Nutrition is often framed as a result of individual choices: eating a balanced meal, consuming more protein-rich food, including more leafy vegetables in one’s diet. But in many societies, including India, the presence of a particular food item in a household does not necessarily mean that every family member has equal access to it. Gender, age and one’s position in the household often determine who eats first, who is served larger portions, and who is expected to sacrifice when food is scarce.
Women frequently eat after other family members, satiate their appetite with leftovers, or reduce their intake so that children and other male relatives have enough to eat—treating their own needs as an afterthought. Women who eat well, demand one more serving, and don’t willingly sacrifice are seen through a lens of shame, making nutritional availability a gendered issue. Worse still, owing to prevalent social/religious beliefs, a menstruating family member may be forbidden from consuming certain nutrient-rich foods, such as eggs. Demanding dietary improvements from women proves futile when the food on their plate is beyond their control.
Demanding dietary improvements from women proves futile when the food on their plate is beyond their control.
The human body is not immune to the impacts of such everyday adjustments and sacrifices. “Nutrition also depends on whether you are having your meals at the right time, in the right quantities, and the way you’re having them—if you’re eating too fast, if you’re having very little of everything, or eating something that barely qualifies as a meal,” says Dr. Kaavya Sreedhar, a Gurgaon-based gynaecologist, currently practicing at Manipal Hospital. Consuming enough calories, in diets dominated by carbohydrates and fats, may not translate into a nutritious meal. When it comes to menstrual health, fullness or satiety is not a guarantee of positive outcomes—especially in urban contexts, where diets include inexpensive, energy-dense ultraprocessed foods, one can consume enough or more calories while still falling short on essential micronutrients.
UNICEF notes that poor nutrition among adolescent girls and women can have consequences across the course of life and contribute to intergenerational cycles of malnutrition. The National Family Health Survey-5 (2019-2021) found that around 57% of women aged 15-49 in India were anaemic, including 59.1% of those between 15-19 years. This reality is particularly harsh for adolescents, because puberty and menarche—the first menstrual cycle—are accompanied by rapid bodily growth and changes.
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While the NFHS-6 (2023-24) shows a decrease in Body Mass Index (BMI), indicating a rise in malnutrition and undernutrition, the survey has excluded estimates of anaemia along with other significant population-level indicators, including mortality rates and sex ratio. Public health experts have raised concerns about anaemia’s omission, since the NFHS has, in the past, provided critical evidence to assess whether government interventions were effective in tackling iron deficiency. The government cites the inaccuracy of the finger-prick blood testing method used in previous surveys as a reason for the removal of the metric. In a response to Parliament in July this year, the Ministry of Health and Family Welfare said that the Indian Council of Medical Research (ICMR) will provide the replacement data based on blood samples sourced through the venous method (blood drawn from the veins), though it has not publicised a timeline/deadline.
The National Family Health Survey-5 (2019-2021) found that around 57% of women aged 15-49 in India were anaemic, including 59.1% of those between 15-19 years.
Various policies, including the Scheme for Adolescent Girls (SAG) and the Rashtriya Kishor Swasthya Karyakram (RKSK), have made considerable progress in improving menstrual hygiene and awareness. The nationwide Menstrual Hygiene Scheme focuses on increasing awareness, enhancing accessibility to sanitary napkins, and promoting sustainable disposal facilities among girls in the age group of 10-19, alongside educating and sensitising school teachers, Auxiliary Nurse Midwives (ANM), Accredited Social Health Activists (ASHA) and Anganwadi workers.
But nutrition becomes a loosely integrated thread within these policies, and this is not for a lack of focused schemes; India has extensive frameworks to address anaemia and malnutrition, including the Anaemia Mukt Bharat and the Weekly Iron Folic Acid Supplementation (WIFS) that has a special emphasis on the menstruating population. India has also successfully implemented programs like Integrated Child Development Services Scheme (ICDS) and Poshan Abhiyan to improve the nutritional goals of school-going children. However, there are no programs linking menstrual health and nutrition. Dr. Sreedhar observes, “Any kind of conversation about nutrition, in and around puberty or menstrual cycle, is completely absent.”
Most menstrual hygiene interventions at the government policy-level assign schools as the sites of action. This approach has made significant progress, but it also excludes girls who are out of school– those who work as child labourers, and those who drop out early due to poverty or early marriage. Dr. Arundati Muralidharan, co-founder of the think tank Menstrual Health Action for Impact (MHAi), explains: “The minute you are out of school, there is no menstrual health or hygiene intervention. For an adult woman, for the next 30 years of your menstruation, you don’t exist unless you are pregnant or have given birth. We fall out of the health system altogether.”
When household resources are limited, spending on menstrual products, healthcare or nutritious food tends to compete with other essential expenditures. According to NFHS-6 data, the percentage of Indian women in the age group of 15-24, who use ‘hygienic methods of protection’ during periods, has seen a minuscule rise from 77.6% to 79.2%. Food insecurity and menstrual health can reinforce one another as manifestations of existing socioeconomic gaps.
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India has come a long way in the context of menstrual hygiene, from rolling out a Menstrual Hygiene Scheme in 2011—making it one of the earliest countries to do so across the world—to declaring menstrual health and hygiene as a fundamental right this year. Despite being introduced as an all-inclusive policy, the Menstrual Hygiene Scheme has been limited in its scope and has not been further developed to accommodate the varied needs of the population. Most of these programs proceed to treat malnutrition through a diagnostic approach, which tests and treats the issue through supplements. This often ignores the fact that in India, food is something that is invisibly governed. Further, current awareness programs place the onus of nutritional responsibility on the menstruating individual rather than addressing systemic gaps.
According to Dr. Karan Babbar, who teaches Economics at the Xavier School of Management, Jamshedpur, “Indian policies have traditionally approached menstrual hygiene, adolescent health, maternal nutrition and anaemia through somewhat different programme structures. There is value in having specialised programmes, but the danger is that we end up with vertical programmes addressing interconnected problems separately.” Thus, envisioning conceptually complementary policies does not guarantee an integrated approach on the ground. These services ought to be presented as a package.
Most of these programs proceed to treat malnutrition through a diagnostic approach, which tests and treats the issue through supplements.
“A nutrition-sensitive menstrual health approach would recognise that the nutritional needs of a 12-year-old adolescent, a woman in her reproductive years, a pregnant woman and a woman approaching menopause are not identical,” adds Dr. Babbar, whose work lies at the intersection of gender, health and development.
Effective utilisation of the mid-day meal scheme in Anganwadis and schools, by catering to region-specific nutritional needs, can be an effective way to ensure these needs are met, says Dr. Muralidharan. However, this cannot be a substitute for household food security. She notes that nutritional levels can be tracked at the local level with the help of ASHA and Anganwadi workers. Local self-help groups, who are in constant touch with communities, are also helpful sources, as they are involved in grassroots-level implementation of health and nutrition schemes, especially in rural areas. However, it is unrealistic to depend on them to implement a coherent plan without allocating proper time, training, resources and adequate monetary incentives.
A nutrition-sensitive menstrual health approach would recognise that the nutritional needs of a 12-year-old adolescent, a woman in her reproductive years, a pregnant woman and a woman approaching menopause are not identical.
The most efficient way to tackle this issue is to bring together various departments, including Health and Family Welfare, Women and Child Development, and Food and Public Distribution. Until policy gaps are fixed, nutrition will continue to be an overlooked factor in the discussion on menstrual health.
Also read: Menopause: The seen and unseen toll on women's bodies
Cover Art by Pratik Bhide
Editor's Note: Urban farmer Simran Moorjani is the founder of Simbiosis, a regenerative farm on the outskirts of Mumbai, where she grows tomatoes and salad leaves while maintaining a symbiotic relationship with the land. In this column, she reflects on the realities of farming—sometimes with humour, sometimes with candour, always with curiosity.
It’s a known fact that to this day, we depend on plants for most of our needs. Yet we tend to confuse our needs—for food, oxygen, and healing—with the plants’ very existence. Even in school, when we learnt about “the role of plants”, their importance was explained keeping in mind their usefulness to us, the supposedly superior species!
Despite our self-centred worldview, and beyond the scope of domestication, the plants on this planet aren’t for us (we've reportedly tamed only 1% of them anyway). They happen to have been here far before us, and will be here long after us. Their purpose has never been to be an endless supply of oxygen for silly ’ole you. They happen to produce oxygen by virtue of simply existing.
I’ve often found myself wondering about this question of “purpose”, and I’m not alone in this endeavour; scientists like biologists have been studying it for centuries.
Despite our self-centred worldview, and beyond the scope of domestication, the plants on this planet aren’t for us.
From an evolutionary standpoint, the answer is: to survive, reproduce, and successfully pass on genes to the next generation. To grow each day, photosynthesise and produce food. To spread roots deep into the soil, in search for nutrients to grow healthier. To build a defence against pathogens, animals, and the environment. To flower, brightly and beautifully, to attract pollinators such as bees and butterflies.
Through these processes, the plant learns, adapts to its surroundings, and makes itself stronger so it can bear fruit. Inside that fruit lie seeds, carrying very specific genetic instructions coded with everything the plant has learnt during its lifespan. Its goal here is to disperse the seeds far and wide, hoping its successors have the best possible chance at taking its genes forward.
Almost exactly like humans, if you think about it.
In 2021, after a nourishing stint at Vrindavan Farm on Mumbai’s outskirts, I received my first batch of their tomatoes. Stuck at home during the COVID-19 lockdown, I was excited to hold fruited versions of the flowers I had last seen on the farm. With little to no wisdom about how tomato seeds are saved, I just plucked them from the fruit and dried them on toilet paper and saved them in a zip-lock packet for a few months, before I could plant them in the upcoming winter. To my surprise, they actually grew!
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Every season since, we’ve been saving the seeds of the tomatoes we grow, while adding some new ones from reliable sources to the mix. It was a really pleasant surprise to me this year when I laid all the seeds we are going to plant—over 50 varieties. I’ve watched them naturalise in my fields (learn to survive in a new environment), and gotten to know them better each year. With every season, my knowledge about them grows, and so does this little seed bank.
Every season since, we’ve been saving the seeds of the tomatoes we grow, while adding some new ones from reliable sources to the mix.
Though the process of saving seeds can be as simple as drying them on tissue paper like I first did, that’s not what we do at Simbiosis anymore. I found that there was a better way: fermentation.
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We begin by picking the right tomato to save. Yes, a mother isn’t supposed to choose from among her children, but we know there’s always a favourite. In our pragmatism, we pick the strongest, biggest, juiciest tomato we see. If you go for one that’s diseased or limp, there’s a chance that the plant born from it will yield the same diseases. Personally, I’ve noticed that the first to flower and fruit usually happen to have the best qualities. Through the fruiting season, tomatoes also tend to get smaller, so I prefer to set aside the first few for saving.
In our pragmatism, we pick the strongest, biggest, juiciest tomato we see. If you go for one that’s diseased or limp, there’s a chance that the plant born from it will yield the same diseases.
Now comes the fermentation: in any glass jar, squeeze the tomato so that the pulp falls in, mucilage and all. (This mucilage, the slippery, jelly-like layer surrounding the seed, serves a function, too—to stop the seed from germinating while inside the tomato.) Fill about half of the jar with water, cover its mouth with a tissue or cloth, and place it in a warm spot (but away from direct sunlight), where you can look at it every day.
We then let microbes do their magic: healthy, dense, fully-developed seeds sink to the bottom of the jar, while empty or dead seeds remain light and float to the top. The fermentation process also breaks down the mucilage completely. And finally, it creates an acidic environment that naturally sanitises the seeds, making them ideal for saving and banking.
It typically takes 3–4 days for the seed to separate from the pulp, after which they can be washed and strained using a sieve. The seeds can now be put to bed till you next need them, and their fate hereon depends on storing them correctly. I prefer to use waterproof environments (like zip-lock). Some farmers store seeds in wood ash, because it is hygroscopic (naturally moisture-absorbing) and acts like a DIY silica gel packet. It pulls excess dampness out of the air inside the storage container, keeping the seeds completely dry and preventing them from prematurely rotting or sprouting. The priority is keeping seeds away from heat and water, in whose presence most pathogens breed. I’ve seen some people store their seeds in their refrigerators as well; I simply keep them in a box under my bed.
Also read: Tomato Truths: To know your farmer is to know your food
In large-scale seed banks, seeds are stored in highly secure, climate-controlled repositories designed to preserve plant genetics for decades, or even centuries. The standard international temperature for long-term storage in vaults is -18°C, or about 0°F. At this sub-zero temperature, the seeds' metabolic activity slows down to a near-complete halt, effectively putting them into a state of suspended animation so they can remain viable for long periods.
Given Simbiosis’ scope and values, neither do I have the facility for such storage, nor the need for it. I aim to grow crops annually, and the dip in seed potency isn’t significant in tomatoes for the first couple of years, though a gradual decrease is visible even in the short term. I sometimes dip into an old packet of seeds, just to see what they’d grow to be!
Historically, seed saving preserved power in the hands of farmers, enabling them to be autonomous and self-reliant. Season after season, year after year, heirloom seeds were passed down from one generation to the next—an inheritance of its own kind. Seed exchanges or barters of produce between people in the same geography also fostered a sense of community. Some seeds have even been instrumental to beloved crops shaping a region and its inhabitants’ lives, like the San Marzano tomatoes of Italy’s Campania, or even the Ratnagiri alphonso mangoes closer home.
As vital as seeds are to the very first steps a farmer may take, they are being painted as an “inconvenience” to modern consumers. “Seedless fruits” have infiltrated the mainstream fruit and veggie market, with the promise of doing away with the tediousness of de-seeding. Yet, this is not merely about benefits to consumers. Corporate profitability is a big driver of seedless produce, especially when 3–4 big players now have control over more than half the world’s commercial seed supply. These players enter into exploitative relationships with farmers, forbidding them from seed saving and forcing them to buy new stores each year. What does this mean for the future of food and food security? And how will it change the ordinary farmer’s relationship to their fields?
As vital as seeds are to the very first steps a farmer may take, they are being painted as an “inconvenience” to modern consumers.
Ever since I grew my first batch of tomatoes, I learnt that their seeds admittedly require more TLC than other crops. Lady fingers, for example, dry in their fruiting bodies themselves; you have to just resist the urge to pluck them before they entirely dry out. So is also the case in most pulses and beans. Seeds for flowers are also pretty similar: the flower head is dried out, and what’s left in the central cluster is saved. Even if the seeds of the Marinda or cherry tomatoes I choose to grow require more care and work, they seem inextricable to me from my identity as a farmer. My collection of seeds feels like my IP, each one a little, living witness to my own growth.
Also read: Tomato Truths: Growing your own food is a radical, rewarding thing
Cover Art by Pearl D'Souza
Carousel Photographs by Simran Moorjani and G5A
Industrial pollution is destroying the Earth. But we aren't quite ready to ask brands, companies and conglomerates to quit. How else will we get our phones, clothes, and cars?
Alongside policies—half-hearted or genuine—to adopt eco-friendly alternatives in manufacturing and production, and worldwide appeals to simply consume less, there has been an attempt to negotiate between the demands of a modern life and the need for a clean environment. The deal that the world managed to strike, through the 1997 Kyoto Protocol, is one that we know as carbon credits.
Think of carbon credits as coupons. To earn these coupons, companies have to keep their emissions below the benchmark prescribed by their country’s government. They can then sell these coupons to companies that were not able to meet the benchmark. Thus, the premise of the carbon credit system is that high-polluting companies buy the permits for their excesses from their less polluting counterparts. In countries like the US and Brazil, this target sets a total emission limit for the industry as a whole. Countries like India, Indonesia, and China instead choose an efficiency-focused benchmark, where companies have to reduce the quantity of greenhouse gases they are emitting per unit of production.
But this only applies to industries where the government makes it a compliance requirement, i.e. the compulsory carbon market. In India, work towards it has begun, but trading will only commence in October 2026. Before it emerged a voluntary carbon market wherein companies can “offset” their polluting activities. Their motivation? Being able to claim they are “net zero” or “carbon neutral”. Many multinational companies also make proactive commitments towards such goals, and voluntary carbon markets help them fulfil these.
These credits can serve as a way to support India's large farming populations to transition to sustainable farming while increasing carbon sequestration and reducing greenhouse gases.
India is one of the largest voluntary carbon credit markets. One sector stands out, both because it has already seen high activity (adding up to 24% of all current projects), and because it has high potential for removing carbon from the atmosphere: agriculture, with sustainable practices having the capacity to sequester 85.5 Mt CO2 annually while enhancing rural incomes and engaging a large section of the economy.
Agricultural carbon markets hold a lot of promise if the regulatory system is set up properly. With India having more than 50 agricultural carbon credit projects currently, targeting 16.5 million hectares, it is emerging as a leader in the space, and deserves careful attention. These credits can serve as a way to support India's large farming populations to transition to sustainable farming while increasing carbon sequestration and reducing greenhouse gases. They are linked to specific projects, like agroforestry ventures, or implementing water conservation techniques. But what do these projects look like in practice, and what kind of future can they hold for our farmers?
To understand how this works on-ground, let us follow a hypothetical project. A project developer (sometimes an NGO, usually a start-up) decides to help farmers in West Bengal shift to an alternative technique to cultivate paddy: the wetting and drying method. Long-term flooding of paddy fields releases large quantities of methane. The wetting and drying method ensures that the fields are flooded for lesser time, hence reducing greenhouse gas emissions. This combination of geography, goal, and behavioural shift becomes the basis for planning out the project.
Certain independent certification bodies (notably Verra), set standards and methodologies to ensure that carbon credits are being awarded fairly. They outline what parameters to use to measure changes, how frequently to measure these parameters, how to report them, and the eligibility criteria that qualify it for credits. Each sustainable practice comes under an outlined methodology. For example, alternate wetting and drying comes under the VM0051 titled 'Improved Water Management in Rice Production Systems'.
The NGO designs the details of the project to align with the methodologies outlined by international standards. This design has to be approved by a third-party auditor before the project is officially registered with the standard. It's only after this that the NGO reaches out to farmers or farmer groups. They explain the process to the farmers: how it can benefit them, and how long it might take for the project to bear fruit (in the form of meaningfully reduced emissions)—usually anywhere between 3 and 5 years for agricultural projects.
Throughout this period, the NGO continues to be in touch with the farmers, measuring the changes in soil and emissions. How they maintain the records of these projects is critical, since the final audit of their documents and calculations determines if (and how many) carbon credits get issued. Issuance of credits is the equivalent of a product finally entering supermarket shelves, and much like these everyday products, credits sit among a plethora of options, ready for polluting bodies to purchase. Credits can only be purchased after they are issued, with companies or governments being the usual buyers.
Issuance of credits is the equivalent of a product finally entering supermarket shelves, and much like these everyday products, credits sit among a plethora of options, ready for polluting bodies to purchase.
Environmental and resource economist Dr. A. G. Adeeth Cariappa shares that of the 120+ agricultural carbon credit projects listed in India, only 4-5 projects (~3%) are issuing credits—a recent development, since they were issued only last December. The money that comes in is divided between the project developer and farmers. "Project developers are reporting that they will provide probably 50% of the gross revenue, or 70% of the net revenue to the farmers," says Dr. Cariappa.
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The supermarket analogy highlights much that is imperfect with the current carbon market. Farmers and project developers stick their necks out to reduce emissions or sequester carbon into the soil, only to become one among many options that a company can pick from. There is no guarantee that the credit is bought, and since it is not a product that expires, there's no way to tell when and if it will be bought either.
Cariappa shares that as per the surveys he was part of in 2023 and 2025, though a handful of farmers had been given advances, most farmers had not received any money. But he remains hopeful. "At that time, audits hadn't been done and sales were not happening. But this time, there are issuances, there are sales, and probably by the end of the year, we will have a better picture of if farmers have received the money or not."
Naturally, the farmer is more vulnerable than any other stakeholder in this scenario: they are the ones bearing the most risk—of yield, weather, markets and prices—by changing their practices. These risks can take the form of failed rains, pest attacks, delayed sowing, skyrocketing input prices, or fluctuations in the price that the grain commands. The compensation promised, if it comes, arrives after the hardest years have passed. Farmers often back out of projects precisely because this sort of support is unavailable.
The blame for these gaps in remuneration is usually placed squarely on project developers, especially if they are well-funded. It is their responsibility to plan for these payments not only out of fairness, but to ensure that their project sustains and yields results. But Cariappa, who has criticised project developers in the past, concedes that this might be an unfair burden to place on them.
Project developers are often start-ups putting their own funds or that of an investor into the project and waiting 3-5 years without any revenue. As far as carbon credits are concerned, farmers and project developers exist in a symbiotic relationship. Without farmers adopting the practices, there are no carbon credits and consequently no reason for the project developer to exist. But without the project developer or carbon market, the farmer has no chance at that additional income. How, then, can these projects receive funds when they most need it?
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Cariappa outlines three possible routes that can be explored. First, securing investments from banks and non-banking financial companies (NBFCs). But he admits that the agricultural carbon markets are too nascent to draw in ready investors.
Naturally, the farmer is more vulnerable than any other stakeholder in this scenario: they are the ones bearing the most risk—of yield, weather, markets and prices—by changing their practices.
An emerging solution to this has been offtake agreements. Here, a company commits to purchasing credits at the outset of the project. The agreement becomes a guarantee against which funds can be raised. It also brings greater rigour into the implementation process, driven by the buyer's expectations.
Offtake agreements are the route with most activity in India right now, with the Varaha-Microsoft and the The Good Rice Alliance-Amazon agreements signed earlier this year; both being closely observed as emerging models in India's agricultural carbon markets.
Cariappa shares that buyers can also control other attributes of the project while entering the agreement, including how inclusive it is. This has the potential to balance out the current tendency of these projects to choose farmers from privileged castes and larger landholding.
In the meantime, governments can lend support by tapping into existing staff and extension systems, and providing the manpower needed by these projects. Companies can finance Krishi Vigyan Kendras (KVKs) and utilise their services to collect data, touch base with farmers at regular intervals etc.
Currently, the agricultural carbon markets are still finding their footing. Projects take significantly longer to get registered in India than in other parts of Asia. Even globally, it is a sector that sees the most number of projects being put on hold or rejected. Project financing is not yet streamlined, and offtake agreements, while promising, cannot be the sole financing mechanism companies rely on. "Until and unless there is some formal mechanism of co-financing outside the offtake agreements, it's difficult for the project developers to even sustain," Cariappa concludes.
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Think about the bottle of water you grab on a day out, or the bar of chocolate you buy on a bad day. In fact, think of what’s currently on your grocery list and in your refrigerator. The thing that ties these products together—and envelops them too—is plastic that none of us sought out or asked for, but that which we must accept anyway.
Nowhere is plastic deployed in greater quantities than packaging. More than 41% percent of all packaging in India is plastic, and the material makes up 55.92% of all food and beverage packaging. Of all of plastic’s uses, packaging is the most concerning because it tends to be single-use by design. Single-use packaging carries a greater guarantee of hygiene, but the use of thinner, lighter plastic is also based on calculations of cost.
You are urged to think of your consumeristic tendencies, but seldom is it acknowledged that you exist within a system that incentivises use-and-throw consumerism.
How much of it gets recycled? The data is hazy: government records quote percentages ranging from 13% to 60%; all the while, how these varying numbers were arrived at has not been explained. The chances of plastic packaging getting recycled are made worse thanks to contamination from leftover bits and traces of food.
Meanwhile, the conscientious consumer who tries to cut down their plastic consumption discovers in their endeavour a current that they are pushing against: everything—from the atta packet to the ice cream wrapper—has plastic. You are urged to think of your consumeristic tendencies, but seldom is it acknowledged that you exist within a system that incentivises use-and-throw consumerism. How does one exist as a modern consumer and understand plastic for more than its reputation as 'evil'?
The first fully synthetic plastic was invented in 1907 in the US. Plastics are deeply linked with petroleum refineries, since by-products of oil refining like ethane are critical to their manufacture. A flourishing petroleum industry has played no small role in how much plastic global markets have encountered in the decades since its invention.
India had started producing plastics by 1947. By 1957, it had made its first foray into thermoplastics—a type that can be melted and remoulded repeatedly. This versatility in shape and thickness meant that plastic could metamorphose into all kinds of consumer goods, from buckets to biscuit packets.
Any packaging expert today, especially those designing food packaging, considers it a boon. It is cheap, lightweight, versatile, and most importantly, safeguards food from spoilage and contamination. The concept is simple: the more external factors (like air and moisture) food is exposed to, the faster it perishes. Plastic blocks moisture and gases from escaping into and from products. For instance, in a packet of masala, plastic prevents moisture and oxygen from entering and causing spoilage, but it also prevents aromatic compounds—which give the spice its distinctive smell—from escaping. Considerations of transparency, thickness, flexibility, and the specific strength of that plastic (like thermal resistance or oxygen barrier properties) together decide what type gets used in food packaging.
In its early years, plastic was heralded for its contributions to food safety and reducing food waste. The increase in shelf life it enabled also gained importance, as cities and towns became more and more distant from the centres of agriculture and food production. Food needs to be protected and kept fresh as it makes its journey to us.
As many ineffectively implemented bans will testify, plastic has created a dependence that is hard to disengage from.
Many continue to argue, even today, that plastic manufacturing has a lower carbon footprint than some of its more eco-friendly counterparts, like glass and cardboard. The big problem with plastic, of course, is that it cannot return to the earth the way glass can. (Glass is made from melting sand, and gradually erodes till it becomes sand again.) Even hundreds of years later, when plastic is broken down from sheet to particle, it becomes harmful micro- or nanoplastic, and remains indestructible precisely because it does not come from nature.
But there is no easy, quick replacement for plastics in food packaging as of now. As many ineffectively implemented bans will testify, plastic has created a dependence that is hard to disengage from. What can help perhaps, is to stop seeing plastic as a monolith.
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Not all plastics are equal. This is intuitive knowledge, in some ways; we know that the material of a bottle of mineral water is different from its cap, which in turn is different from a pouch of milk. These differences are formalised in Resin Identification Codes (RIC), numbered 1 to 7, which categorise plastics by their polymer type. All plastics are made up of polymers, which are long chains of carbon and hydrogen, and derive their unique properties from differences in polymer arrangement. Naturally, there are hundreds of possible arrangements, and hence hundreds of plastics. The codes enumerate the six kinds of polymers most commonly found in consumer goods, with a seventh code for categorising miscellaneous kinds.
This number is usually found nestled within the triangular recycling symbol, which can be a bit misleading, since it doesn't signify recyclability. Why check this number then? First, it can indicate the likelihood of that plastic getting recycled, and second it is a good indicator of food safety. RIC 01, 02, 04, and 05 are most common in food packaging since they carry the least risk of leaching chemicals into food, though RIC 07 is also quite prevalent.
The same category of plastic can feature varied manifestations. For example, bread packets and cup noodles containers, though different in their thickness, transparency and rigidity, are made of the same plastic (RIC 05, or PP). This variety stems from a sort of selfishness, where the producer plies one type of plastic into materials of different thicknesses, flexibility, and colours, resulting in a diversity that recyclers are left to deal with. Businesses account for many factors while choosing plastic packaging, including its safety and shelf life, but never pause to ask: 'what will happen after all this becomes waste?'
One of the easiest ways of improving recyclability is to not use multiple materials in packaging.
Plastic engineer-turned-solid waste management expert Dhanya Narayanan explains that in theory, all six non-miscellaneous kinds of plastics are recyclable, since they share a similar backbone of carbon-hydrogen chains. However, recycled plastic often has deteriorating value, especially if it is thinner or blends different plastics. Most of these recycled plastics, with the exception of PET plastic, are also not cleared for food packaging since their safety hasn't been established yet, Dhanya explains. This means that food packaging continues to rely on virgin plastic.
RIC 01, 02, and 05 are highly recyclable, especially if food remnants have been cleaned out before disposal. RIC 04 is usually not recycled due to infrastructural constraints. A vast number of fast food items—from chocolate and biscuit wrappers to noodle packets—are RIC 07, or miscellaneous. Plastic permeated into Indian households first through the rise in supermarket chains, but the rise of quick commerce and food delivery has made the use of low-value, contaminated, and difficult-to-process plastics far more common. These are almost never recycled, and usually go straight to the landfill. If they are lucky, they may be chosen for alternate uses like plywood-making or waste-to-energy plants. Economic considerations mean that certain types of plastic, like the PET bottles in which cold drinks are packaged, have a much higher recycling rate.
Dhanya explains that a lot depends on the value chain built around a material. "In India, PET recycling is almost established," she shares. "A scrap collector will willingly pay you something for the bottle. The recycler knows that there is a demand for granules, rPET bottles, or even yarns." Plastic is melted either into granules (small pellets) that can be moulded into a variety of everyday plastic items, or yarns (thread) that can become clothing.
The establishment of a dependable value chain is crucial for recycling rates to increase, and seeps into the preferences of waste dealers, segregators, and collectors. A 2022 study conducted in Delhi-NCR found that plastic water bottles, thicker plastic jugs, and disposable cutlery are some of the most preferred products among collectors. Milk packets and plastic wrappers are far less popular, but collected nonetheless. Three major categories were found to have almost no recycling value: multi-layered packaging, small pouches, and noodle packets.
Noodles packets are too poor in quality to be preferred by recyclers. Small pouches of ketchups and pickles similarly have no takers. Though also used elsewhere, much of the consumer base for these small-sized packets are the rural and urban poor, who also do not have access to waste management systems—meaning the pollution caused by improper waste disposal is heightened.
Multi-layered packaging (MLP) is commonly used for FMCG products and involves using layers of aluminium foil and paper and/or plastic. Chocolate and biscuit wrappers, namkeen packets, and even fruit juice cartons utilise multi-layered packaging. MLP packaging is light and easy to print graphics on, but hard to separate back into its constituent layers of plastic, paper, and aluminium. As a result, it hardly gets recycled. Like most food packaging, it also tends to be disposed of after one use, but has escaped being categorised as a single-use plastic under Indian law. One of the easiest ways of improving recyclability is to not use multiple materials in packaging.
Regulations can specify the permitted ways of manufacturing PET bottles, or LDPE packets, such that the permutations and combinations of plastics a recycler has to deal with reduces.
To Siddharth Ghanshyam Singh, a plastic waste management expert at the Centre for Science and Environment, Delhi, regularising the packaging industry is our best chance to enhance recyclability without rejecting the material altogether. "Everybody is using different resins, colourings, and additives. All of this can be standardised," he says. Regulations can specify the permitted ways of manufacturing PET bottles, or LDPE packets, such that the permutations and combinations of plastics a recycler has to deal with reduces.
"With standardisation, the acceptance of these materials at the end of their lives becomes better, because a recycler will also invest in equipment based on the kind of feedstock they receive." This allows plastic to retain its functions of protecting food, conveying product information, and marketing while giving a thrust to recycling. Siddharth points out that much stands between the idea and its implementation. "Such standardisation comes only with regulation, and at a cost to the polluter," he notes. This brings us to the question: what responsibility does a plastic producer have towards the plastic that enters the market, and later environment, because of them?
Also read: Fine print nation: Do nutrition labels meaningfully inform Indian consumers?
In August 2021, a ban was notified on a number of single-use plastics. Most FMCG products were kept out of its purview because of the soon-to-come Extended Producer Responsibility (EPR) guidelines, which apply specifically to packaging waste.
As per the guidelines, plastic manufacturers (including producers, importers, and brand owners) have to meet certain recycling targets based on the volume and type of plastic they introduce into the market. They usually outsource the recycling to authorised recyclers, and purchase certifications. Siddharth describes the rules by three defining characteristics: brand-agnostic, geography-agnostic, and category-specific.
Essentially, this means that the plastic the brand recycles doesn't need to be restricted to its own products; it can be from any other brand, and even any part of the country as long as it is the same kind of plastic that the company puts into the market. Under EPR, plastic is categorised not by its resin identification code, but into five broader categories: rigid packaging, flexible packaging, MLPs, compostable, and biodegradable plastics.
The rules come with the right intentions: they acknowledge that recycling is not the first solution to consider with plastic; reducing usage is what we should aim for. By making compliance expensive, they hope to nudge companies into reducing plastic consumption and investing in research on alternative materials. But the rules have drawbacks. For one, the geographic agnosticity means that a company can send plastic into Leh while collecting and recycling waste from Delhi. This fails to capture that the cost of collecting waste differs with location, as does the harm it causes to the local environment.
More importantly, as various stakeholders parse the law for loopholes, policymakers and reactors have failed to respond proactively. "Regulators are not able to keep pace with how a market-based mechanism changes the entire implementation of a certain rule," says Siddharth. From manufacturers replacing metal layers with spray paint in their MLP packaging, to recyclers selling certificates for 300 times their declared recycling capacity, the oversight has been egregious. "It is difficult to go back and reverse what has happened," he adds.
Plastic is not one single material, it is 50 unique materials clubbed under one. How does a consumer learn to dispose of plastic correctly?
But the heart of the issue, to Siddharth, is the unfair onus on the consumer: "The choice of packaging was decided by the business. As a consumer, I have absolutely nothing to do with the packaging. But at the end of its life, safe disposal becomes a burden on the consumer." Reducing consumption, similarly, becomes a burden on consumers because non-plastic packaged products are often inaccessible and unaffordably expensive. This burden is not abstract; both the Solid Waste Management Rules and Plastic Waste Management Rules consider it the consumer's responsibility to segregate.
At first glance, this might seem like a fair ask. As consumers and end users, we do have a certain responsibility towards disposal. But plastic is not one single material, it is 50 unique materials clubbed under one. Siddharth asks: how does a consumer learn to dispose of plastic correctly? Whose responsibility should it be to ensure that this happens? When the consumer doesn't segregate and the burden instead falls on a labourer, whose responsibility is it to ensure their safety and teach them segregation? "All that burden eventually falls on local governments which are running on public money," Siddharth says.
Companies are currently spoilt for choice while choosing packaging. Their decisions are made to protect food, yes, but also to protect profit. There is no need to villainise these choices, but one must recognise that even a miracle material comes at a cost. It's time we split the bill fairly.
Cover art by Pratik Bhide
Also read: Traceability in Indian food supply chains: Complicated by costs, lack of incentive
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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.
Green Data Centre (noun)
Coined in: Sometime in the 2000s, when the internet began to gain popularity. The concept emerged organically in the IT industry, as a response to rising energy consumption
Coined by: Unknown. (There is no specific individual person who can be credited with coining the term)
TLDR: Can data centres become sustainable? Yes, but in India, this may happen only on paper
Every time you send a message on a texting app, stream a movie online, save a picture to the cloud, or present a query to an AI chatbot, your request travels through a vast physical infrastructure. Often, it crosses entire oceans, making an unseen journey. Holding up the seamless world of the internet are enormous concrete structures packed with servers that store, process, and transmit information in blinks: data centres.
Data centres, in many ways, are the backbone of digital infrastructure, maintaining and managing computing servers and other network devices. As a greater proportion of our lives move online, the demand for these giant digital warehouses is also increasing. Running them, however, comes at a significant material cost.
India’s data centre capacity is supposed to grow from nearly 1.2 GW in 2025 to 15-17 GW by 2030, according to the Ministry of Electronics and Information Technology. The project to lead the country’s digital transformation involves a $15 billion investment in an AI data centre in Visakhapatnam, Andhra Pradesh. It has been severely criticised for displacing Dalit farmers and disrupting their livelihoods in Tarluvada, where it is located. It is also being condemned for raising significant ecological concerns, including freshwater and seawater extraction, given the scale of the data centre. The protest campaigns held at the project site by the local community, along with several environmental organisations, were met with a brutal crackdown.
A person living thousands of kilometres away has no difficulty accessing the services provided by the facility without ever seeing it, but the communities living in the area experience the infrastructure differently.
The arrival of a new data centre leads to two kinds of realities. In the first, big corporations and governments promise more jobs and overall development of the geographical area, none of which are guaranteed. The second reality is palpably felt by those whose lives are impacted in other ways: depleting aquifers, changing weather patterns, and drying up of the land through its groundwater reserves. The first reality receives far more attention than the attendant environmental costs, despite preexisting crises as a result of a changing climate, including frequent droughts, floods and extreme heat. This creates a geographical imbalance, as a person living thousands of kilometres away has no difficulty accessing the services provided by the facility without ever seeing it, but the communities living in the area experience the infrastructure differently.
Data centres house specialised computers known as servers, which run round the clock. They can vary significantly in size, from micro data centres that may occupy little more than a shelf of servers, to hyperscale facilities that can house more than 5,000. These centres require vast tracts of land, ranging from 2,000 to 20,000 acres, and construction material. The life cycle of the hardware inside eventually ends in waste, specifically known as electronic waste.
A data centre also requires substantial amounts of energy to keep its servers running, which in turn generate significant amounts of heat. According to the International Energy Agency (IEA), the total electricity consumed by data centres is equivalent to around 1.5% of global electricity consumption in 2025. However, their share can vary significantly by location. For instance, in Europe, data centres account for around 1.6% of total electricity consumption, while within the continent, in Ireland, they consume nearly 20% of the country's total energy demand.
The heat generated by the server racks is eliminated using cooling techniques, which prevent the equipment from getting overheated. This calls for either additional energy sources (to set up air-based cooling) or considerable quantities of water (for liquid-based cooling).
The rapid growth of artificial intelligence adds to the existing demand. Training Large Language Models (LLMs) requires thousands of specialised processors called GPUs (Graphics Processing Units) that are installed within these servers. GPUs are capable of running continuously for weeks to process the vast amounts of data needed by AI models. During deployment, these LLMs continue to consume more energy each time they respond to a user’s request.
The concept of ‘green data centres’ emerges from a growing sustainability concern: if data centres are going to exist, and if we are planning to build more of them, then can we build them in a way that is sustainable? Or can we only aim to reduce their environmental footprint and relative harm?
Significantly, there is no clearly articulated or universally accepted definition of what a green data centre may be. It is, in fact, a self-identified label
Significantly, there is no clearly articulated or universally accepted definition of what a green data centre may be. It is, in fact, a self-identified label, not adhering to any specific, qualifying criteria. Broadly, the term refers to data centres that adopt, or are designed to accommodate, sustainable practices that reduce the energy, water, carbon and other material resources required to operate them. This can begin right with the choice of the location: for instance, by actively avoiding ecologically fragile, drought-prone or flood-prone areas.
Green design choices can include improved insulation, reflective roofs and the employment of low-carbon construction materials. Dr. Mohammad Motaharul Islam, who works on green data centre designs, explains that existing facilities do not necessarily have to be demolished and rebuilt. “Modifying the existing ‘brownfield’ data centres can reduce emissions by allowing operators to improve cooling systems, seal airflow and replace inefficient power infrastructure while retaining the existing building. However, new ‘greenfield’ facilities have the advantage of being designed for efficiency from the outset,” explains Dr. Islam, who teaches at the Department of Computer Science and Engineering at Bangladesh’s United International University.
Water conservation is another necessary aspect. Closed-loop systems circulate water repeatedly, rather than constantly drawing on groundwater. Recycled or treated water and rainwater harvesting can further reduce dependence on freshwater. However, a system saving water might require more electricity, and vice versa. Solar and wind energy could definitely reduce carbon emissions, but their intermittent nature calls for additional battery storage to maintain uninterrupted operations.
Sustainability claims can be made at different scales, leading to fractured, inconsistent conclusions; positive outcomes at an individual level may provide an inaccurate or incomplete picture of the national scale.
Waste heat recovery can be another possible solution, according to Dr. Islam. “Since servers convert much of their electricity into heat, that heat can be captured and redirected towards creating heat networks.” Such a system could cater to a stable demand for heat nearby.
Some data centres have adopted measures such as using renewable energy instead of fossil fuels. Moro Hub, a subsidiary of the digital arm of Dubai Electricity and Water Authority (DEWA), opened a data centre in 2017 that uses solar energy to power its servers. It also deploys a prefabricated, modular data centre model instead of conventional brick-and-mortar construction, which can help optimise energy use. Prefabricated data centres can also support a circular economy, as their components can be dismantled, reassembled and reused during upgrades. In countries like Germany, the Energy Efficiency Act requires data centres to source at least 50% of their energy requirement from renewable sources. Such approaches may be comparatively easier to implement in colder regions. For instance, Meta’s data centre complex in Luleå, Sweden, takes advantage of the cold Arctic air to cool its servers.
More from our Climate Crisis Dictionary: Sponge Cities: A solution to India’s annual flooding crises?
In India, questions are being raised about how ecological sensitivity is factored into the locations and operations of data centres, green or otherwise. Karnataka, one of the country’s most drought-prone states, has expressed interest in establishing a total of 1 GW sustainable data centres across Bengaluru, Mysuru and Mangaluru. The coastal city of Visakhapatnam, on the other hand, has one of the lowest groundwater levels recorded in the state. There is even a proposal to establish a ‘green’ AI data centre in the ecologically fragile Great Nicobar Islands.
The environmental impact of data centres is assessed through metrics such as Power Usage Effectiveness (PUE), Water Usage Effectiveness (WUE) and Carbon Usage Effectiveness (CUE). The indices for measuring energy efficiency do not track the infrastructure that is needed to meet the demands of the growing digital economy. They do not ask how much extra processing we are demanding, or what happens when efficiency itself enables greater consumption.
To put it in simple terms: if a household replaces an old appliance with a newer one to reduce electricity consumption, but also gets two additional appliances, the electricity use might still increase. This can happen with data centres as well; even while individual units switch to renewable energy sources, the overall demand for data centres remains on the rise. Thus, sustainability claims can be made at different scales, leading to fractured, inconsistent conclusions; positive outcomes at an individual level may provide an inaccurate or incomplete picture of the national scale.
Environmental Impact Assessments, which are legal clearances mandated by the Ministry of Environment and Forests for development and infrastructure projects, become crucial in this context. So far, only 15 states have developed their own data centre policies, and transparency into data centres' resource consumption is limited. Recently, Karnataka Minister for Electronics, Information Technology and Biotechnology, Priyank Kharge acknowledged that generating 1 MW of power reportedly requires 25 million litres of water annually. He urged organisations to make more sustainable choices, adding that the Karnataka government is reconsidering its existing data centre policy.
Green data centres are not a false promise, but right now, being “green” remains a marketing choice a company makes when convenient
At present, none of the state data policies have mandated water stress mapping or thermal impact assessment for environmental clearance. “In India, policies fail to recognise data centres as a special category, instead placing them in the category of office buildings,” says advocate Indumugi C., who has extensively studied data centre regulations in India. “Placing data centres in the B2 category exempts them from a full Environment Impact Assessment (EIA) report.”
Visakhapatnam offers a preview of what is at stake. It reinforces the need for a data centre policy that brings together every concerned department, rather than each one issuing its own siloed regulations. Experts say that green data centres can definitely be more sustainable than conventional brown data centres. However, they still require energy and resources to function; it is closer to a compromise than a solution.
Green data centres are not a false promise, but right now, being “green” remains a marketing choice a company makes when convenient, not a qualification every data centre is required to meet. The gap could be closed with sharper legislation, a dedicated environmental review category, and a mandatory public disclosure of water and energy consumption.
More from our Climate Crisis Dictionary: Urban heat islands: Sweaty cities made of rising skyscrapers, vanishing trees
Edited by Anushka Mukherjee and Neerja Deodhar
Editor’s note: Urban farmer Simran Moorjani is the founder of Simbiosis, a regenerative farm on the outskirts of Mumbai, where she grows tomatoes and salad leaves while maintaining a symbiotic relationship with the land. In this column, she reflects on the realities of farming—sometimes with humour, sometimes with candour, always with curiosity.
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.
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
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.
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
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
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.
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.”
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.
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?]
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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 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.”
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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.
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.
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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.
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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.
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.
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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.
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.
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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.
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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."
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Edited by Anushka Mukherjee and Neerja Deodhar
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