Editor's Note: The planet we inherited as children is not the planet we will someday bid goodbye to. The orchestral call of cicadas in the evenings, the coinciding arrival of the monsoon with the start of the school year, and the predictability of natural cycles—things we thought to be unchanging are now at risk. An altered climate, declining biodiversity and warming oceans aren’t distant realities presented in news headlines; they affect us all in seen and unseen ways. In ‘Converging Currents’, marine conservationist and science communicator Phalguni Ranjan explores how the fine threads connecting people and nature are transforming with a changing planet.
Gardens are wonderful little spaces. They offer tranquillity, fragrance, shade, a visual delight, and a patch of green relief from a world of asphalt, concrete, and honking horns—in short, a quiet retreat.
But they do so much more than that.
These green spaces can quietly nudge the trajectory of urban biodiversity, sometimes towards resilience, sometimes towards decline. Urban gardens—be they home gardens, community parks, or botanical gardens—also provide critical ecosystem services.
Home gardens, or domestic gardens, make up a significant component of urban green spaces. They have been an integral part of household farming, animal rearing, and local food systems for centuries: used to rear and manage livestock, grow food for family consumption, and provide food security during and after crisis situations. More recently, they have become integral parts of city homes, taking root on balconies, terraces, in buckets and bags, and on windowsills. Their size, location, and purpose have evolved over time, but their ecological relevance persists—now, more than ever.
Home gardens are believed to be one of the oldest forms of cultivation alongside shifting cultivation. In fact, growing food on small, home-adjacent plots of land is believed to be how organised cultivation started, a practice once widespread across the tropics. Possibly the oldest evidence of this dates back to the 7th millennium BCE. Records from Kerala trace back 4,000 years, with significant mentions from southern India, particularly in the 1800s.
For centuries, they served as repositories of plant genetic diversity,and food security.
Traditional home gardens were—and still are—defined by the vertical stratification of trees, shrubs, crops, and herbs: the tall canopy of timber trees like teak blended into a mid-height layer of fruit-bearing trees like jackfruit and mango, followed by a ground layer of medicinal herbs and vegetables that sustained families and livestock.
This well-thought out, minimally managed, holistic, crop-tree-livestock system fit quite well within the rural farming setup, much before commercial monoculture farming took root in the country. One would assume ‘agriculture’ to be a rural concept involving large farms, but today’s home gardens are a prominent form of urban agriculture—kitchen, terrace, windowsill or otherwise—fuelled by hobby and a desire to eat clean.
Historically, in India and the tropical world, gardens were practical, intimate spaces close to home: supplementary, utilitarian, and deeply entangled with daily life. For centuries, they served as repositories of plant genetic diversity, and food security. They were a haven for pollinators, slowly allowing the adaptation, domestication, and diversification of plants to local ecological conditions.
These ecologically sound units sustained their own water cycles and pest control through complex species interactions, in a unique way that only naturally propagated systems can. Families, relying on generations of traditional ecological knowledge, closely managed this well-balanced system with minimal input; cultivating vegetables, fruit trees, herbs, medicinal plants, and flowers that fed and supported people and biodiversity, and reflected local climate and culture.
Also read: Climate change in my cup: Why India’s cocoa and coffee production is at risk
Plants are green, but not all greenery behaves the same way, ecologically speaking.
Worldwide, the shift from food-bearing native home gardens to clipped lawns and ornamental beds has reshaped how flora, fauna, and people coexist. While cities desperately need green patches for pollinators, clean air, and cooler temperatures, some gardens—specifically politely mowed lawns with sculpted hedges and ornamental plants—may be working against the very ecological health they appear to support.
Traditional home gardens did not disappear overnight. Their gradual decline can be tied to a multitude of factors compounding over the last couple of centuries or so.
Functional diversity quietly gave way to visual appeal as ‘tidy’ became the cultural norm—form over function, aesthetics over sustainability.
Globally, industrialisation and urbanisation changed lifestyles, aspirations, and economic situations. Over time, increased access to cities, education, media, and the internet reshaped aspirations, especially among the youth, resulting in smaller rural households, reduced home food production, and a preference for purchased food and non-farm livelihoods. Socio-cultural influences within a changing society increased investment in gardens: introducing new species and techniques to make them more ‘aesthetic’. But this also caused a loss of traditional knowledge, reduced use of medicinal plants, declining interest in tending to vegetable gardens, and an ageing population unable to manage these spaces.
Rapid urbanisation and the growing demand for intensive, large-scale agriculture further reduced available plot sizes, detaching homes from cultivable land. As cities expanded vertically and horizontally, space once used for vegetables and herbs was replaced by buildings, parking, or decorative green patches.
Globally, under Western influence, gardens increasingly became markers of leisure and status. In 17th century France, manicured lawns became symbols of political power and control over nature. Neatly trimmed lawns, hedges, and exotic ornamentals signalled beauty, tidiness, and affluence in England—as only the wealthy could afford labour to keep the grass appropriately prim and trimmed.
At this time in India, many gardens still reflected the Mughal concept of the four-sectioned gardens (charbagh). These elite gardens combined architectural elements like water fountains and canals with shade-giving trees to create cool microclimates symbolising rest, leisure, and luxury.
Eventually, the British transplanted their lawns in India as an extended projection of affluence, sophistication, and control. The grasses brought in were unsuited to this climate and ecology, and to this day, continue to soak up large quantities of water while offering minimal ecological function.
Functional diversity quietly gave way to visual appeal as ‘tidy’ became the cultural norm—form over function, aesthetics over sustainability. Recreational public parks and botanical gardens expanded, and native grasslands and gardens faded away.
The British left, but the legacy of the lawns continued.
Also read: Omega-3 fatty acids: The hidden costs of ‘health’ to our seas
Cultivated and managed largely without chemical inputs, home gardens, with diverse trees, shrubs, herbs, and crops closely resembled natural forest patches in structure and function. Their benefits were manifold: crops fed families and livestock, livestock provided manure and products like dairy or wool, Non-Timber Forest Products (NTFP) from trees and medicinal herbs supplemented income, and timber and fuelwood supplemented domestic requirements. Surplus from the fruit trees was shared socially, strengthening community ties and larger home gardens also offered seasonal employment opportunities.
This agroforestry system required minimal financial investment, making it accessible for most people. Still prevalent in several parts of India today, including Kerala and parts of northeast India, contemporary home gardens also offer multiple benefits like tranquil spaces to connect with nature, carbon sequestration, groundwater recharge, conserving a genetic diversity of plants, and a good old serotonin boost.
Home gardens can support homes and families significantly—contributing 25-85% to household food needs in Ethiopia, 55-79 kg of vegetables per person annually in Bangladesh, and upto 24% of the monthly income in parts of Indonesia—highlighting their potential role in achieving food, economic, and nutritional security. An average-sized home garden can provide economic benefits of more than Rs. 18,000 annually through yield, with even small gardens sequestering significant amounts of carbon in the soil and plant biomass.
An average-sized home garden can provide economic benefits of more than Rs. 18,000 annually through yield, with even small gardens sequestering significant amounts of carbon in the soil and plant biomass.
Studies state that home gardens can also contribute towards six of the 17 UN Sustainable Development Goals (UN SDGs), including 1 (No Poverty), 2 (Zero Hunger), 3 (Good Health and Well-being), 11 (Sustainable Cities and Communities), 13 (Climate Action) and 15 (Life on Land).
Urban green spaces or gardens—comprising home gardens, parks, or forests within a city—provide substantial ecosystem services, contributing significantly to air purification and climate regulation. These green patches can also supplement green corridors within a city. Green corridors—connected patches of natural vegetation and greenery—allow movement and genetic exchange between wildlife populations, and provide crucial support for pollinators. They could be interconnected networks of tree-lined streets and walkways, parks, gardens, and any other patches of greenery that act as ‘stepping stones’ to connect larger green areas.
Even if this ‘corridor’ is spaced out by infrastructure, the patches can still act as critical connectivity points for pollinators; a bit like pitstops for refuelling. They can also help mitigate the Urban Heat Island (UHI) effect, where cities experience warmer temperatures than surrounding rural areas, mainly due to low green cover and more heat-absorbing materials like concrete.
Also read: Bugging out: Why declining insect populations in India spell doom for agriculture
Urbanisation disrupts the natural environment, introducing stressors like heat, pollution and fragmentation of green spaces, ultimately disrupting the interaction between pollinators and plants: impacting their behaviour, biology, and evolutionary pathways. Around 87% of the world’s flowering plants, and many major crops are pollinated by animals, and pollinator declines can threaten food security and biodiversity.
However, green spaces within cities can help offset this; they can harbour and support a greater and healthier diversity of pollinators than intensively-managed agricultural lands. As heavily managed agricultural plots are often chemically managed and focus on one key crop (monoculture), the fields lack the plant diversity pollinators need to thrive.
How we manage our home gardens affects soil characteristics, invertebrate interactions, and overall ecosystem function. Frequent and intensive mowing can negatively affect the presence of bees, ants, wasps, cicadas, butterflies, wasps, and other bugs, especially winged insects (many, pollinators) while creating favourable conditions for common pests to thrive.
It turns out, grass-free gardens with predominantly native species can actually host a healthier number and diversity of insects than grassy lawns.
The solution? Mow only the surface layer, and no more than twice or thrice a year—a concept echoed by multiple studies. A significant reduction in mowing improves plant diversity in gardens. Allowing plants to grow to variable heights provides structural complexity and space for insects to live, feed, thrive in; structure otherwise lost in uniformly mowed lawns. Higher plant diversity further contributes towards healthier soil: biological activity, moisture, and organic and microbial carbon content. It supports associated fauna like earthworms that need varied root structures, nutrients, rich organic content, and healthy microhabitats within the soil to thrive.
Weeds are another component of this complex system: unwanted by definition and often rooted out. However, it is possible that de-weeding gardens may do more harm than good, though there is limited evidence on this. Weeds can offer organic content for the soil, contain rhizobacteria that can help improve the nutrient profile of the soil, and exhibit pest-controlling properties. Even despite the thin evidence in this regard, there is no denying that traditional home gardens did have weeds growing alongside everything else. Interestingly, several medicinal plants commonly used in local herbal medicine and Ayurveda are conventionally weeds that grow almost everywhere.
Now, you might wonder: how will a small balcony garden of potted plants support all this biodiversity? It turns out, grass-free gardens with predominantly native species can actually host a healthier number and diversity of insects than grassy lawns. Furthermore, the grasses in circulation today are not all native to India; many were introduced here, some have been around long enough to become naturalised—able to grow and spread on their own in the local environment—and they consume large quantities of water.
Native plants belong to the region, while non-native or ‘introduced’ plants are introduced from elsewhere. Invasive species are non-native species that out-compete native species, cause harm, and spread aggressively (like Lantana). However, an exotic species is typically harmless, but still has an edge in terms of survival and propagation. Many of the ornamental indoor plants we find in nurseries today are exotic.
If done right, residential gardens can serve as pollinator hotspots, contributing significantly towards urban biodiversity. Native plants attract and support more pollinator species—more ‘specialist’ and native insects—than exotic plants do. Native herbivorous insects also show a clear preference for native plants to feed on.
Exotic flowers, on the other hand, are visited by generalist pollinators—those without a plant preference—and also contribute towards overall green cover, providing alternatives for some pollinators especially in the temporary absence of native flowers.
However, some exotic plants can compete with native species as they are hardier and more robust, and do not easily succumb to urban pressures of heat, pollution, water scarcity, and habitat isolation the way native species might.
However, some exotic plants can compete with native species as they are hardier and more robust, and do not easily succumb to urban pressures of heat, pollution, water scarcity, and habitat isolation the way native species might. Pollinators, smaller animals and other plants associated with native flora are put at risk when the native plants are replaced completely, upsetting a delicate balance that is critical for the ecosystem. However, it is important to note that while pollinators may not visit exotic flowers as much, these plants still do offer services: nesting and shelter spots, and green cover. A native-exotic cluster could also be more resilient, with the hardier exotics buffering the natives against environmental extremes.
However, in an environment where exotic species already exist because of us, the exotic vs native debate is rendered moot. We did this perhaps unknowingly, and—ironically, continue doing it—often, somewhat knowingly.
India is home to an estimated 45,000 known plant species, making up around 7% of the world’s known plant species, of which approximately 28% are endemic—i.e., found only here.
According to Ministry of Environment, Forest and Climate Change (MoEFCC) estimates, urban green cover has decreased by 23% over the past decade, and green spaces only make up around 2% of all urban land area.
The Urban Regional Development Plans Formulation and Implementation (URDPFI) guidelines, 2014 recommend 10-12 m² of open space per person in cities, including green spaces. The World Health Organization recommends at least 9 m² and ideally 50 m² of green space per person as an indicator for sustainable cities. Sadly (and predictably), many of our major Indian cities fall dramatically short of that.
Chennai offers only 0.81 m² of open public space per person, Kolkata offers 0.67 m2, and Ahmedabad a mere 0.5 m2. One might argue that these cities boast large landmark gardens and parks, but their area relative to the population and the city’s area is insufficient to meet the URDPFI or WHO standards.
India’s population is expected to double by 2050, with 50% of us living in urban areas. Whether cities adapt to become biodiversity refuges or concrete deserts depends, to an extent, on choices we make today.
Yes, popular indoor plants are easier and low maintenance, but in the long term, planting marigolds,aparajita(butterfly pea), native hibiscus, and jasmine could be more fufilling, with the colours, fragrance, and the birds that come in along with the buzzing bugs.
Rising food prices, environmental concerns, and health awareness have sparked a modest revival of urban kitchen and terrace gardening in large cities. Terrace farming (urban agriculture) is catching on now, and some estimates suggest that converting even 5-10% of a city (i.e. rooftops, terraces, gardens etc.) to grow produce could supplement the vegetable requirements of the people.
While most urban development plans take into consideration public parks, botanical gardens, and other green spaces, the role of home gardens is largely neglected. Even a small balcony can function as a productive, biodiverse haven if done right. Reimagining home gardens as ‘stepping stones’ in a larger ecological corridor could help establish green connectivity in cities, contributing towards biodiversity conservation and urban sustainability.
Is cultivating a complex balcony garden logistically feasible? Not really.
But, is it impossible? Not in this age of innovative solutions and quintessential Indian jugaad.
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Many of my preferred ‘low maintenance’ balcony plants are exotic, and almost none are flowering plants—a realisation that stumped me. Peace lilies, spider plants, Birkin (Philodendron), and some varieties of the pretty aglaonema and the never-dying (this should have been a clue) money plant (Epipremnum sp. or Pothos) are not native to India!
Nurseries supply these plants abundantly: they are cheap, easier to maintain than flowering natives, and so many of us choose this convenience—because, let’s face it, gardening takes time and ‘low maintenance’ plants fit in with our busy lives.
But, at the home-level, small changes like incorporating more native flowering plants, planting some vegetables, and reducing chemical inputs can help support more biodiversity. It boils down to choice, as this is one of those few good-for-the-environment things that can also be an absolute delight for the soul; something that needs us to build and nurture rather than reduce (like energy, water usage) to benefit the environment.
Yes, popular indoor plants are easier and low maintenance, but in the long term, planting marigolds, aparajita (butterfly pea), native hibiscus, and jasmine could be more fufilling, with the colours, fragrance, and the birds that come in along with the buzzing bugs.
So, let some of those weeds and native flora creep back in, and let your garden grow just a little wild (in looks and function), as it was always meant to—enough for it to support the bugs, birds, and biodiversity.
Some lists and additional information: lists of common invasives, invasives of Kerala, succulents of India, flowers of India, native plants of India.
Edited by Anushka Mukherjee and Neerja Deodhar
Artwork by Radha Pennathur, Communication Designer & Illustrator
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We like to think that the human body is self-sufficient—that it single-handedly manages a diverse range of functions reliably, regularly, and (for most of us) flawlessly. In reality, it chooses efficiency over self-sufficiency. When it is too resource-intensive to develop something, it simply outsources that function. For example, instead of struggling to produce short-chain fatty acids, it houses and feeds bacteria that can produce them instead. We’re reliant on this system now; bacterial populations are responsible for crucial functions like immune responses as well as access to essential nutrients.
Most of the human body’s bacterial population resides in the large intestine, especially in the colon. Most of the food we eat first reaches the small intestine, where its constituent nutrients get absorbed. But, there is usually one major component of food that passes through the small intestine and reaches the large intestine undigested: fibre. Our gut bacteria ferment these fibres to produce useful byproducts, including vitamins and short-chain fatty acids.
A study from 2023 revealed that 7 out of 10 Indians are not consuming the Recommended Daily Allowance (RDA) of fibre, which is about 30 gm for adult women, and 40 gm for adult men. Simultaneously, according to a government report from 2025, protein consumption has picked up, and even crossed the RDA. A 2024 American study has directly linked high-protein diets with changes in the population of the gut microbiome (or microbe communities). What does this mean for our health?
According to the 2025 government report, the increase in protein intake has been accompanied by a fall in the total caloric intake, in both rural and urban India. If the total number of calories being consumed is falling, and the total protein consumption is increasing, we can infer that animal proteins like dairy and meat are replacing plant proteins. This is because plant sources are less protein-dense than animal sources like dairy or meat, and one would have to consume more calories to reach the same protein intake.
A study from 2023 revealed that 7 out of 10 Indians are not consuming the Recommended Daily Allowance (RDA) of fibre, which is about 30 gm for adult women, and 40 gm for adult men.
This replacement comes at a cost—the fibre component of the diet (only present in plant foods) gets replaced by excess protein and fat. The gut microbiome is impacted in two ways: the effect of too little fibre, and that of too much protein.
Also read: Do proteins keep us fuller and less hungry than carbs and fats?
The lack of adequate fibre will naturally prevent the bacteria from fermenting it and releasing helpful byproducts, including short chain fatty acids and neurotransmitters like dopamine. It’s not just the fermentation that is useful, though. Even the unfermentable fibres in the large intestine play a crucial role: smoothening the passage of stools. Emerging science suggests that low-fibre diets could also permanently reduce gut bacterial diversity (never a good sign) and even result in the starved bacteria eating our colonic lining, thus compromising the protective mucosal layer that keeps microbes at a safe distance while allowing nutrients to pass through.
As for protein, the gut microbes are used to dealing with some undigested protein regularly. These amino acids can be fermented into good byproducts like short chain fatty acids or harmful ones like ammonia and hydrogen sulphide. The nature of the byproduct depends on the quantity as well as the type of amino acids that reach the colon.
Also read: The ‘right time’ to eat protein: Little and often, rather than in one meal
How much undigested protein reaches the colon roughly depends on two factors. First, the amount of protein consumed in one go. The body can only digest limited protein in one go and passes ahead excess protein to the large intestine. Second, the protein source: this determines how easily the body can digest it. Animal proteins are easier for the body to digest, so less undigested animal proteins will reach the large intestine.
However, plant proteins have been documented to be gentler on the gut when they do reach the large intestine undigested, possibly because they inherently have more fibre. In fact, across studies, plant proteins are not associated with any negative byproducts of fermentation. But overall, excess protein fermentation in the colon has been associated with intestinal diseases—such as inflammatory bowel disease and colorectal cancer—as well as metabolic diseases.
A high rate of protein fermentation has also been linked to reduced non-digestible carbohydrate (i.e. fibre) availability in the large intestine. This is one of the reasons why high-protein diets change the gut microbiome—undigested protein outcompetes the undigested carbohydrate, and the bacterial population adjusts to include more protein-digesting bacteria. This directly impacts the diversity of gut microbes.
Also read: More isn’t always better: Are you overdosing on protein?
Now, there is considerable variation in the microbial species found in the guts of different individuals, but they still fall within five dominant phyla (phylum being the third broadest categorisation of organisms). The composition of the microbiome also changes with alterations in diet and lifestyle. But roughly, there is an understanding that a healthy gut will have species from the dominant phyla despite the internal differences. Beyond helping with digestion, these microbes form a critical aspect of the body’s immune response, and less microbial diversity makes the body more vulnerable to a slew of health issues. There is historical data strongly suggesting that industrialisation and a shift towards westernised diets decreases gut microbial diversity.
For the gut to flourish, the conversation around nutrition must make some space for fibre, not as a competitor of protein, but as its companion.
The simplest way to ensure gut health, of course, is to actively incorporate fibre in one’s diet. Similarly, incorporate diverse protein sources. Microbial composition changes with the source of protein too—eggs, fish, dairy, and legumes all change the bacterial makeup of the gut. For the gut to flourish, the conversation around nutrition must make some space for fibre, not as a competitor of protein, but as its companion.
Slider Image: Green chickpeas by Jorge Royan by Wikimedia Commons
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Editor's note: Even before its current status as a nutrient-rich superfood, ragi has been a crucial chapter in the history of Indian agriculture. Finger millet, as it is commonly known, has been a true friend of the farmer and consumer thanks to its climate resilience and ability to miraculously grow in unfavourable conditions. As we look towards an uncertain, possibly food-insecure future, the importance of ragi as a reliable crop cannot be understated. In this series, the Good Food Movement explains why the millet deserves space on our farms and dinner plates. Alongside an ongoing video documentation of what it takes to grow ragi, this series will delve into the related concerns of intercropping, cover crops and how ragi fares compared to other grains.
On most farms, weeds are treated as intruders—uprooted, sprayed over, or suppressed with chemical weedicides. But in rainfed agrarian ecosystems, especially those growing millets like ragi, weeds have long been something else entirely: food, medicine, fodder, and indicators of soil health.
As the Good Food Movement experiments with growing ragi on a two-acre plot in Tiptur, Karnataka, we examine firsthand what it means to deweed without herbicides, and more importantly, how we can change the way we think about weeds in the first place.
In Kannada, the word for weed is kale. The adjective ‘kalegattirodu’ roughly translates to the glow or beauty that comes from being expressed. Historically, weeds were not a problem to be erased, but a presence that was allowed to express itself. Farmers recognised which plants could stay, which needed thinning, and which could be harvested for the kitchen or livestock.
On traditional ragi plots, especially rainfed ones, many weeds are seasonal and edible.“Weeds were never thought of as a nuisance. They were a part of the earth,” says environmentalist Muralidhar Gungaramale, who has extensively studied local, edible weeds and is working to preserve this knowledge. Consuming these seasonal greens also acted as preventive healthcare: the nutrients in them addressed constipation, digestive issues, even jaundice in infants, long before fibre supplements or packaged tonics entered diets.
Take doddagunisoppu, a common seasonal weed known to ease constipation. Or goddarvesoppu, crowned the ‘king of weeds’, which thrives in manure-rich parts of fields and is considered one of the tastiest edible greens. Kolichitka, the smaller wild cousin of mustard, is often called the ‘original mustard’ for its intense fragrance and is used to season meals. Honnari gedde seeds are traditionally given to new mothers to help induce lactation. Wild amaranth grows thorns to protect itself, but its tender leaves are used to treat kidney stones.
Beyond nutrition, weeds also signal soil conditions.
For farmers, the colour, shape, and texture of leaves are crucial cues to distinguish what is edible and what is not—knowledge passed down across generations. Beyond nutrition, weeds also signal soil conditions. Certain species indicate fertile, manure-rich patches, others reveal the pH of the soil and excess moisture. To remove them indiscriminately is to lose this language of the land.
Also read: Foraging in Bengaluru: A source of sustenance and flavour
Today, much of this knowledge is disappearing. Many farmers believe that cultivation isn’t possible without commercial pesticides, which seem to promise quick returns but come at a massive environmental expense. Many commonly used herbicides contain toxic compounds such as glyphosate, atrazine, and 2,4-D (all of which are classified as probable human carcinogens), which can persist in the soil and disrupt beneficial microbial communities essential for soil fertility. These chemicals don’t just kill weeds, they can also leach into groundwater or enter nearby water bodies through runoff from fields, contaminating drinking water sources and harming aquatic life by interfering with plant growth and hormonal systems. They can persist long enough to enter the harvest that eventually reaches our plates. Herbicides harm farmers too, through chemical inhalation and skin absorption during mixing and spraying. Though often seen as benign tools that make for productive and prosperous farms, herbicides are in fact a specialised class of pesticides, carrying similar toxic compounds that have long-term repercussions on their health.
Cover crops (a class of crops that are planted before the main harvest crop to fix nitrogen and endow the soil with biomass) like mustard, can naturally suppress pests and act as biofumigants. However, these are often replaced with herbicides which strip the fields of biodiversity and make farms increasingly dependent on chemical inputs, weakening the resilience of rainfed systems over time.
Mechanised monocropping meant that weeds were no longer given the same importance.
The arrival of mechanisation—rotavators, seed drills, threshers—reduced labour but demanded uniformity. Intercropped fields were harder to till and harvest mechanically, so farmers began segregating crops into neat, single-species plots. Mechanised monocropping meant that weeds were no longer given the same importance. It also contributed to the loss of the repository of knowledge surrounding local, edible weeds that may have been previously passed down in farmers’ families.
Also read: The grave personal cost of pesticide use
Deweeding without herbicides does not mean letting fields run wild. Traditional deweeding by hand, though more labour-intensive, is deliberate and selective. Farmers remove weeds that compete directly with young crops, while allowing others—especially edible and medicinal plants—to remain.
On GFM’s ragi plot in Tiptur, this approach means observing which weeds emerge close to seedlings and which grow along bunds or manure-rich edges. Some are thinned, some are harvested, and some are left untouched. The goal is not a ‘clean’ field, but a balanced one.
Mulching works by covering the soil with crop residue or organic matter. This process helps shelter soil from harsh sunlight and prevents aggressive weeds from germinating. At the same time, it conserves moisture—critical in rainfed farming (but which dissuades weeds from growing)—and feeds soil organisms as it decomposes. Unlike chemical sprays that act instantly but leave lasting damage, mulching suppresses weeds gently, while improving soil structure and fertility over time.
Deweeding without weedicides is about recognising that weeds are part of farming ecosystems, which beautify fields and diversify our sources of nutrition.
High-density planting shifts the responsibility of weed control onto the crop itself. When plants like ragi are sown closer together, their canopy shades the soil, leaving little room for weeds to establish. This reduces the need for repeated deweeding while improving land use efficiency. Used alongside hand deweeding and mulching, dense planting helps farmers manage weeds proactively by letting the crops lead, rather than reacting after they take over.
Deweeding without weedicides is about recognising that weeds are part of farming ecosystems, which beautify fields and diversify our sources of nutrition. By changing our gaze towards them—the gaze that modern farming and industrial practices have normalised—and co-existing with them, farmers protect soil and preserve ancient repositories of food knowledge.
Smoke drifts through the morning air. Ganesh Wadaka, 47, stands beneath a mango tree, eyes fixed on the nest of a Yellow Paper Wasp clinging to a high branch. He lifts a small bundle of smouldering ebony leaves. A gentle blow. The tekor, as the wasp is locally known, begins to settle.
“One needs to be careful while collecting tekor. Their sting is very painful. The smoke calms them,” Wadaka explains. “We collect only their larvae, roasting them over fire before they are served.” This wasp species has much to offer the Adivasi Dongria Kondh community to which Wadaka belongs: its wax is traditionally used to treat cracked feet, while controlled stings are believed to help relieve edema, coughs, colds, and stomach pain.
The farm around this mango tree in southern Odisha’s Khajuri village lies along the slopes of the Niyamgiri Hills. It remains a landscape that the Dongria Kondhs, one of India’s Particularly Vulnerable Tribal Groups (PVTG), revere and protect as the home of ‘Niyam Raja’, their supreme deity.
Much like the Yellow Paper Wasp, Red Weaver Ants, too, are a beloved ingredient—one that has travelled beyond Adivasi villages. In the Mayurbhanj district, Santals prepare kai chutney (the local name for the ant species) using its larvae (a recipe for the chutney can be found at the end of this article). This savoury, tangy relish received a GI tag in 2024 for its distinct flavour and nutritional value.
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Red weaver ants build brood-pouch nests by wrapping sal or mango leaves together. The Santals’ consumption of the insect is neither mindless nor clued out of the species’ habits and survival. “We don’t consume the adult ants, we only collect their eggs and the juveniles. We crush them with red chilli, mint and salt to make the chutney, which is usually eaten with pokhal, a traditional fermented rice,” explains Sarita Hansda, who resides in Mayurbhanj’s Gopinathpur village.
Freshly foraged kai is also sold by Santal women in weekly village markets, earning an additional source of income for their households. Santal healers believe that kai helps treat a range of ailments, including jaundice, arthritis, nervous disorders, and memory loss. Healers in the community infuse oil with kai for a month, and then apply it to infants. The medicinal oil is also believed to ease rheumatism, ringworm, and other skin conditions. At other times, kai is used in a nutritious soup that helps cure ailments, dysentery, cold, and fever.
Across Odisha’s rainfed regions, produce obtained from farming is only one aspect of the diet of Adivasi communities, who cultivate millets, paddy, pulses, cereals, oilseeds, and tubers through mixed, diversified practices. They also forage wild roots, tubers, leafy greens, mushrooms, and fruits that sustain households year-round. Among their diverse diet, edible insects are a crucial part, supplying protein and micronutrients that have nourished generations.
“We grew up eating what the forest gave us. Insects were always part of our meals—a heritage of our ancestors,” says Abhiram Jhodia, 51; he belongs to the Paroja Adivasi community in the Siriguda village. “From childhood, we learned to read the seasons through ants, wasps, and caterpillars. This traditional knowledge, passed down through stories, helped our ancestors survive. We take only what we need and leave enough for the insect colony.”
Sujata Giri, a 46-year-old Santal woman from the Tamalbandha village, recalls venturing into the local forest with her mother, on the lookout for wild edibles. “Watching her closely, I learned how to spot the nests of insects that are safe to eat, and the right season during which they can be collected.” Muni Kalundia, another Santal woman from the Saruda village, shares similar memories of familial warmth and household nutrition. For her community, these insects were not just cultural foods, but everyday sustenance during lean months, when grains were scarce.
Among their diverse diet, edible insects are a crucial part, supplying protein and micronutrients that have nourished generations.
The range and diversity of insects consumed by Odisha’s Adivasis include winged termites, silkworm pupae and spotted crickets. Sindhe Wadaka, a 53-year-old community leader from Khajuri, speaks of caterpillars found in bamboo stems, locally known as baunsa poko, which enjoy great value in maternal diets and care. Roasted baunsa poko are given to pregnant women, as they are believed to help improve blood supply and provide nourishment.
Also read: Black Soldier Fly: A hero of insect farming and waste management
Climate change and habitat degradation are impacting the populations of edible insects across Odisha. Erratic rainfall, in particular, has had an adverse effect on palm worms, bamboo caterpillars and winged termites, says Debabrata Panda, Assistant Professor at the Central University of Odisha, Koraput. “Since these species are largely foraged during the monsoon, shifting rainfall patterns are disrupting their availability,” he explains, adding that the growing use of agricultural chemicals is also wiping out insects once commonly found around farms.
“Sindhi kida was once abundantly found around the roots of palm shrubs. Now, locating them is tough,” says Dibakar Sabar, 58, from the Goiguda village in Rayagada. These sindhi kida–also called Sago worms–are among the most sought-after edible insects foraged by the Paroja, Kondh, Bonda (PVTG), Saora and Santal communities. They can be eaten raw, roasted or fried, and are known for their chewy, juicy texture and flavour, often compared to boiled chicken.
The range and diversity of insects consumed by Odisha’s Adivasis include winged termites, silkworm pupae and spotted crickets.
Similarly, snails–once abundantly found in paddy fields, ponds and rivers–have declined sharply. For Adivasi communities, snails are a cherished delicacy, often cooked into flavourful curries or fried dishes like the Santal Gongha Uttu. Known as gongha in the Santali language, snails are widely believed to offer multiple health benefits, improving eyesight, easing asthma and joint pain, supporting kidney health, boosting immunity and strength, and preventing anemia.
“In our community, we have always fed snails to pregnant women and young children,” says Saibeni Murmu, 60, a Santal woman from Bhagabandi village. “Our elders taught us that snails help new mothers regain energy, and children grow healthier. Ancestors believed that the strength of the forest lives within these creatures, and that eating them builds immunity, and keeps sickness away. But now, we are seeing less and less of them.”
Also read: Bugging out: Why declining insect populations in India spell doom for agriculture
The traditional knowledge on entomophagy–the practice of eating insects–is slowly slipping away. “Entomophagy is more common among the older generation, especially those above 50,” says Abhishek Pradhan, agricultural expert with the Watershed Support Services and Activities Network in Bhubaneswar. Over the past few years, Pradhan has worked closely with Adivasi communities, facilitating community-led documentation of forgotten and wild food cultures in more than 40 villages across the Malkangiri and Nuapada districts.
He observes a clear shift in the younger generation: those between 18 and 30 increasingly gravitate toward cereal-based diets influenced by market availability as well as changing lifestyles and aspirations. At the same time, a lingering stigma surrounds many wild foods, often labelled as ‘Adivasi food’—a term that distances young people from the very culinary traditions that sustained their ancestors for generations. “This disconnect is worrying,” Pradhan explains. “As these food practices fade, the deep ecological knowledge and local traditions tied to them also risks being lost.”
For Padma Jani, 62, from Malkangiri’s Mutluguda village, the changing food habits of the younger generation feel like a gradual but palpable loss. “Young people rarely enter the forest or wake up early to forage like we did. When they migrate to work, they drift further from traditional foods and feel embarrassed by our insect-eating customs. Slowly, they are distancing themselves from our forests, culture, and nature.”
“My grandfather always asserted that insects are nutritious. But after I joined a college in Bhubaneswar, I realised people see them as ‘food of the poor’. I didn’t want to be seen in this light, so I stopped eating insects,” says Sabita Majhi, a Paroja girl from Rayagada district. “I am more excited about trying new foods I see online. I want to explore other flavours.”
Young people rarely enter the forest or wake up early to forage like we did. When they migrate to work, they drift further from traditional foods and feel embarrassed by our insect-eating customs.
Srinibas Das, Livelihood Coordinator at the Odisha Livelihood Mission in Mayurbhanj, has worked with Adivasi communities on health and nutrition for more than a decade. He observes that while the older generations still consume diets rich in forest produce and remain healthy, the younger generation’s drift away from traditional dishes is leading to poorer health outcomes. In fact, researchers who surveyed tribal populations in the Mayurbhanj district in 2025 on their traditional food habits—specifically, consuming edible insects as part of their diet—noticed that community elders seemed particularly healthy compared to their counterparts in urban areas. They attribute this to the dense delivery of nutrients like amino-acids, carbohydrates, fatty acids, minerals, vitamins, trace-elements and fibers from insects.
In the same district of Mayurbhanj, where over 58% of the population belongs to Adivasi communities, malnutrition remains a serious concern. According to the 2022 Poshan District Report released by the NITI Aayog, 37% of children under five are stunted, 46% are underweight, and 72% are anemic. In fact, tribal communities across Odisha continue to suffer from alarming health deficits, particularly under-nutrition and anemia. According to the Odisha Tribal Family Health Survey (July 2022–July 2023) report, 71% of children aged 6–59 months are anaemic. The condition affects 76% of adolescent girls, 56% of adolescent boys, and an alarming 77% of adult women. The survey also highlights that over 40% of children under five are either stunted or underweight, significantly higher than the state’s general population.
While the older generations still consume diets rich in forest produce and remain healthy, the younger generation’s drift away from traditional dishes is leading to poorer health outcomes
As Odisha grapples with rising under-nutrition and shrinking dietary diversity, experts argue that future foods must nourish people without burdening the environment. Reviving traditional food cultures, they say, offers a promising path that can improve food security, restore dietary balance, and protect fragile ecosystems by drawing on resilient, locally adapted foods that Adivasi communities have relied on for generations.
As global populations continue to rise, projected to reach approximately 9 billion by 2050, the need for sustainable and nutrient-rich food sources is more urgent than ever. The Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO) highlights edible insects as an ‘underutilised resource’ that can help meet this growing demand. More than 1900 species of edible insects are consumed throughout the world. The global edible insects market is projected to reach $4.38 billion by 2030.
Insects are exceptionally nutritious, rich in energy, high-quality protein, healthy fats and fibre, and packed with essential micronutrients such as zinc, calcium and iron. On a dry-weight basis, insects typically contain 40–75% protein, compared to 23–35% in beef, 20–31% in chicken, and 20–30% in fish. Several species also provide substantially higher micronutrients. For example, crickets and mealworms contain up to 2–3 times more iron than beef and significantly higher levels of calcium, zinc and manganese. These differences position edible insects as one of the most nutrient-dense and efficient animal-protein sources.
Insects are exceptionally nutritious, rich in energy, high-quality protein, healthy fats and fibre, and packed with essential micronutrients such as zinc, calcium and iron.
According to various studies, insect farming has a much lighter environmental footprint than conventional livestock. Research from the Wageningen University, Netherlands, found that insects such as mealworms and crickets emit lower greenhouse gases than cattle and pigs, while the FAO reports that they require far less land, water and feed due to their high feed-conversion efficiency.
A 2024 review further confirms that vertically farmed insects (reared in indoor, controlled environments for food or feed) use only a fraction of the resources needed for meat production, underscoring their potential as a more sustainable protein source. With proper training and minimal investment, insect farming can also offer inclusive livelihood opportunities, particularly for communities with limited access to land.
Also read: Friends of the soil: A farmer’s key allies hide backstage and underground
“The economic and nutritional potential of edible insects in India remains largely untapped,” says Prof. Panda. He notes that Adivasi knowledge of entomophagy and its therapeutic uses is still poorly documented. “Research on insects as dietary supplements for malnutrition or immune support is very limited,” he adds.
Indigenous knowledge teaches us how to harvest and consume insects without harming biodiversity. Respecting this wisdom is crucial, especially when insect-based foods are still far from socially accepted in many parts of India
Unregulated promotion of insect consumption also carries risks, particularly the overharvesting of wild species that play essential roles in local ecosystems. “Entomophagy must be promoted with balance. Indigenous knowledge teaches us how to harvest and consume insects without harming biodiversity. Respecting this wisdom is crucial, especially when insect-based foods are still far from socially accepted in many parts of India,” Prof. Panda emphasises.
The global plant-based food movement took decades to gain momentum. If insect-based foods can follow a similar trajectory, rooted in sustainability, ethics, and cultural respect, it would mark a significant step forward for future food systems, especially for those at the margins of society.
Odisha’s Adivasi communities have mastered their approach to picking, foraging and cooking insect produce safely over generations. We recommend that you prioritise your own safety (and leave the cooking to the experts!) if you are not already in the habit of eating red ants.
Key ingredients:
Traditionally, women prepare the chutney using a handmade stone grinder. Garlic, salt and mint leaves are ground first to form a coarse paste, after which the red weaver ants and their larvae are added and crushed thoroughly, allowing their sharp, tangy flavour to blend with the spices.
Edited by Anushka Mukherjee and Neerja Deodhar
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Editor’s note: To know Rama Ranee is to learn about the power of regenerative practices. The yoga therapist, author and biodynamic farmer spent three decades restoring land in Karnataka, envisioning it as a forest farm in harmony with nature. In ‘The Anemane Dispatch’, a monthly column, she shares tales from the fields, reflections on the realities of farming in an unusual terrain, and stories about local ecology gathered through observation, bird watching—and being.
He stood in his cloak of flowers and vines, the wreathe of Ugani Hambu (Oval-leaved Silverweed, or Argyreia elliptica) awry, the Olle Tangadi (Tanner's Cassia, or Senna auriculata) flowers bright yellow, and Unnunni (Konkan Kalanchoe, or Kalanchoe bhidei) flowers catching the breeze like feathers. His eyes stared into the distant east as they had done from this hilltop for the last three decades, perhaps even longer, casting a protective spell over his domain. The gaze was the same but the eyes were different, renewed each year by the hands that shaped him out of clay—at times clear marbles, and sometimes just two round stones.
The previous day, Rajappa and Chikkanna (the staff at Anemane) had put together a physical form for the spirit of ‘Kaatamabaraya’, a folk deity of the region. The clay was brought from a vegetable bed, cleaned and kneaded into smooth balls—two large ones for the lower body, one for the torso, and the fourth for the head, shaped into a humanoid. Then came the teeth of stones and the eyes of pebbles or marbles, the nose, and the ears. Kaatamabaraya was endowed with all the senses and much more; he was, after all, the lord of the forests and the wilderness.
Outwardly, he mirrored the person who shaped him. Earlier it used to be our legendary Lakshmaiah, the original cowherd with an imposing physique, a handlebar moustache and a formidable presence that could counter any threat from leopards. He feared neither elephant nor man, well-attuned to the world of Kaatamabaraya. Since Lakshmaiah’s passing, the face that gazed upon us also changed.
The previous evening’s festivities had wound up as the sun set behind his back, after the last calf had leapt over the bonfire and all the cattle—his wards—had been housed in the cow shed and the gate firmly locked. It was a celebration of Uttarayana, the sun’s transition (Sankramana) from the southern to the northern hemisphere, on the northward journey from the Tropic of Capricorn, entering the constellation of Capricorn or Makara. Hence the name of the festival, ‘Makarashankranthi’. It indicated the end of winter and conclusion of the previous growing season, culminating in harvests, ushering a new cycle of longer days and the promise of fresh beginnings. Giving thanks to the sun for bountiful harvests and sharing the bounties with neighbours are central to the rituals associated with the festival (Bhogi habba, as it is known in Karnataka).
Also read: In forest bathing, an invitation to heal by being one with nature
The esoteric significance of this celestial event is embedded in the rituals. About two thousand years ago, Makarashankranthi might have indeed coincided with the winter solstice of the northern hemisphere, making the day the shortest in the year, and night the longest. The sun was a universal deity among ancient cultures, which considered the winter solstice as a period of renewal and rebirth, auspicious for realigning with cosmic rhythms, for self-reflection and purification—reminiscent of Shankranthi.
In present times, it is celebrated on January 14 or 15, following a period of transition that occurs around mid-December and is considered a twilight zone, affecting earthly beings—particularly the vulnerable—and vitiating health conditions. This period calls for crossing from dormancy to awakening, darkness to light, the cosmic rhythm of breathing in to breathing out.
The offering and sharing of sesame seeds—tempered by jaggery—between neighbours, relatives, and friends, during this festival has spiritual connotations: other than being a symbol of abundance, the sesame stands for immortality and is ritually valued for its ability to absorb subtle impurities and negativity. The transformation of the sesame seed from its dark, unhulled state to its inner, white purified core may be viewed as a metaphor for the inner spiritual process. As a child, I saw and learnt how laboriously and cathartically black sesame was soaked overnight and rubbed the whole day long on fine white cloth till the dark skin peeled back and the white kernel revealed itself. Looking back, I realise that my participation in the process as a child under my grandmother’s strict eye conveyed the transformation much more effectively than any theory.
Unhulled seeds are dark, potent, and sacred to Shani or Saturn, the son of the Sun God who rules the zodiac sign of Capricorn. Therefore, to ward off his negative planetary influences, sesame seeds are offered. They are seen as receptacles of solar energy due to their nutritional value and warming properties. The association of the seed with both these cosmic forces makes it special.
Cattle are preeminent icons of fertility, abundance, and prosperity in most rural communities in south India. The cow is a symbol of Kamadhenu, the mythical wish-fulfilling cow who holds within her being the entire cosmos and 330 million deities. The unique capacity of the cow to digest plant material and convert it into soil-enriching manure is attributed to billions of microorganisms which populate the stomach, rather like the deities contained within Kamadhenu! In biodynamics, a cow’s horns are perceived to be of huge functional and spiritual importance, with a subtle influence on the digestive system and as ‘antennae’ that harness cosmic energies. She is the mediator between the cosmic forces and the earth.
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Prior to the festival, the cattle sheds are thoroughly cleaned, the cattle bathed and their horns smeared with indigo or red clay to protect them from heat. Worn out tethering ropes are discarded for new ones. Cow bells adorn the necks and tips of horns.
The ceremonies begin with Doddi puje, the worship of a cow dung heap as the embodiment of life force. A lump of fresh dung is placed in front of the cattle shed encircled by a rangoli and decked in flowers. The lump of dung ceases to be just that and transforms magically into a being bearing the essence of the archetypical cow when adorned with certain species of flowers and plants, evoking the formative forces of vital organs which they represent.
The yellow flowers of Tangadi are eyes, the winding creeper Ugani Hambu the intestines, the Unnunni represents the liver, and Bheemana Bande Kayi (Spreading Caper, or Capparis divaricate) the kidneys. Anne soppu (Silver Cockscomb, or Celosia argentea) crowns the top, but its association is unclear.
The rest of the puja follows as per convention with offerings of incense, fruit, and coconut, with an additional item—curd rice. If a girl child partakes of the offering first, the herd will be blessed with a female calf; if it is a boy, then a bull will be born. After distributing some of the prasad among the devout, the rest is left at the Doddi covered in a basket. On the following day the contents are added to a compost heap.
Local lore, a talent of senior staffer Rajappa, illustrates the association of these plants with cows: there was once a farmer who had many cows. Their coats of varying hues and shades were a matter of pride. The one thing that the farmer did not possess and coveted was a green cow. So, he prayed to God, who—pleased by his devotion—granted him the boon. “I grant you a green cow, but you must follow my orders. Go home… the cow will follow you, but do not turn back, no matter what.” The farmer began to walk homeward but there was no sign of the cow. After a long while, he began to worry. Slowly he turned and peeped over his shoulder. A magnificent green cow was emerging from a termite mound, its head, front hooves, and upper body visible. Alas! The moment he looked behind, it shattered.
The head turned into Kamadhenu Tale Gida, a plant whose seed resembles the cow’s skull; horns into Beppale (Pala Indigo, or Wrightia tinctoria); intestines into Ugani Hambu; eyes into Tangadi; kidneys into Bheemana Bande Kayi and liver into Unnunni.
It is unsurprising that all these plants are beneficial in many ways, possessing healing properties, from being anti-inflammatory and immune-supporting, to aiding digestive health, being used topically in skin care and the treatment of wounds and mastitis, valued in local health traditions for humans as well as livestock. Some like Anne soppu are a good source of nutrition for humans and cows. The farmer will never own a green cow, but he can invoke it and imbue the dung with its potency, transmit it to compost, and thence to the soil, enriching their value.
The voice of Rajappa’s ancestor keeps this story alive. Encoding local knowledge in myth and ritual gives biodiversity a lease of life. Local issues of health and nutrition are addressed effectively with plant diversity and the knowledge to use them appropriately. Agricultural landscapes traditionally included hedges, old trees and, groves, meadows with access to open spaces, and not merely fields for crops. Farm ecosystems serve various functions, from enriching the soil, to pest management, and the preservation of wild species of plants. Today, the survival of the sacred plants associated with the green cow hinges upon the existence of so-called wastelands and interspaces—the areas they are confined to.
Also read: Friends of the soil: A farmer’s key allies hide backstage and underground
While a special festival lunch of Avarekai-huggi, a mildly spiced dish of Hyacinth beans, and rice, and Sihi-pongal, a sweet dish of rice, split green gram and jaggery, cooks in the kitchen, an outdoor firewood stove with a large pot of festival fare for the cows is tended to. A medley of fresh avarekai (Hyacinth bean) sweet potatoes, groundnut, sweet pumpkin and other gourds or freshly harvested produce, and chopped sugar cane is slow-cooked with aromatic herbs like Naayi Tulsi (Wild Basil, or Ocimum americanum) till tender, after which it is fed to the cattle.
Evening is the time to show gratitude to Kaatamabaraya, seeking his blessings and protection for livestock, especially cattle—a reminder of the not-so-distant past when livestock grazed in village commons or in forests, just as ours did. In a forest the hazards of grazing are many, from leopard attacks, to hostile elephants, bad weather or even errant bulls escaping the herd who require constant vigil. Kaata-ambara-raya (‘The lord who is clothed in forests’, as I understand it) provides protection not only from the dangers of the wilderness but also disease and uncertainty during the period of transition, ensuring safety.
As the sun begins to descend, humans and cattle with flower garlands around their necks and horns mill around Kaatamabaraya. The cowherd conducts the ceremony, offering fruits, coconut, incense and aarathi, the ritual of waving lit wicks or incense sticks in front of the deity to the accompaniment of prayers. A mix of sesame, jaggery and groundnut, sugar cane, sugar candy or ‘Acchu’ and bananas are distributed, and all of us—including the cattle—enjoy the sugarcane. The ceremonies conclude as the sky turns red and gold. A bonfire is lit across the path for the cattle to jump over one by one—probably to rid their coats of ticks and sanitise them—to reach the safety of the cowshed. Forest edge pastoralists may construe this as a desensitisation strategy for coping with forest fires.
Under the dome of the heavens, Kaatamabaraya will guard plant and cow, so long as he reigns as a free spirit over wild spaces, unfettered.
Also read: Farming under the elephant’s nose: Lessons in crop choices
Artwork by Khyati K
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In conversations around nutrition, high-protein diets are often pushed and promoted as a means to suppress appetite. Packaged protein snacks, for example, promise to keep hunger away for hours. Compared to carbohydrates and fats, protein is routinely described as the most satiating macronutrient. This claim is not entirely wrong, but it does not provide the full picture: to understand whether protein is truly more filling, it's important to first understand how the body actually experiences a meal.
What does it mean to feel ‘full’? Hunger and appetite are often used interchangeably , but the two are not the same. Hunger is the body’s biological signal to top up energy—driven by falling blood glucose, rising ghrelin levels, and basic fuel needs. Appetite, on the other hand, is the desire to eat, shaped by sensory cues, pleasure, habits, and food environment. Satiety sits at the intersection of the two: it is the feeling of fullness that follows eating, suppressing hunger and dampening appetite for a period of time.
Protein consistently ranks high on satiety scales in controlled feeding studies. One reason for this is digestion. Protein takes longer to break down than refined carbohydrates, which means it stays in the stomach and small intestine longer. This slower digestion stimulates the release of satiety hormones such as peptide YY (PYY), GLP-1, and cholecystokinin (CCK), all of which signal fullness to the brain. Protein also suppresses ghrelin, the hormone associated with hunger, more effectively than carbohydrates or fats.
Satiety sits at the intersection of hunger and appetite: it is the feeling of fullness that follows eating, suppressing hunger and dampening appetite for a period of time.
Digesting protein also requires more metabolic work—a process known as the thermic effect of food, which contributes roughly 8–10% of daily energy expenditure overall (and a larger share when protein intake is higher). This does not directly create fullness, but reflects protein’s slower digestion, prolonged processing in the gut and delayed gastric emptying. Together, these effects help sustain satiety signals, —and more simply, explain why higher-protein meals are often linked to reduced snacking later in the day.
Protein is often singled out for its ability to stimulate satiety hormones. But emerging research suggests it is not acting alone. Certain carbohydrates and polyunsaturated fats also contribute to the release of these hormones, especially when consumed as part of intact foods. In average balanced meals, satiety is rarely the result of one macronutrient; it emerges from the combined effect of protein, fibre and fats working together within a whole-food matrix.
Also read: Is there an 'ideal' amount of protein that must be consumed?
Carbohydrates and fats are often treated as the ‘less filling’ counterparts to protein, but their effect on satiety depends far more on the form and structure of the foods consumed than on the nutrient itself. Refined carbohydrates such as white bread, sugary drinks or biscuits digest quickly, leading to rapid blood sugar rises followed by declines that can activate hunger signals soon after eating. But carbohydrates eaten within intact whole foods—where fibre, water and cellular structure slow digestion—behave very differently. Whole grains, pulses, vegetables and fruits slow digestion and release energy gradually, both of which support fullness. This is why meals built around foods like rice and dal, millets with vegetables, or legumes with whole grains tend to be deeply satisfying despite being carbohydrate-rich.
Fats, too, are often misunderstood. Once again, fats that are eaten as part of refined foods—such as those encased in fried coatings or creamy fillings in ultra-processed foods—require little chewing, are easy to consume quickly, and do not strongly trigger satiety on their own. In contrast, fats that are embedded within whole foods—such as nuts, seeds, dairy, eggs or fish—are released more gradually during digestion because they are bound within a natural food matrix of fibre, protein and water.
Also read: The science behind high-protein milk: How it differs from whey powder
Carbohydrates and fats are not inherently less filling than protein. When eaten in intact, minimally processed foods, they work alongside protein to sustain fullness. The problem is not carbs or fats themselves, but foods where these nutrients are stripped of structure and designed for rapid consumption.
Satiety depends not only on macronutrient ratios, but on food structure. Foods that require chewing, digest slowly and contain fibre tend to keep hunger at bay, whether they are rich in protein, carbs or fats. Research on ultra-processed foods shows that even high-protein ultra-processed products can be less satiating when nutrients are stripped of their natural structure. This encourages faster eating and overconsumption.
In average balanced meals, satiety is rarely the result of one macronutrient; it emerges from the combined effect of protein, fibre and fats working together within a whole-food matrix.
What differentiates nutrients then, is not a single hormone trigger, but how they are delivered in real food: intact food matrices rich in protein, fibre and healthy fats sustain satiety more effectively than isolated nutrients and powders. Protein is generally more reliably satiating than refined carbs or isolated fats, but it works best within whole foods and balanced meals.
Also read: The protein divide: Should you pick whole-food sources or isolates?
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Editor’s note: The last two decades have been witness to the rapid and devastating march of unchecked urbanisation and climate change in India’s cities. Among the first victims of this change is freshwater and access to it—from rivers which sustained local ecosystems, to lakes and groundwater which quenched the thirst of residents. In this series, the Good Food Movement examines the everyday realities of neglect and pollution. It documents the vanishing and revival of water bodies, and community action that made a difference.
In Gujarat, the state with the largest coastline—which is flanked by the Arabian Sea on one side and patrolled by flowing rivers like the Narmada, Sabarmati, Tapi, and Mahi on the other—residents harbour a dichotomous relationship with water. Life in the state adheres to the whims of the water—the paucity and the abundance of it.
In ancient India—and Gujarat—water conservation was a great architectural preoccupation, driven by the necessities of agricultural dependence, the harsh realities of unpredictable monsoons, and extreme climate fluctuations. Among the most spectacular architectural innovations to emerge from this preoccupation were stepwells, that date back to the 7th century and are considered some of the earliest forms of decentralised water harvesting structures.
Decentralised water typically refers to water management where water services—collection, treatment, distribution, and wastewater management—are handled locally at a small scale, rather than through one large, centralised facility serving an entire city or region. They appeared as man-made reservoirs, punctuating the arid landscape, and reached depths of 60-80 feet into the earth, serving as a perennial source of potable groundwater.
These water structures change their names across India's cultural landscape—bavdi in Hindi-speaking regions, vaav in Gujarat and Marwar's desert lands, kalyani or pushkarani in Kannada-speaking territories, and barav in Maharashtra.
A dome (gumbad) adorned with intricate carvings and a parapet gives way to a water reservoir that seems to emerge from the depths of the earth. Multi-layered with stories that run deep and columns that create a hypnotic illusion of windows within windows, these structures appear as if the building had been uprooted and turned upside-down, tucked comfortably inside the earth. They break away from architectural archetypes in an attempt to create a subversion of design penetrating the very ground beneath our feet. The temperature drops dramatically as you descend the steps. The air grows heavy with moisture, its traces visible in the moss-ridden brick and mortar—a microclimate preserved within these ancient walls that tells the story of Gujarat's enduring relationship with water conservation.
Riyaz Tayyibji, an acclaimed Ahmedabad-based architect, deconstructs their structure. He says that they emerge as linear buildings exemplifying a remarkable architecture of subtraction. “Each structure is carved downward into the earth rather than built skyward. Its form begins with a square, circular, or octagonal dug well that becomes accessible through stairs descending purposefully into the ground. The uppermost landing features a shaded roof supported by columns, creating the first threshold between scorching sun and cool sanctuary,” says Tayyibji.
These architectural marvels are typically constructed from locally available materials, primarily sandstone or limestone. The natural porosity of these rocks serves a crucial function, allowing water to permeate the stone and helping maintain the well's water level.
As one descends, each subsequent flight of stairs leads to another landing adorned with an open structure—elegant pavilions, rhythmic colonnades, or intimate porches—until finally reaching the life-giving well at the lowest depth. These landing pavilions create a cascading architectural poetry, where each level's columned platform becomes the sheltering roof for the space below, forming a nested sequence of spaces that grow more intimate with depth.
The vertical walls surrounding the well often display intricate artistry—decorative brackets, niches, and sculpted ornamentation that transform functional infrastructure into a cultural artefact. Although some stepwells incorporated shrines and religious imagery within their structures, they largely remained secular, serving communities across religious and social boundaries.
These architectural marvels are typically constructed from locally available materials, primarily sandstone or limestone. The natural porosity of these rocks serves a crucial function, allowing water to permeate the stone and helping maintain the well's water level. Traces of other porous materials such as lime mortar can also be observed throughout these structures, further facilitating water management.
Also read: Bengaluru is fated to run out of water. When will the crisis hit?
"Stepwells were and still are a unique spatial expression and often served as an extension of the domestic habitat, in that the people could spend the hot days of the summer months in the cool environs on the platforms, stairs and steps, galleries and balconies of the stepwells, especially in the hot and arid regions of Western India, such as Rajasthan and Gujarat, and also central and Northern India," says Jutta Jain-Neubauer. Jain-Neubaur, an art historian specialising in water architecture in ancient and medieval India, explains how stepwells represent a form of ‘embedded knowledge’ about sustainable water management that remains relevant to contemporary water challenges.
She says the ancient knowledge of the “so-called water-diviners was imperative in determining the location of a well or stepwell—it could not have been built anywhere, but had to tap the underground source of water.” “Therefore, the knowledge of the aquifers and geological surroundings where water might be found and accumulated was needed. Additionally, hydrological knowledge of underground constructions was necessary to prevent water seepage during construction and to determine the quality of water, which remains relevant to this day.” According to the scholar, stepwells, being underground monuments, required a very specific and high-quality technical knowledge of digging into the earth, as well as constructions to ward off the pressure of the side-walls when they were deeper underground. “Perhaps it is millennia-old experience and knowledge that manifested itself in the construction of stepwells.”
Stepwells, being underground monuments, required a very specific and high-quality technical knowledge of digging into the earth, as well as constructions to ward off the pressure of the side-walls when they were deeper underground.
A consistent pattern emerges in the relationship between depressions where water collects to form small lakes (talav) or ponds (talavadi) and the higher ground or mounds (tekro) inhabited by communities. This fundamental dialogue between water and settlement has profoundly shaped the character of built environments across generations. Where the talav still cradles water, the associated wells flourish with life; where talavs have been filled or their sources obstructed, the wells have withered to dust, revealing an intricate, almost symbiotic relationship between surface waters and the groundwater that feeds stepwells.
Ironically, groundwater supply shortages emerge as the most severe risk confronting the Indian subcontinent over the next two years (2025-2027), according to the World Economic Forum (WEF). To add to the mix, India is the world's largest consumer of groundwater.
A lone standing board at the crossroads of the Tarsali area in Vadodara reads 'Vavnagri'—the city of stepwells. However, only overgrown foliage and ruins of stone remain to speak of that tall claim. In the Gorwa area of, another stepwell lies buried under heaps of garbage, having devolved into a ground for open defecation. In the proximity of other stepwells, garbage from residential buildings is often dumped into these ancient structures.This remains the present-day narrative for many stepwells that have fallen off the map, their historical significance obscured by neglect.
Yet, some have been taken under the wings of the Gujarat Archaeology Department, such as the Sevasi Vav in Vadodara, fondly called Vidhyadhar Vav by locals.
Also read: In Gurugram's rise, a cautionary tale about satellite cities and groundwater
"Traditional water systems can manage only 3-5% of our current water demands in the modern urban context," says Tayyibji. "While we must learn from these traditional systems, they need to be reinterpreted. Ground quality has degraded significantly, contaminating water closer to the surface level. We must find feasible solutions for our contemporary needs. Stepwells work within a particular context, but that context has changed dramatically."
Environmentalist Rohit Prajapati from Vadodara echoes these concerns: "We're facing a water crisis because of excessive water mining and groundwater extraction. We need to examine our water balance sheet—how much we draw, versus how much is replenished. We're exploiting water resources while simultaneously preventing natural recharging by covering the earth with paver blocks and concrete. We need integrated systems of cleaning, water recharging, and most importantly, rationalising our water use."
Also lost is the watchful stewardship of community elders, who once observed their water systems with patient attention.
"Traditional water structures have varying degrees of pollution, usage, and maintenance. However, even visibly neglected and polluted water sources still have high potential for restoration, sometimes with a water quality index that is comparable to municipal drinking water,” reads a water quality pilot study from 2020, focused on the Deccan Plateau. The pilot study observes that revitalisation efforts must consider both, initial restoration and maintenance; without the latter, stepwell structures can fall into neglect again.
“We also observe that a lack of education surrounding the significance of water structures—both functionally and culturally, combined with the short-term financial incentive of unsustainable farming practices—also represents a burden to sustainable revitalisation,” the authors of the pilot study add. Through conversations with local NGOs, leveraging cultural heritage value or tourism emerged as potential solutions to incentivise the restoration of stepwells.
Also read: 'What river?' How Mumbai's neglected Mithi punishes those that live on its banks
Beyond their engineering significance, stepwells served as vital community spaces. As Jain-Neubauer notes, "Stepwells were and still are a unique spatial expression and often served as an extension of the domestic habitat. People could spend hot summer days in the cool environs on platforms, stairs, galleries and balconies, especially in the hot and arid regions of Western India."
These structures played a significant role in shaping collective memory and identity within the communities they served. Local stories, folk songs, and oral traditions associated with stepwells became integral parts of said collective memory—the Song of Jasma Odan in Gujarat, local legends surrounding Wadhwan's stepwell in Surendranagar, Gujarat, and numerous poems and stories about chance meetings between strangers and travellers with girls at wells, all testified to their cultural significance.
Stepwells embody more than mere historical fascination; they represent embedded wisdom about sustainable water management, community gathering, and architectural innovation that speaks directly to contemporary challenges.
Kakoli Sen, a visual artist from Vadodara, Gujarat, whose work with stepwells spans over two decades of research and artistic practice, traces the fractured seams where these monumental structures have slipped from modern maps, meticulously stitching them back into our urban fabric. Through her eyes, one witnesses the haunting, gradual erasure of stepwells. She expresses how stepwells have faded to the fringes at a very slow pace.
Sen recalls how a local newspaper dubbed her 'vav premi' (lover of stepwells). In a concerted effort to create a discourse around stepwells, she conceptualised “Soul of a Vav”—an audio-visual installation of the stepwell narrating its story, she explains. The audience would sit on the steps like children sitting on their mother's laps and hear enraptured the tales of its glory.
Sen brings to life and reimagines stepwells as living, breathing narrators of their history. Her work excavates the vanishing legacy of stepwells; those architectural marvels are now relegated to forgotten corners of our collective consciousness.
Stepwells embody more than mere historical fascination; they represent embedded wisdom about sustainable water management, community gathering, and architectural innovation that speaks directly to contemporary challenges.
(Slider Image Credit: The Adalaj Stepwell, by Notnarayan, via Wikimedia Commons)
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Editor’s note: To know Rama Ranee is to learn about the power of regenerative practices. The yoga therapist, author and biodynamic farmer spent three decades restoring land in Karnataka, envisioning it as a forest farm in harmony with nature. In ‘The Anemane Dispatch’, a monthly column, she shares tales from the fields, reflections on the realities of farming in an unusual terrain, and stories about local ecology gathered through observation, bird watching—and being.
The canvas-topped Willys jeep—my uncle’s—trundled up a narrow path gouged through the wall of massive trunks and closed canopies, spewing red dust clouds in its trail. A virgin, tropical evergreen forest in the Western Ghats (north Karnataka) was in the throes of making way for the rest of the world, and I, caught between wonder and a sense of loss.
The idea of wilderness and a connection with it was shaped by early memories of rainforests peppered with tiger tales, cascades in hidden gorges, and sunny hours spent bathing in rocky streams. Nothing could possibly match the intensity of such moments when all the senses were lifted, released as they were from their physical moorings, into an embrace with the all-encompassing being of Gaia (the goddess of Earth). The ecstasy is beyond gratification—a recognition of something magnificent, much larger than the mind can conceive, but can only sense, with an invitation to belong, if one so chooses.
Shinrin-yoku, a Japanese term for forest bathing, is an attempt at inviting a society beleaguered by stress and its deleterious health effects to detox and rediscover the benefits of connecting with nature. Though the name is contemporary, the practices are drawn from the ancient Shinto and Buddhist traditions of Japan, where nature was venerated. Promulgated in the early 1980s by naturalist Tomohide Akiyama, who was the secretary of the country’s Forest Agency at the time, as a way of destressing, it is the practice of immersing oneself in nature, especially in forests or groves. Here are some of the acts or practices it calls for:
• Walking mindfully, with awareness, in the present moment, focusing on breathing
• Using all the five senses to deepen the experience of the surroundings
• Moving slowly or being quiet and still, allowing nature to hold you
• No distractions such as conversing, or usage of devices, especially electronic ones; not even cameras!
Shinrin-yoku, a Japanese term for forest bathing, is an attempt at inviting a society beleaguered by stress and its deleterious health effects to detox and rediscover the benefits of connecting with nature.
Forests and groves, both natural and manmade, were consecrated for their ecological importance fundamental to human survival. Some of the most bio-diverse, undisturbed forests in Japan have survived in the precincts of Shinto temples, venerated and protected as the abodes of nature spirits, as they are integral to the animistic traditions of Shinto. Two interesting examples are the manmade, self-sustaining forests around the Meiji Jingu shrine in Tokyo, and the ancient sacred woodlands of Kumano Kodo, with its giant cedar and cypress trees.
Like yoga and meditation, forest bathing, too, has captured popular imagination as a form of therapy. Research seems to suggest that it stimulates parasympathetic responses, thereby inducing a calm state of mind, reducing stress, anxiety, and blood pressure. It is also said to lower heart rate, improve attention and creativity, induce joy and well-ness. Phytoncides, natural compounds emitted by trees, boost immunity. I cannot, however, suppress the thought that beyond tangible effects, there are other gifts that this practice may bring—the kind that I sensed in the forests of my childhood and the ones that age-old ‘fairy-tales’ allude to. That there are dimensions beyond the senses, populated by nymphs, fairies and numinous beings described by clairvoyants like the early theosophists.
Also read: Farming under the elephant's nose: Lessons in crop choices
Sacred forests and groves are found all over the world, as ancient spiritual practices were associated with natural elements and the spirits who embodied them. At times, it could be an entire region: sheltered by the Khangchendzonga peak, Sikkim’s Dzongu valley is the homeland of the indigenous Lepcha community and a biodiversity hub. As our host in the area explained, Khangchendzonga is the guardian deity, Rongyong Chu is the river that carries the souls of the dead back to their mountain abode, and the fish in holy rock pools are indicators of climate change. I was entranced by the feeling that every rock was a shrine, and every blade of grass imbued with spirit.
Sacred forests and groves are found all over the world, as ancient spiritual practices were associated with natural elements and the spirits who embodied them.
The butterflies we went to study were gorgeous and otherworldly, yet I wish that I had been more aware, and listened the way mindfulness requires. A single-minded pursuit of the empirical kind, of an intellectual experience, has its limitations. It is a bit like opening a particular door while shutting everything else right at the outset.
Closer home, Igguthappa, one of the most revered deities among Karnataka’s Kodavas, is the god of rain and harvests. His temple stands atop a hill in Kakkabbe, 34 km from Madikeri, shrouded in mystery and dense evergreen forests. These bio-diverse, rich sacred forests or ‘devarakadu’ are intrinsically linked to the deity and protected by both, law and tradition. More than three decades ago, I had climbed the steep moss-lined stairway carved into the hillside. The drizzle and clouds sharpened my focus on every step while drowning out all other sights or stimuli. The challenges of traversing such a wild path, unsheltered and open to the mercies of the weather gods, offers the ideal conditions for an altered state of mind: present in the moment, not intentional, just spontaneous. To this day, I remember the climb and the utter silence. A secure, predictable environment may not offer such a possibility.
Even if one has never undergone arduous journeys to find a spot under a tree, a little magic permeates the air if we simply tune into nature. This is what tuning in feels like at Anemane: standing amid bamboos—a tall, mature clump blocking the sun, ringed by younger ones, stems interlocking like the spires of a cathedral while a White-rumped Shama pauses mid-song. A Blue Mormon butterfly glides past, a dark knight in a silvery cloak. The acacia bows, the bark that an elephant had peeled, still a gash. Earthstar fungi pop up creamy clusters from the leaf-littered earth, from where the oil in dead leaves and mold wafts up. A twig snaps, and I spin around, scanning for a wild pig. The twig was under my own foot, and the spell I was in breaks. Until that moment, I had bathed in the presence of these beings, trees, bamboos, and denizens of the sylvan realm, surrendering to their gaze and letting their vibrations drench me.
Even if one has never undergone arduous journeys to find a spot under a tree, a little magic permeates the air if we simply tune into nature.
Though never undertaken intentionally, I find myself forest bathing when I walk in the wilderness or just exist among trees. It would be perhaps more accurate if I were to say ‘I am being bathed’ at that moment.
Also read: How birds open a window to the shared web of life—our ecosystem
Natural forests are integrated and complex environments; navigating them requires an intimate connection to their terrain and wildlife. For those who don’t have this connection, accessing the forest safely remains out of bounds. The Bannerghatta National Park (BNP), which shares boundaries with Anemane Farm, has been the site of unfortunate accidents and the deaths of people encroaching into it, due to elephant attacks. Fragmentation and the loss of buffer zones have further escalated human-animal conflicts.
Natural forests have declined, and sacred forests, despite their spiritual and ecological significance, have not been not spared either. Devarakadus along the Western Ghats are dwindling due to economic pressures and the undermining of traditions. Rapid and poorly planned development has affected our urban green cover as well. Bengaluru’s famed green cover has diminished from 68% in 1970 to less than 4% in 2024.
A paradigm shift from anthropocentric ways to an acceptance of the wholeness of nature—of man as a part of a living Earth, sensing the truth behind the animism embedded in ancient religions which gave us the Shinrin-yoku concept—is needed.
The unsustainable utilisation of precious resources like forests, trees, and waterbodies, poor waste management, and unregulated growth is eroding the quality of life within our cities and engulfing rural environs as well. Nature is firmly on the list of ‘consumables’ and ‘dispensables’ and sources of entertainment. A forest available to the public for health and rejuvenation is a remote possibility—one that could be further undermined by apathy and absence of community participation.
A paradigm shift from anthropocentric ways to an acceptance of the wholeness of nature—of man as a part of a living Earth, sensing the truth behind the animism embedded in ancient religions which gave us the Shinrin-yoku concept—is needed. We ought to keep our groves as they are meant to be: as abodes of the spirit, through stewardship and responsibility.
Also read: Friends of the soil: A farmer's key allies hide backstage and underground
A forest farm offers a safe and suitable environment for rejuvenation and therapy. Ours had a long gestation period: the transformation from bare, degraded land to a forest farm took three decades, much of which was dedicated to nourishing soil and coaxing reluctant saplings to grow and thrive. This was a process of ‘ensouling’ the earth, allowing it time to heal and regain the ability to support life. All the elements of nature came together as part of a holistic agricultural practice called biodynamics to give the life-force a boost. The farmer is the instrument, the steward with many co-workers— human, and more-than-human.
Among our most dedicated co-workers were a group of 15 young people, most of them severely autistic (ASD), whose path to healing lay through the nascent wilderness. Mahesh, one of students, sat at the base of a teak tree, knees drawn up like a fetus, with a fear of open spaces and the unknown stifling him. This was during the first week in the five years of his time at Anemane. By the end of six months, he had grown into that space, confident, capable of carrying out tasks independently. Our practices of silence, mindfulness, rhythms, and tasks in sync with nature may have helped.
Working in nature and restoring and caring for the land transformed our autistic students into a harmonious unit—a circle of safety and peace so tangible that even new entrants, as anxious and dysfunctional as the original group used to be, just settled in as if they belonged. That is perhaps what a sacred natural space would do: enable people to connect with the rest of nature, with other people and find themselves in the process.
Children growing up without adequate access and exposure to nature have an inability to value and protect it; alienation from trees and forests underlies the lack of empathy. In this context, if active engagement and caring became a way of expressing reverence, forest bathing could also teach practitioners reciprocity: ‘I care for nature, and nature takes care of me.’
Artwork by Khyati K
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Editor’s Note: To work in ecology science and biodiversity conservation in India is to undertake the work of a lifetime. For many, but especially women, this work is as much a career as it is a calling, with challenges that pertain to the job itself—such as reasoning with authorities—as well as their personal journeys and identities. In this series, the Good Food Movement highlights female scientists, activists and community builders whose visions and labour have ensured forests, wetlands, and species across flora and fauna live another day.
Decades before she won the Ramsar Award for Wise Use of Wetlands, long before she cofounded the conservation group Care Earth Trust, and years before she even moved to Chennai, Jayshree Vencatesan, now 65, loved to sit along the banks of the Godavari river and peer into the water.
Vencatesan grew up in Rajahmundry, a small town in Andhra Pradesh, and the river was just a short walk from home. She would stare at its ripples and eddies with a notebook and a pencil, watching the Godavari’s colour moult like the skin of a living creature, from cerulean to muddy green to the deep purple of a bruise. Vencatesan loved to draw what she described as the river’s “moods”, and it was in the water’s changing colours that she began to understand them. For example, when the Godavari turned brown with muck, she knew it would flood.
Vencatesan once told her mother to expect the river to rise the following day, and her mom—weary of a child who learned far more outside the confines of a classroom than inside of one—told her to “go do something useful.” “My mother keeps saying, ‘she was a vagabond, and she made a career of being a vagabond,’” Vencatesan says with a chuckle.
Still, Vencatesan was a bit of a paradox—a vagabond with roots. As she grew older and began a career in conservation science, there were plenty of opportunities for her to leave India and never think much about returning, but her father had always implored her to “do the best for your country first.”
Wetland conservation, as Vencatesan notes, is not the most glamorous of endeavours, even if India has lost between one third and one half of these ecosystems since the 1940s, and continues to lose them at a rate of about two-three percent per year.
So, instead of moving abroad, she moved to Chennai, where in 2000 she cofounded Care Earth Trust with ecologist R.J. Ranjit Daniels. The two of them were already well known in their fields; Vencatesan had earned a PhD researching the links between gender and biodiversity in the Kolli Hills, where she met and decided to work with Daniels while he was studying birds and other creatures in the area. But the organisation’s focus on reviving wetlands didn’t inspire anyone to help get the group off the ground. Wetland conservation, as Vencatesan notes, is not the most glamorous of endeavours, even if India has lost between one third and one half of these ecosystems since the 1940s, and continues to lose them at a rate of about two-three percent per year.
“We were broke,” Vencatesan says. “It was miserable, let me tell you that.”
Also read: The Chitlapakkam Rising story: How a Chennai community saved a lake
Vencatesan and Daniels had one desk and one chair between the two of them. He sat at the desk because she said she didn’t mind the floor.
The pair went on like this, more or less, for a decade. They had no problem securing one meeting after another with government officials to talk about marshes and the work that Care Earth Trust could do to rejuvenate them. Still, it wasn’t the government that Vencatesan and Daniels had to convince.
More and more people were moving into Chennai, and apartment complexes—along with the roads and all the accompanying infrastructure—were rising almost anywhere land was available, and often even where there wasn’t. Real estate companies and government workers were happy to dump mud and rocks into wetlands until the soft, watery mud was firm enough to build on.
“Every road, every infrastructure project that has come up in Chennai has been at the expense of wetlands,” says Vencatesan. “It was the stupidest thing the government could do, to put it mildly.”
“Every road, every infrastructure project that has come up in Chennai has been at the expense of wetlands,” says Vencatesan. “It was the stupidest thing the government could do, to put it mildly.”
Also read: A man dreamt of a forest. It became a model for the world.
As the new century wore on, more people in Vencatesan’s adopted city began to see her point. Drought became a constant worry in Chennai, in part because the city’s ravenous 21st century expansion eradicated many of its water bodies and that meant less and less water found its way underground, where it could be pulled up to irrigate crops or to drink from in areas of the city that aren’t connected to the piped supply. The Care Earth Trust began to receive some work, and then came the 2015 floods that ravaged the city.
Wetlands prevent flooding in the same way they prevent drought: by providing water with a place to go. Vencatesan was one of the first scientists to write about how the fragmentation of Chennai’s 50 sq km Pallikaranai Marsh forced excess rainwater into the streets, and by 2015, so many of Chennai’s waterbodies had been paved with asphalt and concrete that the torrent of rain from that season’s seemingly never-ending monsoon had no choice but to swamp the city’s homes. Vencatesan says she had long thought that Chennai wouldn’t wake up to the ecological damage it had done to itself until a flood swallowed the affluent neighbourhoods, and that year proved her to be correct. International agencies began pouring money into recovery efforts, including wetland rehabilitation. Suddenly, Care Earth Trust was busy.
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(A look into the avian biodiversity of the Pallikaranai Marsh. Credit: Wikimedia Commons/Shanmugam Saravanan, Amara Bharathy, Sudharsun Jayaraj, Timothy A. Gonsalves)
Vencatesan often finds herself giving lectures to institutes in and around Chennai, and she’s always looking for women interested in ecology who strike her as willing to challenge authority.
Ten years on, the group is still coaxing city marshes back to life, often with the help of communities who come looking for guidance in rehabilitating their own local wetlands. Each of these projects is a drawn-out process. At first, only a few community members care. Then their families start to show an interest. Then some friends. Over four or five years, Vencatesan says, birds start to reappear. Spotted deer show up. Finally, the marsh is back. These sorts of successes steadily built up the reputation of Care Earth Trust and Vencatesan, and in March 2025, she became the first Indian to receive a Ramsar Convention grant when the group honoured her with its ‘Wise Use of Wetlands’ award.
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Care Earth Trust remains grounded in the work that Vencatesan and Daniels initiated at the turn of the millennium, and the group now pays and trains young women to safeguard Chennai’s ecological balance well into the future, allowing them to grow into scientific careers away from the prejudices of men. Vencatesan often finds herself giving lectures to institutes in and around Chennai, and she’s always looking for women interested in ecology who strike her as willing to challenge authority.
“Women should be given the strength, the capability, the power, and the backup to function to their full potential,” she said.
Care Earth Trust has also recently begun to publish classroom material centred on wetland conservation, including a book released late last year called Be My Happy Place, which helps students explore their own urban ecologies.
Marshes, lakes, and rivers have always been a happy place for Vencatesan, and she hopes that kids will find themselves there just as she did.
Art by Jishnu Bandyopadhyay
Produced by Nevin Thomas and Neerja Deodhar
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