menopause: The seen and unseen toll on women's bodies

Cover Art by Pratik Bhide