Six years ago, gardening came to me as a hobby-in-isolation. In the middle of the COVID-19 pandemic, when the terrace of my apartment building became my haven, the plants I grew there—and their many eccentricities—became my new companions. Now a novice farmer, I still find the process to be rather lonely. On the patch of land I call Simbiosis, my days are spent with farmhand Baban who comes from the village we are situated in. Our conversations are had sometimes in broken (on my part) Marathi, and often, in expressive hand gestures. 

Language barriers aside, some of the solitary nature of this work also stems from being your own boss, colleague and employee. There are days on the farm when I feel, “I’ve got this”, when things go the way I planned for them to. But there are a lot more days that involve me making decisions about things I’m not entirely sure about—things I haven’t done before. While it is a rather daunting exercise, I am constantly reminding myself to keep working the decision-making muscle; it’s the only way it’ll get stronger.

Back in 2020, while I quite enjoyed growing food on my own, I also found myself desperately craving more—more plants to grow, more food to try, more things to learn, and significantly, more people I could share all this with. This was also the social media era when live videos on Instagram were all the rage, and a rare way for people to come together. It was on one such Instagram Live that I came across four women reflecting on food and farming. One among them was Gaytri Bhatia, an environmental analyst and farmer, and steward of Vrindavan Farm in Maharashtra’s Wada. Listening to her speak of seasonality, farming rhythms, and her life at Vrindavan made me feel that she was the one I needed to learn from. 

Friends who help you see your potential

I sent her a cold email, and then another, waiting, hoping and praying she’d chance upon it. I’m so lucky that she did, and a few exchanged emails later, she invited me to come live and learn at Vrindavan. Words I write will never be able to do justice to what those two months meant to me: I got to see the farm run, day after day, to its own pulse. I was entrusted with tending to a patch of marigolds, where I transplanted little saplings, and mulched, and watered. Gaytri even made me carry a bucket of water up to the patch and bring it down for refills multiple times a day for the first week, before letting me know there was access to water very close to the patch—real Mr.-Miyagi-Karate-Kid stuff. 

It was at this farm, under Gaytri’s guidance and mentorship, that I had a vision of the person I want to be: someone who grows their own food, and lives close to thriving fields.

I saw a snake slithering through fields for the first time; ate a papaya so crisp and juicy, I thought it was a melon; and even learnt that pineapples do not, in fact, grow underground. I got to wake up excited about what a new day would bring, and sleep exhausted from the day that was. When asked about why I choose to grow tomatoes, my answer usually is, “Because Gaytri showed me what a good one can taste like”. 

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It feels fitting that I got to celebrate turning 25 at Vrindavan. It was at this farm, under Gaytri’s guidance and mentorship, that I had a vision of the person I want to be: someone who grows their own food, and lives close to thriving fields. Gaytri, who I now consider a friend, was the first person I’d met who made a career out of farming, though it looked more like a way of life than a job—a way of life that felt liveable, and that which you didn’t need to run away from. 

Also read: Tomato truths: Growing your own food is a radical, rewarding thing

Friends who show up and cheer-lead

A few years into Simbiosis, I began to see a very clear shift in my longtime friend groups. I’ve studied in Mumbai all my life, and so most of my friends are the ones I’ve either gone to school, high school, or college with. I’d always been a rather social person, but now, the farm was my top priority on weekends. This meant having to say no to plans, or backing out of them at the last minute, for a lack of energy to see them through.

A distinction appeared among my friends: the real ones showed up and provided support. They may not understand what I do, but they sure can understand me. Such friends will entertain the quirks of your life and vice versa, and you’ll find a way to make the friendship work. The other, secondary circle of people is what I call “party friends”. Say no to going out thrice, and you will not be invited the fourth time. Choosing the farm life made visible to me where I fall for people, and where they, for me.

A distinction appeared among my friends: the real ones showed up and provided support.

Where old friendships may be lost, new ones can be forged. During the early years of my foray into farming, I made an Instagram friend who quickly turned into an important IRL connection—Pranoy Thipaiah, a fifth-generation coffee farmer from Kerehaklu, Chikmagalur in Karnataka. The conversations we had were mainly about the books we were reading, farmers we were inspired by, the things we grew, saw or discovered. Pranoy and I were quite distant in experience but pretty close in age, and so he became a friend first, and a farming friend second. 

Once a student of Biology in Sydney, Pranoy returned to his family estate, unsure about his next steps. He had grown up between Chikmagalur and Bengaluru, but I doubt he saw himself at the estate full-time. As life would have it, his return was timed to India’s latest coffee revolution and the growth of the country’s first specialty coffee chain. Pranoy wondered what it would take to make his family’s coffee available there. He found the answer in post-harvest processing, and fell deep into a rabbit hole, following YouTube videos and reading all that he could find on the subject. He told me about his first few experiments in inflatable kiddie pools—a more ergonomic laboratory than the tanks at the estate.

He was the first to push me to put the tomatoes I was growing up for sale. He’s become a sounding board for ideas and thoughts, someone who gets it without me having to explain or over-explain things. No thought is too wild for Pranoy, no goal unachievable, no produce that doesn’t have value. He is who I turn to when I need some unabashedness. 

Friends who lead by example

While at Vrindavan, I used to dream about being a baker. I’ll grow produce, I’d say to myself, and figure out ways to bake it into bread and cake—a winning formula! I wrote to Smita Sharan of The Good Butter Bakery, whose rustic, no-frills, big-on-flavour breads and cakes looked like they’d come out of a storybook. When Smita put out a call for people to join her team in 2023, I jumped at the opportunity. Having had no real pastry experience or culinary education, I didn’t really have a CV that’d be relevant to this position. So I wrote a long—and in hindsight, cranky—email to her about how I was at an uncomfortable crossroads in life, where what I was doing was not aligned to what I wanted to do, and how I would kill for an opportunity to intern with her.

Choosing the farm life made visible to me where I fall for people, and where they, for me.

The three months I spent at The Good Butter, learning from Smita, her partner Khamir, and their team—becoming a part of their tightly-run ship, and learning how to stand on my feet for over 10 hours a day—turned out to be an invaluable part of my journey. A self-taught baker, Smita used to work in banking HR not too long ago. At 30, she took a break from a life that wasn’t really fulfilling her, burying her head in cookbooks, and her hands in flour. She practiced relentlessly until she was somewhat happy with the cakes, cookies, and breads she was baking, after which she started selling them to the people around her. Her venture grew rather organically, and spread through word of mouth. She and Khamir run a cloud kitchen, focusing solely on the food they’re making. While the production runs on an efficiently organised schedule, the trials and experiments never stop. Smita also is probably the best boss I’ve ever had, albeit for a very short time. A phrase I’d heard her use often was “optimally sweet”, which really is tougher to achieve than you’d think!

With an endless library of books she lends generously, and a decade of knowledge, The Good Butter set the standard of what a small business should look like: developing a great product, maintaining high quality standards, delegating and working in a team. Soon after my time there, I felt equipped with the skills to try doing something of my own, and that’s the first season I grew at Simbiosis. 

Also read: Tomato truths: What this novice farmer learnt and unlearnt about the fruit

No woman is an island

In another life, Gayatri Desai used to work in advertising. She left it behind to go study Culinary Arts at the Northwest Culinary Academy of Vancouver. From there, she’s allowed her travels to be the guiding force behind the food she makes. And as her travels took her to parts unknown, she honed her craft, discovering ingredients, learning techniques, and sharpening her skills. The deeper she explored this labyrinth of food and flavour, the more she realised that the best food is built from the ‘ground up’, which inspired the name of her test kitchen and fermentary.

I am the culmination of things I’ve experienced and learnt, and the people I surround myself with.

Through the years, I’ve spent some time either visiting or helping out in her kitchen. I got to play bartender on the closing night of her first restaurant, and on occasion, supply tomatoes. A tough boss, and a solid friend, she’s shown me how curiosity must be our guiding light. That diving deep is far more rewarding that floating at the surface. She doesn’t seem to know another way, and I’m trying to emulate this philosophy as I chisel this rock called “life” into the shape I desire.

Over the last six years, words that poet John Donne wrote centuries ago make more and more sense to me: “No (wo)man is an island, entire of itself”. I am the culmination of things I’ve experienced and learnt, and the people I surround myself with. Some parts I was born with, and some I’ve borrowed. I’m grateful to share this life with the people I call my friends. They help me, guide me, inspire me, celebrate wins, mourn losses, and push me in their own special ways. 

Also read: Tomato truths: To know your farmer is to know your food

Carousel Photos by Simran Moorjani

Cover illustration by Pearl D'Souza

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The pallu of her sari would shield the milk pail she carried as she made her way to the collection centre. On some days, Manju Bhatt would even put a string of chillies or a piece of coal on the pail’s lid—superstitions many in India still follow, to ward off the evil eye. In Manju’s case, all of these protective measures were meant for her cattle. She laughs sheepishly at this memory as she recalls tiptoeing out of her house with the milk, for fear of her even more conservative mother-in-law.

The house, located in the Futsil village, overlooks the Panchachuli and Nanda Devi peaks and the surrounding pine-covered ridges in Uttarakhand. Spread across just over 2 sq. km, Futsil is a sleepy hill village in Gangolihat—a ridge-top town at an elevation of around 1700 m above sea level, known for its cluster of temples and shrines.

People in many villages in this region were reluctant to sell milk for the longest time. Cattle were reared in nearly every home, and it was acceptable to even sell by-products such as ghee, but milk was only for consumption within the household. “Never to sell,” recalls Manju, now in her late 40s, grinning at how naive that rule seems to her in retrospect. Like much of India, belief here shaped everyday practices: the hesitation to sell milk in this corner of Kumaon is rooted in people’s faith in folk deities like Churmal and Kalsin devta, who are traditionally associated with the protection of livestock. The villagers consider themselves the deities’ descendants.

Manju’s fear, and the cautious defiance it took to overcome it, traces back to a time in the late aughts when a milk cooperative, the Kamdhenu Swayatta Sahkarita (Kamdhenu Cooperative Society), was established in Futsil. It is run entirely by women, with the assistance of Himalayan Gram Vikas Samiti (HGVS), a non-governmental organisation.

The financial security it has brought to the women’s homes was not previously considered possible through livelihoods like farming.

After its establishment in December 2009, the cooperative has scaled up despite—and across—uneven, hilly terrain. It embraced Kothera, another village in the vicinity, and over the years spread to four more villages in Munsiyari, which falls within the same district of Pithoragarh. A total of 422 families are engaged in the cooperative, which has had a turnover of Rs. 42–45 lakhs over the last three years annually from two villages, says Rajendra Singh Bisht, the founder of HGVS.

The financial security it has brought to the women’s homes was not previously considered possible through livelihoods like farming, owing to precarity induced by climate change. Neither Manju nor her husband, a life-long farmer, imagined the life they live now, with savings that run into lakhs. “For villagers, realising that money can be earned through work beyond farming, that a different life is possible, is a marker of growth,” says Sunil Bhat, the former Gram Pradhan of Futsil. All 130 families of the village are now active suppliers of milk, he adds. 

Braving the long road

In Manju, money from the milk sales has instilled confidence to make decisions that weren’t historically and socially hers to make, as a woman. “Pehle toh hum bolna bhi nahi jaante the,” she says in reflection. [We didn’t even know how to talk to people.] Now, she deals directly with buyers, dealers, and bankers. She goes to the bank to deposit and withdraw money, and to update her passbook. Every once in a while, all the women associated with the cooperative plan outstation trips, some for workshops, others just for leisure. “I have been to so many places, from Bageshwar to Nainital,” she tells me, elated.

Also read: This Bengaluru neighbourhood drowned in waste, until women took charge | Good Food Movement

After over a decade of earning and saving money with the help of the cooperative, Manju has been able to send her three children—two of them girls—to study at nearby urban centres.

In Manju, money from the milk sales has instilled confidence to make decisions that weren’t historically and socially hers to make, as a woman.

Enabling this empowerment has been a long and daunting journey, says Jagat Singh Dashoni, a program manager who has worked with HGVS for over two decades now. We speak while walking through the hilly terrain, crossing a stream from the HGVS centre towards the village settlement in Futsil. “All this that you see—a clean, walkable path—wasn’t there,” Jagat says, pointing to the pucca road built with cut stones and asphalt. “It wasn’t just the terrain that was the problem; there was no basic infrastructure for proper sanitation in most of these villages either, so these paths were littered with excreta and thick with the smell of urine.”

HGVS took shape in the 1990s, in the years following the Chipko movement—independent India’s celebrated forest conservation agitation, whose spirit touched every nook of Kumaon. Rajendra Singh Bisht was a toddler during Chipko’s peak in the mid-70s; as a teenager in the same hills, and then part of Uttar Pradesh, mobilisation came naturally to him.

“We were restless,” says Rajendra, recalling the push for a separate hill state (which took shape as Uttaranchal in 2000, later renamed Uttarakhand in 2007) and the smaller struggles over land, forests, livelihoods, and infrastructure like public transport. But the epiphany came early: “Agar hum andolani mein reh jaayenge toh logon ka dukh-dard kaise dur karenge?” [How are we to alleviate the hardships of the people if we remain mired only in agitation?]

As this realisation dawned upon him and other like-minded Uttarakhandis, on February 4, 1990, 3000 km away, Ernakulam in Kerala was declared India’s first fully literate district—the outcome of a mass, door-to-door campaign that mobilised thousands of volunteers to teach reading and writing. Officials from the campaign, looking to replicate it countrywide, contacted Bisht and his peers in Gangolihat as they made for a good fit. A 45-day programme ran in October and November of the same year, but the Kerala team withdrew soon after because of a lack of any new projects.

Bisht and his peers soldiered on, developing a 56-day literacy module later replicated across dozens of villages around Pithoragarh. “We started with the basics, like teaching people, including all the women, to write their names, as well as the plants and crops that they grow.”

Before milk, came water

Literacy was the foundation upon which agricultural innovation was built.

“In the 2000s, while we took up projects on crop diversification and water management, one thing that nagged at us constantly was the condition of women in these villages. They started their day at 4 am, worked till late into the night and had no autonomy at all,” Jagat recalls.

One of the women’s most time-consuming chores was fetching drinking water. It would eat up five to six hours of their days. “Once we were able to instate piped drinking water to the villages, the women showed an interest in doing something more, something that would be financially viable,” he adds.

One of the women’s most time-consuming chores was fetching drinking water. It would eat up five to six hours of their days.

HGVS tried setting up sewing machine centres but was unable to draw in enough women regularly. They also tried spice-processing units and horticulture-led collectives, which worked for a while, and then flattened. Some of these efforts have continued as individual efforts, just not under the cooperative model. It was around the same time that they read reports of remote and rural areas in other states prospering through milk cooperatives—a worthy idea to explore in Futsil. 

On the women’s own terms

A few metres down the hill from the main village periphery, Pushpa Dhariyal oversees milk collection at a common area—the daily average being 150 litres. “The idea wasn’t an easy sell in the early days,” the 50-year-old tells me. Pushpa and Bhagirathi Bhatt, who is also 50, are among the collective’s earliest members and have watched it grow from nothing. “In the first few months, we would go door to door, and most villagers would turn us down. When they saw us handing over cash to the women who gave us milk every month, it worked. When others saw them receive this income, they felt inclined to join, too,” says Pushpa. 

Slowly, she iterates, the old beliefs began to matter less, and change took root: bank accounts were opened for the women, and self-help groups (SHGs) emerged. “Ab toh humne croron ka vyavasay kar liya hai,” Pushpa says with a laugh, “Kahaan socha tha aisa kabhi hoga?” [We’ve now done business worth crores. Who would have thought this would ever happen?]

Also read: In this Konkan coast town, women rock the boat with their mangrove safaris | Good Food Movement

The idea behind the SHGs was to create a support system for the women and build a sense of solidarity. To ensure even the most marginalised felt included, they started collecting a monthly sum—Rs. 10 at first, which has now become Rs. 100. Across Futsil and Kothera, there are seven SHGs with 16–20 members each. They interloan money to buy new cattle, improve cattle sheds, invest in livestock health, and support personal goals, like children’s education or home renovation.

“The cooperative has expanded the scope of our lives. We know how to measure milk quality, handle transport, and convert milk into paneer, ghee and khoya. We were completely home and farm-bound earlier, but now, we move around and meet new people,” says Bhagirathi, as she talks about a shop the women have opened in Gangolihat’s main market (about 7 km away, along a winding hill path from Futsil), where they sell the collected milk and milk products. “That, too, is entirely run by us women.”

The women have, for the most part, built and sustained the cooperative on their own terms; in fact, since 2012, the cooperative has been run without any external backing. The support of the Uttarakhand Co-operative Dairy Federation Ltd. (UCDF), set up in 2001 soon after the state’s formation, has been limited to occasional workshops and training programs. A modest amount came from the Tata Trusts, and some of the early work was carried out under the still-new Mahatma Gandhi National Rural Employment Guarantee Act (MGNREGA). At the time, the national employment scheme supported drought-proofing and land development; a 2012 revision to the scheme added provisions for animal husbandry. 

The seen and the unseen

The ripples that the cooperative has created go beyond income. It may seem that the resultant prosperity could complicate, even amplify, Uttarakhand’s out-migration problem, with more youth like Manju’s children leaving to pursue other careers. But HGVS’ Rajendra argues that the opposite is true; people who once left the state for seasonal work, which paid as little as Rs. 5,000–10,000 monthly, have found more merit in the cooperative, and now stay back to contribute to its growth. “It can arrest out-migration if the work expands further, with better state support—which isn’t present at the moment,” he adds.

Perhaps the democratic nature of the cooperative will cause a shift in the region’s casteist tendencies.

The resilience that the cooperative has built against crop failure and climate shocks has carried over into the village’s social fabric. Many recognise the importance of an alternative income, as weather events wreak havoc on crops and even fodder. The once-magnificent oaks that provided fodder for cattle have, over years of cutting and replacement with pine, been reduced to stumps.

Former Gram Pradhan Sunil Bhat notes the village has moved past most of its old superstitions, though when it comes to caste, change is more slow-moving. Futsil remains a village of mostly upper-caste, Brahmin families; only 30–40 families belong to scheduled castes. “People are apprehensive of buying their milk for religious rituals,” he remarks. On festive days or religiously significant ones, the milk collector is asked to keep a separate container aside to hold milk from upper-caste households.

Perhaps the democratic nature of the cooperative will cause a shift in the region’s casteist tendencies. Phulanti Devi, a Dalit woman from Futsil, has held the president’s position for the last three years. It was not too long ago that she was treated as lesser because of her caste; when attending meetings, she would sit at the back, in a corner. “Now, the women want her to become a member of the Block Development Council as well, which will help her contest the election for Pramukh [president of the Block Panchayat],” Rajendra explains. “I believe that among the women, there’s no discrimination left. Maybe the men still need time. But change is afoot, and we are all hopeful.”

Also read: Bibijan Halemani dared to dream—of millets, and a better world for women

Slider Image Credit: Himalayan Gram Vikas Samiti

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“We did not inherit this world from our ancestors; we have borrowed it from our children. We must return it far better than we found it,” says Dr T. M. Manickaraj. His stance towards the fate of the Earth could be attributed to his training and career as a pediatrician, but the sense of intergenerational responsibility that he and his wife Nagarathinam feel goes beyond that: their 23-acre farm, split across two parcels of land in Coimbatore’s Dheenampalayam village, is ‘poison-free’.

Named ‘Marudha Vanam’ and ‘Seetha Vanam’, the first thing one notices upon arriving here is how alive it all feels. Coconut palms and their long fronds cast broken patches of shade across the ground. Between them, bananas, pomegranates, papayas, figs, lemons, pepper vines and star fruit live in equanimity. 

After 10 years of engaging in conventional chemical-based agriculture, they made a switch to the Subhash Palekar Natural Farming (SPNF) method. The benefits of this transition is best reflected in the difference it has made to the couple’s health.

We did not inherit this world from our ancestors; we have borrowed it from our children. We must return it far better than we found it.

The early days

Dr. Manickaraj inherited this land in Tamil Nadu from his parents in 1990. As a paediatrician, he had spent little time on agricultural work before this. By the time the couple took over the farm’s running, his father had converted 11 acres into a conventional coconut plantation. For the first decade, they maintained these standard practices, applying synthetic fertilisers across this parcel of land while leaving the remaining 12 acres of sandy soil untouched.

As he devoted more time to the land, Dr. Manickaraj observed that he had developed persistent health issues, including allergies, itching, vomiting, and occasionally, wheezing. “The only reasonable explanation was my close exposure to the farm’s chemical sprays, alongside those used on neighbouring plots,” he explains.

Simultaneously, Nagarathinam embarked on a journey of learning about organic farming and attending workshops led by pioneers like Palekar. In the early 2000s, there were few in their corner of Tamil Nadu who had committed to organic methods; even if they found a farmer far away, they made the effort to establish contact and visit them for a hands-on learning experience. “This opened our eyes to how severely synthetic chemicals degrade both the land and human health,” Nagarathinam says. 

The realisation prompted an immediate shift in their ways. “We owned the land, so we took it upon ourselves to cultivate safe food for our family and the people around us,” adds Dr. Manickaraj. When the question of picking trees and plants for intercropping arose, they opted for more fruit trees so that the change would translate into their own diets, as well as allow them to sell fruits and create value-added products like pickles.

Also read: Trash threatens to swallow Chennai up. This citizens’ initiative won’t allow it

Revitalising the soil

Decades of widespread chemical use had left the coconut grove’s soil depleted and resistant to supporting life. 

The transition away from synthetic inputs, however, was far from straightforward: “For a farm of this scale, we could not instantly manufacture all our own organic feeds and remedies. Buying off-the-shelf organic alternatives actually cost more than the chemical ones,” Nagarathinam recalls.

We don't remove dry leaves or animal waste from the farm. Everything is returned to the land to improve soil health.

When they stopped spraying chemical pesticides, damage by insects became a major challenge. But over time, the farm—and nature—found its own balance: beneficial predators such as spiders, ladybugs and praying mantises gradually returned, naturally controlling pest populations. “We simply had to give beneficial insects time to establish themselves,” she says.

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In adopting Palekar’s four principles of natural farming, the couple employed the use of beejamrutham (treating seeds before sowing to protect them from fungal, bacterial and viral diseases) and jeevamrutham (a natural microbial culture that enriches the soil and encourages beneficial microorganisms to multiply). 

The third principle is mulching. Instead of bringing in external inputs or removing organic matter from the farm, everything is recycled back into the soil. "We don't remove dry leaves or animal waste from the farm. Everything is returned to the land to improve soil health," she says. For this reason, she believes an integrated farm is essential. Their land supports cows, goats, sheep, chickens, ducks and fish, all of which contribute to a self-sustaining ecosystem.

The fourth principle, Whapasa, focuses on maintaining the ideal balance of air and moisture within the soil—work undertaken by earthworms who create channels that improve aeration and allow water to penetrate deeper into the ground.

Also read: In this Tamil Nadu village, the palmyra has inspired a homecoming

Experiments with water management

The fruit trees that punctuate the coconut grove require a reliable supply of water. Although drip irrigation using borewell water helped, Dr. Manickaraj soon realised it was not a sustainable long-term solution. They decided instead to capture every drop of rain that fell on the farm. "We dug a series of trenches—each about four feet wide, three feet deep, and between 12 and 15 feet long," he explains.

Today, the farm has 45 such trenches. "The water slowly percolates through the soil for 10 to 12 metres, keeping the land hydrated for up to six months of dry weather. Over the years, the collective yield from all the plants has drastically improved,” notes Nagarathinam.

In partnership with nature

The remaining 12 acres of sandy land presented a different challenge.

Rather than forcing intensive cultivation, the couple chose to restore the landscape by planting a diverse mix of trees, including mango, sapota, teak, mahogany, rosewood and sandalwood. Most required little more than seasonal rainfall once they took root.

Over time, nature began doing much of the work itself. Elephants wandering down from the nearby Marudhamalai Hills regularly left behind dung containing wild grass seeds. Those seeds have transformed around seven acres into lush fodder grass, eliminating the need to purchase feed for the farm's cattle.

Dr. Manickaraj sees the farm not simply as a source of food, but a testament to the rewards of working in harmony with nature.

Birds have also played an unexpected role. "When we started, we had only three sandalwood trees. Birds dropped seeds onto our land, and today we have more than 300 sandalwood trees growing naturally, along with countless neem trees. Every year, nature gives us around 50 new trees," says Dr. Manickaraj.

The farm provides nearly everything the family eats, with rice being the only staple they still source externally. Dr. Manickaraj sees the farm not simply as a source of food, but a testament to the rewards of working in harmony with nature. "At 77, I do not take a single medicine. I believe that has much to do with the poison-free food we eat from our farm,” he says.

Also read: On Tamil Nadu’s coast, a living seed bank conserves 2000+ rice varieties

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The first showers of rain in June have barely settled over Rayagada district in southern Odisha when Sabani Majhi picks up a bamboo basket and a hoe, and embarks into the nearby sal forest. The 52-year-old Paroja Adivasi woman is in search of the Sargi Chhatu (Astraeus hygrometricus) hidden beneath the soil. 

Found near the roots of sal trees, the mushroom resembles a small, dusty potato buried under fallen leaves. This is the stage at which it is picked, when it is young, and still closed. As it matures, its hard outer skin splits open like a star, revealing a dark, powdery centre. With its nutty flavour and meaty texture, Sargi Chhatu is a seasonal delicacy that families eagerly await every monsoon. 

"If Sargi Chhatu is part of our meal, we don't miss meat. It is the tastiest mushroom we get from the forest," says Majhi. "Finding it takes patience. We look for tiny cracks or raised patches in the soil before digging carefully with a hoe. Sometimes, it takes nearly an hour to collect just a kilo." 

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The mushrooms are washed, peeled and cut into pieces before being boiled once to reduce their bitterness. They are then cooked with mustard oil, onions, garlic, ginger, green chillies and local spices. During a productive season, part of the harvest is also sun-dried for the months ahead. 

Majhi is one of thousands of Adivasi women across Odisha who enter forests every monsoon to gather wild edible mushrooms hidden beneath leaves, inside termite mounds, under sandy soil and on decaying logs of wood. This seasonal harvest feeds families and brings home a modest income. It is made possible through years of observation and learning, and an intimate understanding of the forest.

If Sargi Chhatu is part of our meal, we don't miss meat. It is the tastiest mushroom we get from the forest

The indigenous knowledge about foraging and harvesting, preserved orally and learnt by doing, is becoming harder to pass on. Fewer young women now accompany their mothers on monsoon foraging trips, while changing rainfall patterns are making wild mushrooms harder to find. They have not disappeared, but do they grow farther inside the forest, turning picking into a more time-intensive process. As the forests change, so does the wisdom that has long helped Adivasi communities to live with them. 

The forest’s generosity

One of the first mushrooms to emerge after the monsoon is Benua Chhatu (Termitomyces heimii), which pushes through termite mounds after the first steady rain. Large, umbrella-shaped caps rise above the forest floor on long, slender stalks, sometimes dozens from a single mound. The mushroom survives through a close partnership with termites, which create the conditions it needs to grow, while the fungus breaks down dead leaves and wood into nutrients that feed the colony. 

For 79-year-old Surumani Mankidia, no other mushroom captures the spirit of the monsoon quite like Benua Chhatu. "When it appears, we know the rains have settled," she says with a smile. "And when it cooks, the whole house is enveloped in a mutton-like aroma," says the resident of Dengam village on the fringes of the Similipal Tiger Reserve in the Mayurbhanj district.

The mushrooms are washed thoroughly to rid them of mud before being rinsed again in turmeric water—a traditional practice believed to cleanse them before cooking. They are usually prepared as a light stew or seasoned with salt, turmeric and crushed garlic, wrapped in sal leaves and slow-cooked over a gentle fire. Among the Dongria Kondh community in Rayagada district, boiled Benua Chhatu is also used as a traditional herbal remedy for fever, colds and certain skin ailments. 

As the monsoon gathers strength, other mushrooms begin to appear across the forest. Bali Chhatu (Termitomyces microcarpus) grows in dense clusters around termite mounds and bamboo groves after heavy showers. Its tiny, cream-coloured caps are tender and quick to cook, making it a regular feature in Adivasi kitchens during the farming season. Women often collect it in large baskets and cook it with simple spices, believing it gives them strength for long days of agricultural work. 

Among the Dongria Kondh community in Rayagada district, boiled Benua Chhatu is also used as a traditional herbal remedy for fever, colds and certain skin ailments. 

Unlike mushrooms that emerge from the forest floor, Lathi Chhatu (Lentinus tuberregium) grows on decaying logs from a large underground tuber-like structure. Its firm, chewy texture makes it well suited to slow-cooked curries, and many Adivasi communities consider it a nourishing food for people recovering from illness. 

In the bamboo forests of southern and western Odisha, women search for Banji Chhatu, the bamboo mushroom (Schizophyllum commune), which appears in clusters of dead and decaying bamboo. Small, fan-shaped and mildly earthy in flavour, it is usually cooked fresh, while part of the harvest is sun-dried and stored for the lean period from March to May. 

"For Adivasi families, wild mushrooms are more than a seasonal delicacy. Rich in protein, fibre, vitamins, minerals and essential amino acids, they provide nutrition and have long been valued for their medicinal properties," says Dr Srikanta Dhar, an internal medicine specialist at the All India Institute of Medical Sciences, Bhubaneswar. 

Also read: In Odisha’s insect eating traditions, a blueprint for a food-secure future

Life-saving, enriching knowledge

Foraging is about ‘reading’ the forest rather than simply collecting food, says Mangi Gomango, a 63-year-old Saura Adivasi woman from Raldipanka village in Gajapati district. "The forest gives us food, but only when we understand its ways," she explains. "Every mushroom has its own season and its own place. We don't grow them. We simply know where to find them. That's how our elders taught us to forage." 

Not every mushroom that emerges after the monsoon is safe to eat. Hidden among the edible varieties are poisonous species, some so similar in appearance that only experienced foragers can tell them apart. Recognising them takes years of distilled learning and instincts. 

Hidden among the edible varieties are poisonous species, some so similar in appearance that only experienced foragers can tell them apart.

"You can't identify a mushroom by its colour alone," says Saibeni Majhi, 42, a Kondh Adivasi farmer from Talbora village in Kalahandi district, who has spent over two decades foraging wild mushrooms in the foothills of the Niyamgiri Hills. "We look at everything, the cap, the stem, its smell, the tree or termite mound nearby, even how old the mushroom is. If something doesn't feel right, we leave it where it is." 

Tragically, the community elders who are keepers of this knowledge are now aging. Migration, access to education, changing livelihoods and a reduced dependence on forest foods mean that fewer young women are incentivised to accompany their mothers and grandmothers on foraging trips. 

Madhabi Jani, a 20-year-old from Siriguda village in Rayagada district, still relies on her mother’s skills. "My mother notices things I don't. She can tell where a mushroom might grow just by looking at the soil and the trees. I still follow her whenever we forage because I'm afraid of making a mistake." 

For Sukanti Majhi, 22, from the neighbouring Koraput district, the challenge is finding time to learn. "Many of us are in school or college, and some leave the village for work," she says. "Because of that, many young people know much less about wild mushrooms." 

The consequences of a knowledge system with gaps can be deadly. Every monsoon, Odisha reports cases of mushroom poisoning after unidentified wild mushrooms are consumed. In September 2024, six people died in Malkangiri district after eating wild mushrooms and bamboo shoots. Similarly, in August 2025, eight people were hospitalised in Gajapati district. Health officials routinely advise people to avoid produce unless they are certain of its identity. 

Also read: A push for hybrid maize is driving Odisha’s resilient ‘maka’ out of fields

The forest becomes unrecognisable

Surumani the septuagenarian, who lives near the Similipal Tiger Reserve, has watched the forest change over the years. It no longer follows the established rhythms that she recognised in her childhood. "The denser the forest, the more mushrooms it gave us. But the forests are shrinking, and so is the harvest," she says. "There used to be many termite mounds around our village. That's where we found plenty of Benua Chhatu. Now we have to walk much farther into the forest to find them." 

Surumani believes the growing use of chemicals on nearby farms has impacted the number of termite mounds. "Earlier, we knew exactly when and where wild mushrooms would appear. Now the rains are unpredictable. Some years, we return from the forest with only a small basket full." 

Migration, access to education, changing livelihoods and a reduced dependence on forest foods mean that fewer young women are incentivised to accompany their mothers and grandmothers on foraging trips. 

Her observations are echoed by scientific research. Studies carried out in and around Similipal in Mayurbhanj show that wild edible mushrooms are highly sensitive to rainfall, humidity and temperature. Even small shifts in weather can shorten their fruiting season and reduce their abundance. Researchers who have documented a rich diversity of wild edible mushrooms across the forested landscapes of Mayurbhanj, Keonjhar and Balasore districts caution that the depletion of forest habitats and changing land use threaten mushroom diversity.

The fate of mushrooms is crucial not merely because of culinary history and diversity; wild mushrooms also fill an important seasonal gap in the diet of many Adivasi households. "When we talk about minor forest produce, wild mushrooms are rarely recognised as part of the forest economy," observes Abhishek Pradhan, an agriculture expert at Watershed Support Services and Activities Network (WASSAN). "Unless we value both these forest foods and the indigenous knowledge that helps communities harvest them safely, we risk losing an important livelihood and a rich food tradition," says Pradhan.

When we talk about minor forest produce, wild mushrooms are rarely recognised as part of the forest economy,"

During a good monsoon, Adivasi women stand to earn between Rs. 15,000 and Rs. 18,000 across three months through mushroom sales in weekly haats and along the roadside. Through these sales, they earn enough to buy essentials such as cooking oil, salt, vegetables and school supplies. But that income is becoming increasingly uncertain as rainfall patterns shift, forests come under greater pressure and mushroom harvests decline. 

Pradhan believes that for younger Adivasi community members to continue foraging and develop a curiosity for the wisdom at its foundation, it must have value from a cultural, culinary and economic perspective. Better market opportunities could make it more attractive to young people, while community-led learning could help pass on knowledge. “Elders can train younger people through community foraging walks, teaching them to identify, harvest and cook different varieties,” he says.

It is not impossible for traditions rooted in sustenance to endure, even as the circumstances around them change. For women like Sabani Majhi, gathering mushrooms is a way of staying connected to a changing landscape. As the morning sun filters through the sal trees, she bends down one last time before beginning the walk home. A faint crack in the damp earth catches her attention. She brushes aside a thin layer of leaves and smiles as another Sargi Chhatu emerges from the soil. 

"The forest still teaches us," she says. "But our children must keep coming here to learn."

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

Edited by Anushka Mukherjee and Neerja Deodhar

When we pick up an avocado at a supermarket or a local bazaar, to examine it for quality and ripeness, the distance it travels may be the last thought to occur to us; if anything, its origin in a faraway place only adds to its appeal and reinforces its authenticity.

Having to pay a high price for this well-travelled ingredient is no longer a deterrent, nor does it give pause to many urban consumers; in 2024 alone, India imported nearly 11,828.47 metric tonnes of avocados. Many of these avocados arrive at our neighbourhoods from farms in Tanzania and Australia by cargo ships or planes—a journey made possible thanks to cold storage technology.

The term gained popularity because it enabled consumers to translate an abstract environmental problem into tangible data.

This “invisible”, intercontinental distance has a name: food miles. In simple terms, food miles refers to the distance an item travels from where it was produced to where it is consumed, and the resulting impact. Its coinage was intended to raise awareness among consumers about the environmental costs of transportation over long distances; the more your food travels, the more fossil fuels are burned, increasing greenhouse gas emissions. The term was coined in 1992 by Prof. Tim Lang, who was part of the Sustainable Agriculture, Food and Environment (SAFE) alliance. It first appeared in a print report compiled by Angela Paxton, a researcher with the UK-based alliance.

The term gained popularity because it enabled consumers to translate an abstract environmental problem into tangible data. Measured in tonne-kilometres, food miles are calculated by multiplying the weight of the food item by the distance travelled. By being conscious of the final figure, in the context of ingredients like avocado, consumers can take the first step in environmentally-conscious consumption.

The concealed costs of produce

​The concept emerged at a time when food systems were undergoing a global transition. Previously, food was mostly sourced from nearby farms and markets. Diets were, to a great extent, shaped by geographical specificity and seasonal availability, which meant certain foods, such as varieties of mango, remained local delicacies rather than becoming widely available commodities. However, globalisation and advancements in storage and economical transportation technologies altered supply chains and their inherently short nature. Improvements in packaging extended the shelf lives of even perishable goods.

An increase in the consumer demand for foreign products resulted in higher food miles. The liberalisation of world trade and the reduction of trade tariffs have made it easier for countries to trade goods produced in surplus. India’s own agricultural exports rose from $3.35 billion in 1990-91, after the landmark economic reforms of that decade, to $52.55 billion in 2025-26. Producers found new markets beyond local territories, while consumers gained access to an unparalleled variety of food choices.

Longer supply chains mean more dependence on energy-intensive processing units and storage infrastructure.

The rise of large retail chains strengthened the dependence on sophisticated distribution networks involving multiple warehouses and modes of transportation. For example, tomatoes from a local farm in Andhra Pradesh do not go straight to consumers; rather, they pass through several intermediaries and godowns across India. About 80% of the total tomatoes produced in the state are either exported to other states, or processed and sold as finished goods across the country.

In many ways, longer supply chains may have benefited producers by improving the availability of ready-to-eat foods and reducing seasonal shortages. But this comes at a price borne by the environment. “Longer supply chains mean more dependence on energy-intensive processing units and storage infrastructure. This also means extra stops between the producer and the consumer,” shares sustainability expert Dr. Indu K. Murthy, who works with the Center for Study of Science, Technology and Policy (CSTEP), a Bengaluru-based think-tank.

According to a study by the European Commission, food miles are responsible for nearly 20% of global food emissions. High-income countries have a stronger contribution to this, constituting only 12.5% of the world’s population, but accounting for nearly 46% of food miles globally. Nonetheless, India has a significant footprint when it comes to food miles emissions, owing to its large area and population. It ranks as the second-largest producer of domestic food miles (or the miles food travels to reach the domestic population) after China. 

A country’s dependence on food imports, and by extension the food miles it generates, are also shaped by factors like climate shocks, conflicts and structural poverty. This is particularly true of low-income countries in the Middle East, North and Sub-Saharan Africa. These countries face challenges of food insecurity and extreme malnutrition while battling scarcely available natural resources. While high-income nations drive food miles through choice, low-income countries unconsciously contribute to food emissions in their attempt to prevent widespread hunger and famine. 

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

Frequent flyer miles

Each mode of transport contributes differently to food miles, both in scale and the emissions it contributes. For instance, food travels almost twice as much by sea than it does by road. But road transport releases far more carbon dioxide, producing 60% of the world's food transport carbon emissions. Air transport, though minimal in absolute food miles, accounts for 20%, and rail and sea transport contribute 10% each to global food transport emissions. Due to recent improvements in roadway infrastructure, heavy goods trucks have become the most favoured mode in India.

Road transport releases far more carbon dioxide, producing 60% of the world's food transport carbon emissions.

Transportation, however, plays only a minimal role in the mounting increase in greenhouse emissions. The environmental footprint of a tomato begins even before it is sown. It includes diesel guzzled by farming machinery, fertilisers and pesticides, and the emissions from refrigeration, packaging, cooking, and food waste. This makes food miles alone an incomplete measure. 

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

Limitations

Agricultural and climate scientists have debated the efficacy of food miles as a sustainability indicator. The term’s simplicity is one of its greatest weaknesses, as it fails to consider other externalities associated with food systems aside from transportation. Food miles exclude questions of how something is grown, stored, or prepared. Consider meats—particularly processed meat and cold cuts which eat up a lot of resources—where food miles contribute to a smaller proportion of their overall emissions. 

A shorter journey does not automatically mean a lower emission rate. For urban Indians, driving outside city limits every weekend to source local, organic produce in a private vehicle can reverse the effects of shorter food miles. Similarly, food that has travelled farther does not necessarily have a large environmental impact. Importing produce that is naturally rain-fed can be less carbon-intensive than growing the same crop locally under resource-heavy conditions. For instance, apple production methods in New Zealand are more energy-efficient owing to the favourable climate, efficient farming techniques and fewer artificial inputs. This makes importing apples from New Zealand to the UK a more sustainable option, despite the distance, than growing them in resource-intensive greenhouses in the UK.

Importing produce that is naturally rain-fed can be less carbon-intensive than growing the same crop locally under resource-heavy conditions.

Thus, food miles solve only one part of a larger puzzle. “By themselves, food miles may not be transparent enough to provide all the details about emissions that a consumer needs. There is a pressing need to increase transparency, at least by mentioning details about the produce and its place of origin on the label,” Dr. Murthy explains. 

In some cases, how food is produced can matter more than how far it travels. Scientists now rely on a much more comprehensive and efficient tool called the Life Cycle Assessment  (LCA), which is recommended by both the European Commission and the United Nations Environment Programme. LCA assesses the potential environmental impacts of a product throughout its life cycle, starting from the acquisition of natural resources, production, and waste management, including disposal and recycling. This keeps a check on not just the carbon emissions, but also other aspects concerning utilisation of resources during food production. By accounting for each unit of the supply chain, LCA provides a much more accurate picture of food carbon emissions. However, calculating LCA involves specialised software and complex technical procedures that are not consumer-friendly, making it inaccessible. 

Also read: Traceability in Indian food supply chains: Complicated by costs, lack of incentive

Should consumers measure miles?

One means to reduce the consumption of items with high food miles is opting for seasonal produce grown locally and in natural climates, without the need for additional support via greenhouses, artificial lighting or intensive preservation and storage methods. According to Dr. Madhura Rao, who teaches food systems governance at Maastricht University in the Netherlands, “Local food has the strongest sustainability case when it is grown in season and suited to the local agroclimate, requires fewer inputs like fertilisers and pesticides, is produced without damaging forests, wetlands or scarce water resources, is associated with low food waste and loss, and uses limited non-biodegradable packaging.”

Reviving native crops can help reduce the dependence on resource-intensive cash crops, which require more chemical inputs. The midday meal scheme and the public procurement policies in India can play a significant role in making this possible by sourcing ingredients directly from local small-scale farmers.

Since cities are not built for food production, reducing their reliance on long-distance food supply chains is not feasible

Since cities are not built for food production, reducing their reliance on long-distance food supply chains is not feasible, observes Dr. Rao. “Competition for land is intense in these areas, and farming is generally not prioritised in urban and peri-urban development. Regardless, urban and peri-urban farming projects are worthwhile pursuits because they help strengthen food security and keep urban residents connected with the origins of their food to some extent.”

Although food miles, as a sustainability index, do not capture the complexities of food carbon emissions, they do prompt consumers to consider that the food they eat could leave an invisible carbon footprint. They serve as a reminder that every item on the plate has undergone a journey. A label on the produce might not tell you whether the avocado you are eating has depleted groundwater levels or if tomatoes in your salad were grown in a greenhouse. However, choosing organic counterparts and investigating the place of origin could help. Sustainability does not depend on isolated, individual choices. It requires an understanding of the broader context in which these choices are made.

Edited by Aathira Konikkara and Neerja Deodhar

Artwork by Alia Sinha

{{quiz}}

domesticate ᛫ verb ᛫ to tame

We usually imagine domestication to be an act of selection. The fastest horse. The friendliest dog. The sweetest fruit. In plants, it reveals itself in larger, more visually appealing produce. In animals, it is a gentler temperament that can be moulded to suit agriculture and human domesticity.

Microbial activity, on the other hand—let alone its domestication at the hands of humans—is harder to spot. Microbes occupy an uneasy place in our imagination, embedded more in the language of sickness, germs and contamination than of co-operation and creation. Unlike plants and animals, microbes are invisible to the naked eye. Our ancestors couldn't see bacteria, yeast or moulds, let alone deliberately choose the ‘best’ ones to breed. So how can we say that microbes were ever domesticated? 

The answer lies in one of the world’s oldest human practices: fermentation. 

We may intuitively recognise fermentation as the process which makes our dosa batter fluffy, or lends a tangy hit to our pickles. But it is also the primary metabolic activity of the human gut microbiome! At any given time, nearly 40 trillion bacterial cells are busy fermenting within our bodies. The products of this process (nutrients, lactate, energy, short-chain fatty acids, among others) nourish our cells, regulate our immune systems, and protect our tissues.

So deep was the human fascination with fermentation that we actively sought to incorporate it within our culinary practices. This domestication process was rather unusual, occurring not by selecting individual organisms, but by repeatedly recreating the environments in which certain microbes thrived. We cannot see bacteria, yeasts or moulds as they transform milk into yoghurt, dough into bread or soybeans into miso. Every pot of milk left to sour, every batch of fermented rice, every loaf begun with yesterday's dough starter favoured some microbes over others, forging one of humanity's oldest—and most invisible—relationships. 

So who really domesticated whom? Is there any hierarchy at play in this relationship at all?

This domestication process was rather unusual, occurring not by selecting individual organisms, but by repeatedly recreating the environments in which certain microbes thrived.

Travelling companions

“Most of the strains of bacteria that make up the human gut microbiome have been with us for more than 1,00,000 years,” says archaeologist and culinary anthropologist Dr. Kurush F. Dalal. When the first humans migrated from Africa about 60,000-70,000 years ago,  and when  they fanned across the globe in different terrains, they diversified genetically—and so did the microbial strains in their bodies. In other words, hundreds of generations of humans and microbes have co-diversified together, keeping each other company in the journey of evolution. Many of these became dependent on their host environment (aka the human body). They shed genes not required outside the gut and became sensitive to sudden changes in oxygen and temperature. 

Culinary fermentation was simply an extension of an already intimate partnership we had shared with microbes inside our body.

History suggests that our animal ancestors and other creatures had already tapped into the nutritional properties (and deliciousness) of fermented foods. Ethanol—which is present in the alcohols consumed today, like beer and wine—occurs naturally when yeast grows in fruits, saps, or nectars. And so, many of our predecessors encountered it everyday in the wet, wild jungle. Several species of extant apes and chimpanzees knocked fruit off the branches, and returned to them once they had reached their boozy afterlife. Tree shrews spent many hours feasting on the naturally fermented nectar of the bertam palm while pollinating it. 

The ADH4 gene, which has a much greater propensity for metabolising ethanol (up to 40 times more), evolved in the last common ancestors of humans, apes, and chimpanzees, over 10 million years ago. This was before humans diverged from other African apes, and therefore, much before fermenting technologies like brewing were invented. Because of genes like these, humans developed a greater tolerance to fermenting bacteria and their by-products. This proved especially useful as we moved towards more open grasslands and terrestrial environments, where we were more likely to be exposed to fallen fruit, which had a higher percentage of ethanol than those still on trees.

The presence of ethanol-metabolising enzymes in our bodies (like the ADH4 gene) largely boosted our chances of survival and gave us an edge during ecological upheaval and climate change-driven alterations in habitat. By the time we intentionally started fermenting our alcohols, our bodies had naturally been processing ethanol for years. We were well-adapted and ready to party! 

Just as microbes inside our bodies were already fermenting our food, microbes outside our bodies were transforming the foods around us. As humans moved into terrestrial lands, fermentation also became valued because of its ability to externally ‘predigest foods.’  Fermentation broke down the tough mesocarps of certain fruits (the thick, fleshy edible layer) and reduced secondary plant compounds such as tannins and saponins, making them safer and easier to digest.  Humans eventually travelled to grassier territories, which were plentiful in underground tubers. Environmental fermentation broke down the tough starches and fibres present in these, enabling us to keep expanding our dietary niche even through harsh climatic transitions. 

Long before humans understood the microbial process inside our bodies or learned to ferment, they were already benefitting from fermentation naturally occurring in the environment, incorporating these fermented ingredients/items into their diet. Culinary fermentation was simply an extension of an already intimate partnership we had shared with microbes inside our body.

Also read: Crop domestication: A brief history of how humans made plants edible

Early experiments

Fermenting bacteria (single-celled organisms that break down sugars or energy in the absence of oxygen) are thought to have emerged relatively early from the primordial prebiotic soup, before the atmosphere had a sufficient concentration of oxygen to support or enable the evolution of aerobic life-forms like mammals. For many million years, bacteria were Earth’s first and only inhabitants. According to biologist Lynn Margulis, the evolution of complex life was driven not just by competition but by cooperation. Her research suggests that symbiotic relationships between fermenting bacteria and other primitive single-celled organisms became so deeply intertwined that they evolved into the first eukaryotic cells, from which plants, animals and fungi eventually emerged. 

We did not ‘invent’ fermentation—rather fermentation created and sustained human life. The ferments, in spontaneously occurring forms, predate our consciousness. Humans eventually learned to nurture these invisible microbial partners, making fermented foods the outcome of a shared evolutionary history rather than a unilinear domestication. Today, nearly a third of all the food that is consumed globally, across cultures, are ferments! 

Fermentation predates empires and supply chains. It includes delicate processes which have been perfected and transmitted over generations, and whose traditional custodians have been women and indigenous communities. Fermented products, at heart, contain a sea of microbial diversity. While humans have found ways to standardise and bottle many of them by introducing lab strains in precise industrial environments, this often requires narrowing that diversity into predictable microbial cultures. Left to themselves, ferments resist being easily standardised, labelled and transported. They demand care and time—and a relinquishing of complete control. 

We did not ‘invent’ fermentation—rather fermentation created and sustained human life.

A Swedish Mesolithic settlement is the earliest known evidence of fermentation being deliberately used to preserve food, says Dr. Dalal. While excavating a 9,200-year-old Mesolithic site in southern Sweden, archaeologists encountered an unusually dense layer of fragile fish bones (which would otherwise normally decompose long before they can enter the archaeological record). Sifting the soil through fine mesh, they recovered tens of thousands of bones along with fragments of pine bark. Clues suggested that the fish had been wrapped in pine bark and seal fat, and buried to ferment.

Early fermentation was likely a process of trial and error. As humans became agro-pastoralists and settled down, new questions arose. How was surplus food to be stored so that it could tide communities over during harsh seasons of scarcity? Seeds, grain and fruit possibly changed during conditions of moisture; fruits, grain and vegetables at times decomposed, at times soured and transformed in different environments of heat, cold and compression, and meat and fish fared differently and lasted longer based on dampness and salinity. Foods changed colour and smell, which our ancestors were likely puzzled by; they experimented with what lasted longer and tasted better in this hitherto unknown, liminal space between freshness and rot. Communities gradually learned that some transformations which looked like spoilage were, in fact, preservation. Pacific Islanders fermented surplus breadfruit in underground pits so it could sustain villages through lean seasons, while in Iceland, generations later, people learned to ferment toxic shark into an edible—if notoriously pungent—food. Thus, Neolithic humans were harnessing the metabolic capacities of certain bacteria, yeasts and moulds in an effort to control the digestibility, palatability, and longevity of their newly abundant foods—not fresh but safe to eat, not just tasty but sustainable. 

Communities gradually learned that some transformations which looked like spoilage were, in fact, preservation.

Fermentation also shaped the technologies around it. Microbes inhabit the earthen pots, wooden barrels, bamboo baskets and cheese caves in which ferments are made. “Some of the earliest fermentation likely happened in natural depressions in cave floors, before pottery became widespread. Once clay vessels appeared, they offered more than just storage: porous walls that regulated moisture and oxygen exchange,” says Dr. Dalal. This is why the same recipe can produce different flavours in different homes, and why traditional fermenters often resist sterilising their equipment. Pottery also likely gave us different mediums to play with the knobs of fermentation—how varying levels of oxygen, compression, time and porosity could change the ferment. "A good fermentation vessel has to be porous—but not too porous. After the first batch, you don't need to keep adding the starter. Enough bacteria remain inside the microscopic pores of the vessel itself to inoculate every subsequent batch," he adds.

Also read: For Assam’s Mising community, this fish paste represents tradition, food security

Takes two to tang-o

Microbes have repeatedly demonstrated that they resist being ‘domesticated’ in a straightforward way, or being bred through a simple act of selection. We didn’t engineer microbes directly, but repeatedly created specific environments which would favour the growth of different strains. For instance, wild Lactobacillus species, a form of which we now associate with turning milk into curd and cheese, wasn’t always a dairy specialist. Lactic acid bacteria naturally existed in the soil and on plants. Fresh milk, once milked from cows, was a highly perishable food. People stored milk in containers made from the stomachs of young ruminants (goats, sheep, calves). These stomachs naturally contain rennet, an enzyme whose biological function is to help young animals digest milk.

When fresh milk sat inside these stomach bags, rennet coagulated the milk proteins, naturally occurring lactic acid bacteria (LAB) fermented lactose into lactic acid, and the milk separated into curds and whey. 

Once people discovered that the curds lasted much longer than fresh milk and were easier to transport, they began recreating this ecosystem. Every day, they milked cows, stored the milk in vats, and saved some portion of the yoghurt or cheese to inoculate the next batch. Milk was a remarkably stable habitat, containing only lactose, proteins and fats, as compared to the complex cellulose, diverse sugars, and nutrients found in plants. Eventually, LAB became so specialised that traces of their plant-dwelling ancestry remain only as pseudogenes (broken genes) in their genomes.

Cheese moulds followed a similar journey. The ancestor of the white mould that gives camembert and brie their snowy rind once grew on decaying plants and spoiled food. By repeatedly choosing moulds that spread quickly, formed an even white rind and produced better-tasting cheese, cheesemakers unknowingly reshaped the fungus over centuries. The result was Penicillium camemberti—a domesticated mould that produces fewer toxins, has much less genetic diversity, and is now so specialised for growing on cheese that it struggles to survive in the wild. The koji mould, which ferments sake, miso and soy, evolved from the wild fungus Aspergillus flavus, a crop pest capable of producing dangerous aflatoxins. By repeatedly selecting strains that worked well with yeast and efficiently broke down starch into sugars, sake brewers transformed it into Aspergillus oryzae—a safer mould that is highly specialised for fermentation and co-exists with yeasts.

Also read: The secret lives of fungi: The forest’s invisible architects of survival

A chicken and egg situation

Microbes took their own sweet time (literally, as they broke down sugars) to play and marinate leisurely in the ferments, keeping us constantly guessing. These processes evolved and became more fine-tuned over thousands of years—a horror that may have driven today’s modern human over the edge. 

Backslopping was one of the primary evolutionary engines of fermentation. By saving some portion of a successful ferment and adding it to the next batch, each cycle favoured microbes better adapted to that particular environment—be it milk, alcohol, rice or bread. Over generations, specific environments became safe habitats for microbes gradually being domesticated. This is not unlike the process of saving seeds from a previous harvest to sow during the next season. 

Unlike plants and animals, where it is essential to identify progenitors to target preferred genes, the size and diversity of microbes makes domestication much more complex. Humans participated more in ‘ecological selection,’ creating stable environments (with much lesser competition) with similar temperatures, moisture levels, ingredients and vessels. These in turn would select microbes that would thrive, and nudge them to shed some genes and take on others, becoming more human-friendly in the process.

Fermented foods are highly nutritious and have immense health benefits, especially for the gut and immune system. Today's diets, primed by technological interventions, are disrupting that partnership. A starter culture which may vary with each household is now relegated to being grown in a laboratory, and produced in factories. Fermentation knowledge, traditionally held by indigenous communities, as sacred as a family cookbook, has been co-opted by multinational companies, bottled, labelled and sold under ‘superfood,’and ‘probiotic’ labels. 

To ferment your own food is to lodge a protest of the senses against the homogenisation of flavours and food experiences.

We are shifting away from a diet which prioritises eating local and in harmony with nature to a dependence on a fragile global infrastructure of monocultures, homogeneity and synthetic chemicals. "Processed foods tend to be low in fibre and high in sugars, unhealthy fats and additives," says Dr. Dalal. "As a result, we now have fewer microbial species and less diversity overall." 

To soak in the world of ferments then, is to return to the interconnected world of humans and microbes. To ferment your own food is to lodge a protest of the senses against the homogenisation of flavours and food experiences. It is also a declaration in an economy that would much prefer we were all passive consumers of its commodities, rather than creators of unique products expressive of ourselves and the places where we live.

The question of who serves whom, then, actually serves no one. Are the acidifying bacteria in milk or the yeasts in grapes bending to our will, or are we doing their bidding by creating the specialised environments in which they can proliferate so wildly? As Dr. Dalal says, the story of human civilisation and microbial evolution is intensely symbiotic. We are participants in interdependent evolutionary stories that sustain each other—with creatures that came much before us who continue to keep us alive, and will be fermenting our bodies even in death’s wake. 

Dr. Kurush Dalal delivered a talk titled 'Origins: Archaeology of Fermentation' at the Desi Cultures 2.0 festival, held on 18–26 July, 2026.

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‍

"Fermentation is older than humans," says Payal Shah, in a matter-of-fact manner. "Microbes were here long before we were. Animals ferment, nature ferments. We've simply found new ways to work with something that has always existed."

Shah speaks of fermentation with this familiarity because she has long been listening to microbes. She has watched them, played with them, and witnessed them transform. Today, she is one of India's most respected voices on the subject, consulting with chefs, mixologists, farmers and food producers, all while championing a practice that is at once ancient, scientific and deeply intuitive.

Yet she doesn’t see herself as a fermentation expert in the conventional sense. Instead, she calls herself a "shepherd of microbes"—someone who creates the right conditions for life to flourish, while accepting that the microbes themselves ultimately decide the outcome. "It's the microbes who choose what they want to become," says Shah, "You're simply providing the environment."

It's the microbes who choose what they want to become. You're simply providing the environment.

Her philosophy is rooted as much in humility as it is in science, and I find that fascinating. Perhaps even spiritual. Shah agrees with this assessment, drawing parallels with gardening, where one plants the seeds, nurtures them with water, sunshine and nutrients, but really doesn’t know when or how the plants will yield, if at all.

She founded Kōbo Fermentary in 2018 after her passion evolved into more than a hobby and could be channelled into something with a more expansive scope. Kōbo is a multifaceted endeavour, imagined as a think tank, flavour lab and creative studio. In the early days, Shah was invested in real-time fermenting and retail products. After the COVID-19 pandemic, much of her work migrated online, assuming a wider knowledge-sharing format via Youtube videos, Substack posts and a range of playbooks available on Kōbo’s website; these playbooks are step-by-step guides to prepare kombucha, pickles and other fermented foods.

I met her last year in Bengaluru at The Good Craft Co., where she seemed very at home: standing before a stretching wall mounted with jars and jars of fermenting ingredients, leading us through a tasting of the various stages of fermentation.

First forays

Shah isn't a microbiologist by training. Her academic background is in Psychology, and she readily admits she has been a self-taught fermenter for the last 25 years. Everything she knows about fermentation has been painstakingly learned through experimentation, observation and, sometimes, failure. Her first obsession was wild-fermented ginger ale. At 18, she brewed more than a hundred batches in a single year, fascinated that no two were ever alike. "Some were brilliant, some failed spectacularly. But every batch taught me something," she says.

Unlike baking or classical cooking, fermentation resists precision. Temperature, humidity, geography, ingredients, even the microbes present on the hands of the creator shape the final result. The same recipe can produce entirely different flavours depending on where it is made.

Growing up in Bengaluru in a Gujarati household where her grandmother was a central figure, fermentation wasn't a niche culinary pursuit. It was simply everyday life. Summers revolved around pickle-making, butter was churned at home, and handvo, idlis, dosas and countless seasonal preserves bubbled away in the kitchen.

Like many children, Shah was entrusted with small but essential jobs: carrying jars into the sun, stirring mixtures, and bringing them indoors before dusk. At the time, she thought little of it. But, looking back, she realises how those rituals introduced her to a world where patience mattered more than speed, and that deep observation resulted in the most valuable lessons.

Inspired by ancient Indian practices

“India's relationship with fermentation stretches back thousands of years, long before the process acquired its modern scientific vocabulary. Across the country, communities developed fermented foods as a practical response to climate, preservation and nutrition, creating a remarkable diversity of regional traditions,” shares Shah.

Unlike baking or classical cooking, fermentation resists precision.

From idli and dosa batter in the South, to dhokla in Gujarat, kanji in North India, panta bhat and even kasundi in Bengal, appam batter in Kerala, bamboo shoot ferments in the North-East, homemade curd, pickles and rice beers, fermentation has long been woven into everyday cooking. Before it found a place on fine-dining menus, generations of grandmothers around the world were naturally fermenting foods in their home kitchens, making it one of humanity's oldest and most enduring culinary traditions. “These living foods not only enhanced flavour and extended shelf life, but also nurtured beneficial microbes that support gut health,” she adds.

Fermentation has found a new audience through contemporary restaurants, craft beverages and wellness culture, but Shah believes the revival is already well underway. Indigenous techniques are appearing on restaurant menus, in specialty stores, and increasingly, in conversations about nutrition, biodiversity and sustainable food systems.

Her involvement as co-curator of Desi Cultures 2026, a festival celebrating India's fermentation heritage, reflects this broader vision. The conversations went far beyond recipes, exploring how fermentation intersects with coffee, cacao, cheese and spirits, while also examining questions of labour, caste, gender and cultural knowledge.

Spreading the gospel

“‘Kōbo’ is Japanese for yeast, like a mother enzyme; you can't have fermentation without it, so that is the genesis of the name. That is where it all started,” says Shah, reflecting on how the fermentary has grown over the years.

The impact of its knowledge sharing initiatives is most palpably felt in the response to Shah's weekend ‘AMA - Ask Me Anything’ sessions, which encouraged many of Kōbo’s Instagram followers to take up fermentation at home during the COVID-19 lockdown. The regularity and generosity with which she shared tips, tricks and details during these sessions helped many to unpack the subject. 

Shah uses her gut instinct to rustle up ferments, even during her travels. Guided purely by intuition and with the knowledge that no list of steps undertaken can ever be fail-safe, Shah prefers to label them “non-recipes”. Having gradually shifted from the production of fermented foods at Kōbo, she spends most of her time teaching, consulting and establishing fermentation programmes for restaurants, bars and food businesses across the country. Her clients range from progressive chefs seeking deeper layers of flavour, to mixologists experimenting with naturally fermented ingredients for cocktails. Farmers approach her to help preserve surplus harvests through fermentation, reducing waste while creating products with longer shelf lives and greater value. Restaurants work with her to rethink kitchen waste, transforming leftovers into intensely savoury condiments rather than sending them to landfills.

Shah has worked closely with Kikui Farm near Coonoor, the Vivekananda Estate in Coorg, alongside restaurants like Brik Oven, where her insights also inform pantry ingredient planning.

An answer to food waste?

For those curious about experimenting with fermentation at home, Shah recommends beginning with something almost impossible to get wrong: ginger or garlic fermented in honey. "You don't even have to measure anything," she says. Simply submerge the ginger or garlic completely in honey and allow nature to take over. The ingredients already contain the microbes, sugars and nutrients required for spontaneous fermentation, making it an ideal introduction for beginners. Better still, the jar becomes a living project: one can replenish it with more honey or fresh ginger and garlic.

At her own home, Shah uses fermentation less as a culinary experiment and more as a solution to food waste. She has devised an elaborate fermentation system that transforms leftovers into a richly savoury tamari sauce. Almost anything destined for compost, from vegetable scraps, to stale pizza crusts, leftover mint chutney, aloo buns or even sushi, finds its way into the process. Using koji, the Japanese fermentation mould, along with salt, the ingredients are slowly developed into a miso-like mixture. Through a multi-tiered system of nested containers, the intensely flavourful liquid, or amino sauce, gradually drains into the bottom vessel. The result is a deeply umami condiment that keeps for months and can be used just like soy or fish sauce.

For Shah, the real magic lies not in the technique itself, but in its ability to turn food waste into flavour.

The Desi Cultures 2.0 festival was held on 18–26 July, 2026.

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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.

Few materials have transformed human civilisation as profoundly as plastic: lightweight, durable, inexpensive, and endlessly versatile. It's in the thin film coating fruits and vegetables in supermarkets, the bottle holding our water, the keyboard beneath our fingers, the fibres in our clothes, the dashboard of our cars, our spectacle frames, and the medical devices that save lives every day.  

It is woven into modern existence so intricately that it has become indispensable. And that is precisely what makes plastic so fascinating, and just as problematic.

Origins

Plastic originated as an alternative to natural materials like ivory, tortoiseshell, and shellac; this new, flexible synthetic polymer was considered remarkably useful, especially as industrialisation increased the demand for durable and affordable substitutes.

The 1860s saw the invention of Parkesine, a hard but flexible semi-synthetic plastic, and then celluloid, which gained commercial success as a substitute for ivory in products like piano keys, combs, and other objects.  

Then, in 1907, Belgian-American chemist Leo Baekeland invented Bakelite, the first fully synthetic plastic. Durable, heat-resistant, and electrically insulating, it found widespread industrial and household use, laying the foundation for the modern plastics industry. Incidentally, many pan handles today are still made of Bakelite.

The 1930s saw the development of polymers such as polyvinyl chloride (PVC), polyethylene (PE), polystyrene, and nylon, expanding plastic's applications across textiles, construction, and consumer goods. World War II accelerated plastic production, as synthetic materials replaced scarce natural resources in military equipment, packaging, and communication technologies. After the war, these innovations transitioned into everyday life, with plastics becoming central to mass consumer culture, democratising everyday products like dinnerware, that were once made of ivory and horn and considered luxuries. Synthetics like nylon revolutionised women’s fashion by replacing fragile silk with durable, affordable hosiery.    

In 1940, Fortune Magazine described the early years of the plastics industry as "something like the world on the first day of creation"; a limitless frontier where chemists could seemingly invent entirely new materials. Plastics were celebrated for their colours, and their ability to transform ordinary household objects into symbols of modern living. Manufacturers advertised what plastic replaced rather than the material itself, and by becoming ubiquitous, plastics became invisible.  

In the following decades, plastic production continued to rise rapidly, accompanied by the growth of disposable packaging and single-use products. It rose from approximately 2 million tonnes in the 1950s to 436 million tonnes in 2023.

At the same time, environmental awareness began to emerge, with early concerns about litter and pollution evolving into broader recognition of plastic's long-term ecological impacts.  

Manufacturers advertised what plastic replaced rather than the material itself, and by becoming ubiquitous, plastics became invisible.

By the 2000s, plastics had become indispensable to modern life, even as their persistence in the environment and accumulation in ecosystems raised urgent questions about sustainability and waste management. Environmentalists showed how ‘biodegradable plastics’ didn’t really degrade in real-world conditions. Marine samples collected in 2019 found plastics dating back to the 1960s.  

The irony here is impossible to ignore: the very qualities that made plastic revolutionary—durability, affordability, longevity, and versatility—are why it has now become one of humanity's most enduring environmental challenges.

From novelty to dependence

Plastic has become the backbone of the food and beverage industry, as well as agriculture: it now lines irrigation systems, covers crops, preserves freshness and nutrients through supply chains, prevents contamination, extends shelf life, reduces food waste and losses, and enables global supply chains that deliver exotic fruits, seafood, and even relief materials across continents.

Without plastic, modern food distribution systems might not exist on the scale they do today. Agricultural value chains use around 12.5 million tonnes of plastic annually, and food packaging comes up to a whopping 37.3 million tonnes. The food packaging market in 2025 was valued at over $420 billion, projected to touch $599 billion by 2033.

By 2023, the world was already producing over 430 million tonnes of plastic annually, a significant portion of which leaked into the environment. This comes up to roughly 52 kg of plastic produced by every single one of the 8.3 billion people on this planet, annually—which means that each of us generates a kilo of waste every week. Multiply that by the many more years we’ll live, and you get an even more alarming lifetime total.  

Also read: Bugging out: Why declining insect populations in India spell doom for agriculture

The problem

Unlike organic waste, plastic does not biodegrade or integrate into the soil. Instead, it fragments under sunlight, oceanic waves, and weather into progressively smaller particles: microplastics (smaller than 5 mm) and nanoplastics (smaller than 1 mm). These particles have now been found virtually everywhere, from deep oceans and Arctic sea ice to mountain snow, agricultural soils, rivers, and the air we breathe.  

Without plastic, modern food distribution systems might not exist on the scale they do today.

But plastic is no longer just an environmental issue; it is increasingly becoming a biological one.  

Marine organisms, from plankton and fish to turtles and seabirds, all ingest plastic directly or through contaminated prey, carrying it through entire food webs—webs that lead back to humans. Microplastics have now been detected in human blood, lungs, placentas, breast milk, liver, kidneys, and brain tissue. While scientists are still investigating their long-term health effects, studies suggest they may trigger inflammation and can have toxic effects at the cellular and tissue level.

Each year, millions of tonnes of plastic enter marine environments, where turtles mistake bags for jellyfish, and seabirds feed plastic fragments to their chicks. Abandoned fishing gear or ghost nets continue trapping marine life, coral reefs are smothered by debris, and hermit crabs occupy plastic caps instead of shells.  

Plastics created decades ago are still around, and while they may have originated on land, many have ended up in the oceans.

Which raises an uncomfortable question: what exactly are we leaving behind?

The scope and limits of solutions

The Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO) recommends a hierarchical 6R framework—Refuse, Redesign, Reduce, Reuse, Recycle and Recover—to move from a linear to a circular economy. The hierarchy prioritises avoiding unnecessary plastics and keeping products in use for as long as possible before recycling them.

However, recycling is not the solution many think it is. In 2019, only 9% of global plastic waste was recycled; 50% of it ended up in landfills, 19% was incinerated, and 22% was mismanaged, allowing around 22 million tonnes to leak into the environment. Many plastics can only be recycled a limited number of times before their quality degrades, ultimately going into landfills again.

Extended Producer Responsibility (EPR) is a policy approach that shifts accountability from consumers alone to the companies that manufacture and market plastic packaging. India’s Guidelines on Extended Producers Responsibility aim to do just that: the producers, importers, and brand owners are required to collect and process the plastic packaging they introduce into the market through deposit-refund systems, buyback schemes, or other strategies. When companies cannot realistically manage this on their own, they can outsource EPR to qualified third parties called Producer Responsibility Organisations (PRO).  

However, the success of these measures depends on collective choice, effective implementation, transparent monitoring, and meaningful integration of India’s vast informal waste sector.  

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

The plastic legacy

India’s situation probably reflects that of every developing country. We entered the plastic age much later than nations that were already industrialised, but plastic became integral quite rapidly after 1991’s economic liberalisation. Single-use sachets, introduced in the 1980s, soon became popular for their convenience and affordability. By the 1990s and 2000s, this low-cost packaging had expanded to consumer goods for ‘one serving’ portions, from coffee to oil to ketchup and pickle. These one-serve packets made consumer goods more accessible and affordable for rural populations, and companies capitalised on that.

Now, it is one of India’s most persistent challenges as sachets, with their mixed materials and small pieces, cannot be recycled, and these often leak out of the waste management chain into the environment.

Extended Producer Responsibility (EPR) is a policy approach that shifts accountability from consumers alone to the companies that manufacture and market plastic packaging.

I have childhood memories of walking to a dairy with my grandfather to buy milk, which was poured into our large, stainless-steel milk cans. The same dairy sold fresh paneer, and fresh curd set in large steel trays—nothing was packaged—and the grocery store nearby sold cold drinks in returnable glass bottles.  

I don’t remember when everything changed, but packets and plastic bottles became the norm. Admittedly, some of these options were more hygienic and made food easier to transport, with fewer chances of mid-chain adulteration or contamination. But it all came at a cost.  

We cannot eliminate plastic altogether, but we can attempt to use it intelligently, where it is genuinely indispensable, and reduce the unnecessary single-use applications that drive modern consumption. Our vegetables do not need extra packaging, nor do we need plastic carry bags for everything we purchase. We definitely do not need to use single-use sachets of face packs and cosmetic creams when reusable containers fit travel bags easily, and you can’t really go wrong with a reusable stainless steel water bottle.

Many of us aware of the problem have the privilege to choose better; but are we truly exercising that privilege in a way that matters? Shampoo and detergent sachets may be an affordable necessity for some, but not small packs of cosmetic skin creams and hair conditioner.

We are leaving behind trillions of microscopic particles already embedded in oceans, soils, freshwater systems, wildlife, food, and living tissues. Long after today's products have been forgotten and discarded, their microscopic remnants might still be circulating through ecosystems and living bodies, where they definitely don’t belong.  

We cannot eliminate plastic altogether, but we can attempt to use it intelligently, where it is genuinely indispensable, and reduce the unnecessary single-use applications that drive modern consumption.

For context: a plastic bottle can take around 450 years to break down, a fishing line 600, plastic bags can take 20 years, and your takeaway containers and coffee cups hang around for at least 50 years. These eventually break down, continuing to live on in the environment for decades more. They are never truly gone.

But let’s hit pause here. None of this means plastic is inherently evil. On the contrary, the invention has enabled major advancements across several fields.  

The problem lies in our usage, in the lack of accountability of big corporations, and policies that do not translate into action. All the plastic we produce today is likely to outlive us in some form. The tragedy is not that plastic was invented, but that we built a disposable culture around a material that was designed to last.

‍Cover art by Pratik Bhide

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

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Welcome to the Good Food Movement’s Climate Crisis Dictionary—your online guide to environmental phenomena and the science behind them.

Sponge City (noun)

Coined in: 2003

Coined by: Chinese landscape architect and urban planner Kongjian Yu (While it was formally introduced by Yu as an urban planning model in his home country, the concept draws inspiration from many water harvesting techniques around the world, like India’s stepwells and johads, and Water Sensitive Urban Design in Australia)

TLDR: Restoring our cities’ naturally ‘spongy’ blue-green infrastructure (like lakes, rivers, soil and mangroves) and creating more absorbent landscapes can help store, filter and reuse stormwater, and mitigate flood risk.

The longer explanation

By June 19, 2026, the seven lake reservoirs that supply drinking water to Mumbai had fallen to just 9.34% of their combined capacity. In other words, Mumbai had 40 days of water left. This prompted domestic and industrial water cuts across the metropolitan region.

Yet, when the first rains arrived in the last week of June after a long wait, Mumbai flooded overnight. Shrinking wetland cover and turbocharged concretisation mean the city can now scarcely absorb rainwater, which darts away as run-off. 

Like Mumbai, India's other cities, too, are oscillating between floods and chronic water shortages. Globally, floods account for 35–40% of weather-related disaster occurrences, as per data from the United Nations Office for Disaster Risk Reduction. By the middle of this century, 4 out of every 5 people affected by a flooding-related disaster will live in Asia.

But why are cities more prone to flooding today, and why are they taking longer to recover from floods? Their surface area is covered with hard, impermeable surfaces. Just like our skin, our cities need pores. Asphalt and concrete seal those pores shut. Paved areas prevent rainwater from sinking into the ground.

A 2022 study conducted by the World Resources Institute–that examined India’s ten most populated cities–demonstrated that built-up area (land covered by human-made structures as opposed to open land) expanded by 52% between 2000 and 2015, with 44% of new development occurring on high or very high groundwater recharge zones—areas where rainwater seeps into the earth, replenishing groundwater reserves. This diverted nearly 300 billion litres of water annually away from aquifers, which could have met 20% of the water demand generated by a growing urban population.

The frequency and intensity of flood events in India make the image of Noah's Ark feel less like legend and more a modern parable. In this environment, sponge cities are emerging as a nature-based intervention of learning to live with water rather than fighting against it. Modern cities borrow water from the future, sponge cities try to pay it back.

As Kongjian Yu says, “When water has space, it slows down.” Conventional urban planning has long treated rainwater as a nuisance to be speedily redirected, especially away from the more gentrified areas of the city. Gutters, storm drains and concrete channels are designed to rush water away from where it falls. But this approach can simply move the problem downstream to other parts of the city, and especially increase flood risk elsewhere, like for informal settlements in low-lying areas.  

 Modern cities borrow water from the future, sponge cities try to pay it back.

Sponge cities, on the other hand, are rooted in the ancient wisdom of traditional water use and harvesting techniques. Cities have various natural drainage systems like lakes, waterways, open soil and vegetation, and marshlands. A space redesigned as a sponge city, such as playgrounds or parking lots, works with these aspects of the land to slow, absorb, filter and hold, and reuse stormwater rather than channeling it away through grey infrastructure like pipes and concrete channels.

Their framing as an urban development model was first integrated as part of China’s nationwide sustainability policy in 2013-14. Cities across the world, including Shanghai, Copenhagen and Auckland are also investing in nature-based engineering like permeable pavements, and building ponds and rain gardens that store excess rainfall in underground storage tanks and tunnels. By temporarily storing excess rainfall, cities can release it gradually once rivers and existing drainage systems have enough capacity to safely carry it.

In India, urban nature-based design and landscaping firm Sponge Collaborative has worked with the Greater Chennai Corporation (GCC) to restore a degraded wetland in Porur as the Dr. M. S. Swaminathan Wetland Eco Park, after the city experienced devastating floods in December 2015. Reflecting on the lessons learnt from working with this highly successful project, co-founder Manushi Jain says that identifying a location for a park is a data-driven approach, and not an arbitrary process of converting parks at random. What was the site’s historical ecology, and can that natural character be restored? Assessing its drainage patterns, soil type, hydrology and lithology (physical characteristics of the rocks) are as important. At Porur, rain is not treated as a nuisance, but invited to linger. Stormwater enters a chain of ponds, where gravity settles out any large particles and impurities. Native reeds and wetland plants cleanse the water and fix nitrogen and phosphorus. The restored wetlands and ponds hold this rain before releasing it downstream.

Sponge parks can thus also act like a city’s ‘savings account.’

Since its opening in 2025, the M. S. Swaminathan Park has reportedly managed over 20 million litres of stormwater during the height of monsoon; it has also been able to manage over 90% of stormwater runoff generated on-site rather than discharging it into the city's drains. In storing about 30 million litres of rainwater, it has eased the pressure on conventional drainage and mitigated flood risk in the city. Sponge parks can thus also act like a city’s ‘savings account.’

Thermal imaging has also mapped the area to be 10-15°C cooler than its surrounding built area. 

More from our Climate Crisis Dictionary: Urban heat islands: Sweaty cities made of rising skyscrapers, vanishing trees 

What this means for humans

Can sponge cities be imagined in India? What would they look like in the face of the country’s environmental governance? India has enthusiastically experimented with this model, with Chennai being the most visible testing ground; the GCC constructed 57 sponge parks across Chennai in 2023-24 alone. Others have mushroomed in cities like Mumbai, Kochi and Ahmedabad. However, the limitations of constructing sponge parks at scale have been stark. Large funds are siphoned away, only for construction to involve quick fixes. Pond bunds have been raised with cement and plastic, which risk polluting the aquifer. Stormwater drains have been linked directly with ponds, risking an intermingling with sewage.

We’re used to building concrete boxes as rainwater harvesting systems, says Jain. Governments believe that ‘landscape’ shouldn’t cost much and should maintain itself. Administrative red tape, departments functioning in silos, the nature of the sponge city not being standardised or included in policy, and political motivations to pseudo-adapt sustainable solutions at scale only result in flawed solutions and implementation. 

There is no cookie cutter mechanism of designing a sponge park. It’s important to look at site-specific conditions—whether it has rocky, clayey or sandy soils, compacted ground, different aquifers and drainage patterns—and then decide on optimal interventions (like improving soil porosity and selecting appropriate vegetation).

These early experiments raise a larger question: what does an aspiring sponge city look like?

Sponge cities are not a hark back to what once was, but champion a sensitive development. The aim is to enhance the natural capacities of a region. What if we were to restore Bengaluru’s historic kaluves, a centuries-old network of interconnected man-made lakes and storm-water canals, which are now carriers of sewage? Or preserve Mumbai’s vast marshlands and mangroves, often deemed wasteland and up for grabs in the land reclamation battle, which have historically protected against sea level rise and the fierce monsoon? Dr. Hita Unnikrishnan, Sustainable Development Studies professor at University of Warwick, says that the focus of sponge cities should be on restoring what already exists, in a socially sensitive manner, before applying newer solutions. 

“This is not just important from the perspective of reducing urban flooding and facilitating adequate drainage, but can also foster local biodiversity, improve local microclimate, as well provide water that recharges cities’ shallow aquifers,” she explains. “This will reduce dependency on deep underground reserves of groundwater—the depletion of which is one of the reasons regions like Bengaluru are constantly on the verge of running out of water supply.” Only when this isn’t possible, solutions that are in tandem with the character of the site can be engineered, she says. 

Ultimately, even nature-based solutions have their limitations— including heavy investment in long-term sustainable returns (a newer position for India’s instant gratification-charged bureaucracy). In an extreme weather event, like a cloudburst, or a 25-year return storm event, even sponge cities may reach their threshold and collapse. China's experience illustrates that sponge cities are not a silver bullet—and work best in shepherding moderate rainfall, not eliminating flood risk altogether. 

India is yet to standardise what the meaning and implementation of sponge cities would look like, which significantly complicates things.

In already built-up neighbourhoods, they can be created incrementally by replacing impermeable surfaces with permeable pavements, converting parking lots into rain gardens, installing bioswales along roads, creating green roofs, or redesigning public spaces to temporarily store stormwater. The idea is not always to create entirely new landscapes, but to make existing urban infrastructure work more like a sponge.

One of the biggest challenges was getting engineers and contractors to embrace unfamiliar materials and construction methods instead of defaulting to concrete, Jain says. Her team spent months on site, teaching contractors how to work with new materials. The hidden success of designing a sponge park was that engineers themselves understandood the value of nature-based solutions. Small steps on the ground propel change.

But India is yet to standardise what the meaning and implementation of sponge cities would look like, which significantly complicates things. Our cities are highly built-up, with fragmented land ownership and competing development pressures. Sponge cities also have their limitations: it might be difficult to retrofit existing neighbourhoods given the model’s initial expense. No less effortful is customising each sponge park, extending care and consideration for local micro-complexities and conditions. If sponge cities are going to be the next big buzzword in climate adaptation strategies, then it is very important that they steer clear of panacea approaches—what has worked elsewhere is not likely to guarantee the same success when transplanted into other contexts, Dr. Unnikrishnan says. 

Another thing to consciously ensure is that sponge cities work especially for the most climate-vulnerable groups and not exacerbate existing inequalities. It’s easy for them to translate into interventions in certain neighbourhoods being prioritised over others. From what history tells us, this would then lead to further forms of gentrification. Neighbourhoods (and cities) that are economically well off, financially profitable and important to India’s global image may be singled out, which would also mean that an entire city might not function as a sponge city, but rather might give rise to ‘islands of sponges’ where change is concentrated, creating an illusion of climate resilience while the rest of the city still suffers climate risks.

Successful sponge parks are built with people, says Jain. Much depends on the people who live alongside them. Involving the community and making the sponge park a biodiversity haven as well as a social amenity is vital. Do people in the neighbourhood have a place of recreation; or are there schools and hospitals that could be flooded? Solutions shouldn’t be top-down but make use of this ecological knowledge suffused in that region, and make the most vulnerable members part of the planning process, says Dr. Unnikrishnan. That participatory approach not only leads to better designs, but also creates a sense of ownership, strengthens long-term stewardship and maintenance—and acknowledges that this is not another construction initiative, but a co-creation with people whose histories actually play out here.

Illustrated by Jishnu Bandyopadhyay

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