Sasbani’s 'fruits' of labour: Reviving hope in rural Uttarakhand

Sasbani, a small Kumaoni village tucked into Uttarakhand’s Dhari tehsil, is no stranger to encounters with the wild. Monkeys raid farms in broad daylight; wild boars dig up fields overnight. In 2023, the forest department even proposed increasing the fox population to keep their numbers in check. “They ruin so much,” says Mamta Nayal, 52, who moved back to Sasbani, her native village, in 2017 after nearly two decades in Delhi. “It wasn’t like this before.”

Nayal and her husband had left Sasbani in the early 2000s, soon after they married. This village in Nainital district, home to over 1,200 voters, is connected by a partially paved road. There are no colleges nearby. Nayal was starting a new life and had dreams of educating her children; the couple had four over the following years. “We wanted them to study, go to college,” she says. “That didn’t seem possible here.” So, they settled in Delhi, hoping for a more stable life and better livelihood opportunities.

Things changed when her in-laws passed away, and none of the extended family was willing to tend to their share of the farmland. In 2017, Nayal returned with her two younger children—a girl and a boy—while her husband, a mechanic, stayed back in Delhi to support their older daughters through college. “Education also needs money. And farming isn’t easy or enough.”

With little local government intervention to help with improving the situation, crop losses piling up, and the family split across two homes, farming alone wasn’t enough. She needed extra income. It was hard to come by, though. Opportunities are slim in Sasbani: Farming and cattle rearing remain the main sources of livelihood. Until recently, locals say, the only shop—part dhaba, part grocery, part vegetable stall—stood at the junction of Letibunga, Gahna, and Sasbani. A few more have opened in the last few years. For Nayal, it was even harder to find an alternate income source with no formal education beyond primary school. Apart from occasional cooking gigs at nearby homestays—mostly during peak tourist season—there’s little she could fall back on.

Life has taken a similar route for Champa Melkani, who had spent over a decade in Haldwani, the biggest city in the Kumaon region, until the COVID-19 pandemic struck in 2020. “During the pandemic, we had to move back,” she says, seated beside Nayal on the rooftop of the Sasbani Gramya Haat on a clear afternoon. Together, they slice galgal (Citrus pseudolimon Tanaka) and mix spices to make pickles. “Farming also suffers because of water scarcity,” says Melkani, who is in her mid-40s. “Only during the monsoon months do we get a proper harvest. Otherwise, it’s just potatoes and peas.”

In the last few years, the Sasbani Gramya Haat has begun to change this difficult reality. A modest shop perched on a hillside lined with ancient step terraces, it has quietly become a lifeline for women trying to rebuild their lives. Set up in 2021 by Neha Shah, a corporate worker-turned-entrepreneur, the Haat buys excess local produce—often wasted due to poor transport and storage—from local farmers and turns it into jams, pickles, oils and more. It has created opportunities for villagers to earn, learn new skills, and regain control over how their produce is used and valued.

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The beginning of a dream

In 2021, when the impact of the COVID-19 pandemic was still being felt, many like 32-year-old Shah were nudged to reassess their life choices. Shah’s ancestors migrated to the Western Himalayas during British rule. But she grew up in Haldwani, the gateway between the plains and the hills. Unlike her forebears, who were traders, she and her two siblings were raised in a service-class household.

Even after studying law and working briefly in Gurugram, Shah held on to two dreams. “One, to live in the hills. Two, to start something of my own.” In early 2019, she visited Sasbani following a tip-off about a land deal. Like many others, she and her then-fiancé (now husband) were hoping to build a small homestay.

During one of these visits, something she saw shook her. Farmers were dumping ripe plums and apricots into earth pits beneath their trees. “In Gurugram, I was paying a premium for the same fruits,” she says. “It wasn’t much different in Haldwani either. And here, they were being thrown away.”

“What else could we do?” Nayal says. “We can’t always send our produce to city markets in time without better transport systems. If the fruit gets overripe—and often does—it is unusable.”

India loses an estimated 4.6%-15.9% of its fruits and vegetables every year due to outdated harvesting methods and poor cold chain infrastructure, according to the Ministry of Food Processing Industries. Shah began looking for ways to salvage the waste. The idea was basic: make jams and preserves. “I’ve never even liked jams,” she laughs, sipping rhododendron tea in her cosy rented shop. “But I knew this could work. I wanted to use what’s being wasted, support local farmers, and build a sustainable business.”

"All my dreams were coming together—and coming true,” she says with a smile.

Above them, the Panchachuli peaks of the Himalayas stand tall, and the air carries a sharp, citrusy smell. The snowcaps, they all agree, have thinned. As they work, they talk about how the oak, pine, and rhododendron forests have changed with rising temperatures. 

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Ground realities

The village has also not been spared the region’s worsening water crisis. Naini, one of Nainital’s main lakes, reported a drop in water levels to 4.7 feet this year, the lowest in five years. The Times of India had reported that it was 6 feet 10 inches in 2020. Apart from systemic negligence, experts blame the decline on rapid urban growth, unplanned construction, and encroachment on recharge zones resulting in disrupted ecological balance.

Poor, unpaved roads have also kept tourists away from the village, unlike nearby Mukteshwar, known for its chic resorts and cafés. “Tourism was picking up 15 years ago,” recalls a local contractor. “But the Kedarnath floods in 2013 slowed everything down.” Still, he admits that an influx of city dwellers keen to build homestays or retirement homes post-pandemic has helped revive the local economy.

“It’s a travesty, though,” says Prahlad Singh Bisht, 84, a former sarpanch and village elder. “When these city folks come, all they think about is building concrete structures.” He points to a nearby plot where new construction is underway.

Bisht’s house sits about a kilometre downhill from the Sasbani Gramya Haat, which has been offering a quieter, more sustainable response to the village’s shifting landscape. In her visits to the farmers and long conversations with them, Shah discovered that most had surplus produce, and not just fruits, but rather grains and pulses that weren’t immediately perishable: rajma (kidney beans), bhatt ki daal (black soybean), haldi (turmeric), and ragi (finger millet).

First steps

When she began the business, Shah invited them to sell directly at the shop. “Most were hesitant,” she says. “They thought I wouldn’t buy small quantities. I had to reassure them that I’ll buy it at the market rate, even if it's just 5 kilos.”

At home, her husband wasn’t convinced. “Ab tu rajma-haldi bechegi? (You’ll sell kidney beans and turmeric now?)” he mocked. For Shah, his doubt was a driving force. She started small—four bottles each of plum, apple, apricot and other jams. Today, the shop stocks not just jams, preserves and pickles, but also fruit nectars and massage oils made from cold-pressed leftover apricot seeds, among other things. Everything is made locally by villagers, using manual processes and hand-operated machines. The business sells at fairs, exhibitions and through online platforms.

When Shah receives large corporate orders or curates gift hampers with local produce, she turns to other regional ventures for support. For instance, she initially sourced pisyu loon, a hand-ground mix of rock salt, herbs, and spices found in kitchens across Uttarakhand’s hills, from another micro business in a neighbouring village. Now, she is trying to create her own variations. “It always helps to have partners and allies. The idea is to grow together,” she says.

Today, the shop stocks not just jams, preserves and pickles, but also fruit nectars and massage oils made from cold-pressed leftover apricot seeds, among other things. Everything is made locally by villagers, using manual processes and hand-operated machines.

Her business took flight while the couple’s homestay was still under construction, which finally wrapped up last year. That, she admits, is “yet to pick up.” Then, with a mischievous grin, she laughs about teasing her husband: “I tell him now, in jest, ‘Arre, tere guests kahaan hai? Meri dukaan toh chal gayi.’ (‘Where are your guests? My business has picked up.’)”

She wants to do much more and scale up the Gramya Haat concept. She’s reached out to local government bodies to set up establishments that could benefit more villagers, though the idea is yet to gain traction. For now, she’s training a few management students in running a village-level enterprise from time to time.

Villagers have embraced her initiative, though. Bisht’s granddaughter Manju, in her mid-20s, migrated to Pune for three years after college. She returned during the pandemic and now works full-time with Shah. “We need such ventures in the villages,” Bisht says, “so that our younger generation doesn’t have to migrate for work to other cities and states.”

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Employment back home

In a 2024 news report, social activist Anoop Nautiyal, founder of the Social Development for Communities Foundation (SDC), warned that the migration crisis in Uttarakhand is deepening. Between 2008 and 2018, over 5 lakh people left the state, averaging at roughly 50,000 annually. But from 2018 to 2022, nearly 3.4 lakh people migrated, raising the yearly average to almost 84,000. In rural areas, the crisis is so severe that in 2017, the state government was compelled to set up the Rural Development and Migration Prevention Commission (now Migration Commission) to address it.

For Manju, "nothing could have been better than to be a part of and see something grow from scratch while being closer to family." Nayal echoes these sentiments. “I started at ₹3,500 a month, now I earn ₹7,000. It’s flexible, too, so I can pause during sowing or harvest times. And I’ve learnt so much—we never knew fruit could be used in so many ways. It’s good to have something beyond farming.”

The admiration is mutual. Shah says she perfected an apple jelly and a lemon pickle thanks to recipes the women from the village generously shared. Though permanent staff is rare, as most return to farms during harvest season, she’s built a steady, seasonal team. “It works well,” she says.

As Shah walks a village trail, 60-year-old Malti Devi stops her. “Neha, aur galgal le rahi ho? (Neha, are you still sourcing galgal?)” Malti asks. “Only the ones that have ripened on the branch, Aunty,” Shah replies. Malti shows her the still-unpicked fruits on the tree. It’s a simple exchange, speaking volumes of the bond and mutual respect Shah now shares with the community.

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