The uncertain future of Aarey Forest’s tribal agriculture

Prakash Bhoir sits taut in his chair, facing his quaint cottage. He is surrounded by a rich diversity of flora indigenous to Kelti Pada, his tribal hamlet in the heart of Mumbai’s Aarey Forest. The mud walls of the cottage are embellished with intricate, traditional Warli motifs painted by Bhoir’s son, Akash, a civil engineer who splits his time equally between his career and community work.

Bhoir recalls a recent leopard sighting near their home, tapping on a video of CCTV footage on his phone with one hand, and dipping a bhakri in tea with the other. “The leopard was on the prowl for a cat,” he says with a chuckle. “It left shortly after it failed at the task. These animals don’t bother us unless we make a move. It [the forest] is their home, and we, as humans, are at fault for encroaching upon their territory.” He is a fierce Adivasi activist in Mumbai’s North-Western suburb of Goregaon—one of the few green patches left in the city. A jubilant member of the Adivasi Haq Samvardhan Samiti–a group working to protect the rights of tribals–Bhoir is known for keeping his heritage alive through performing and visual folk arts, which he promotes at cultural events all over the city.

He points out that such encounters with leopards have become more frequent–so much so that his family is quite welcoming of them now. Tribal faiths are centred around elements of nature, including wild animals; for Bhoir and his community, the ecosystem they nurture is above all. “I see God in all of nature, because I feel the need to protect it. When I see trees as Hirva Dev (Green God), I am entrusted with the responsibility of protecting them. I see God in the soil, because when I give her one seed, she gives me a thousand seeds in return. When we see God in these elements of nature, we fear polluting them. The soil is our Dhartari Mata; she gives us food.”

And thus, as deforestation projects take root in the Aarey Milk Colony, its original residents seethe at the slow encroachment of humans on nature. Urban trespassing has especially affected the forest’s ecology. At multiple spots in Aarey–as many as 56–you can find mounds of garbage disposed of by suburban Mumbai residents, and oftentimes this garbage is burnt. This provides fuel for unnatural forest fires, which have become a common occurrence in the region now. Development projects at the cost of Aarey’s green cover have also had a devastating impact on the forest’s residents.

I see God in the soil, because when I give her one seed, she gives me a thousand seeds in return.

Home to a number of tribes such as the Warlis, Katkaris and Malhar Kolis, this stretch of green has traditionally been the primary source—and site—of livelihood for them. Many have been practising agriculture here for as long as they can remember. They cultivate and forage for their own sustenance, and sell the excess in the city’s markets; their crops include both traditional and mainstream varieties. Indigenous vegetables or raan-bhajya, such as Kantola [spiny gourd], Shevli [dragon stalk yam], Vaghati [spiny caper], and Koli Bhaji [white musli] are often grown during the rainy season in all 27 tribal hamlets.

Also read: A man dreamt of a forest. It became a model for the world

The gift that keeps giving

The forest contains within itself everything that its residents need to survive: something that is best illustrated by the local cuisine, moulded and enriched by the forest’s gifts. For instance, many preparations use tamarind–either as a hero ingredient in dishes like the zingy chincha aamti [tamarind gravy], or to uplift other dishes like curries–because this tree grows in abundance. Plants are utilised in their entirety: the leaves of the local takla [Cassia tora]–a nitrogen fixing plant–are fried with garlic and chilli, while its aromatic seeds are used by some communities as a substitute for coffee. Foraging from the land, trees and rivers offers chutneys made with wild sesame and the delicious, fishy bombil [Bombay Duck]; tubers like loth and kand; soft-shell crabs and fish that is dried and added to meals; and salads made from homegrown onion, tomato, and lemons.

The nearby suburbs of Goregaon, Jogeshwari, and Andheri are an ideal place to sell what they cultivate, because there is no shortage of customers–there is immense demand for their harvest all year long. Some families earn up to Rs. 600 a day selling seasonal vegetables, and even up to Rs. 3,000 a day when their mangoes are on offer. “Fruits like pineapple and jackfruit sell extremely well. However, city-dwellers have also developed an interest in our indigenous crops, as they are known to provide immunity and resistance against diseases,” Bhoir adds. 

There are times when urban customers travel all the way to tribal farmlands simply to buy produce and observe how it is grown. It is an intriguing process, and the farmers make the most of their limited resources. For instance, the water supply for the irrigation of crops in Kelti Pada often comes from the numerous tabelas [buffalo sheds] in the vicinity, which were constructed as a part of the Aarey Milk Colony project in 1949. The water that is used to bathe buffaloes contains manure, which acts as an excellent natural fertiliser for the crops.

Though the tribal communities have harnessed their immense traditional wisdom for years to grow and prepare the unique offerings of the forest, Bhoir has noticed a change. The worsening nature of the weather combined with the changing diet of his community has influenced their own health. Visits to the doctor, for instance, have become nearly habitual, when they were once just occasional. This is why he stresses on the consumption of indigenous vegetables, fondly referring to them as the ‘bank balance’ of one’s health. “These vegetables have to be eaten at least once a year for good health. Some of them are meant to be consumed in a specific way. For example, the Kadu Kand is supposed to be sweetened before consumption. You have to slice and salt it overnight, boil it in the morning, and only then is it fit for consumption. Shevli cannot be eaten by itself–it has to be eaten with a fruit called Kakad. You have to mix them, otherwise the shevli creates an itchy sensation in one’s throat.” 

The forest contains within itself everything that its residents need to survive: something that is best illustrated by the local cuisine, moulded and enriched by the forest’s gifts.

Some other changes have been gradual. Members of the community once made sweets with the delightful tavshi–a huge three feet-long cucumber weighing nearly two kilos that they harvested in the forest. But now, they buy the kakdi from their local market. Then, there is the matter of rainfall. Organic ecosystems like the one developed in Aarey over thousands of years are most often self-sufficient and cyclical. Farmers in Kelti Pada have always depended on rainfall, which has typically been sufficient to provide ample water to their crops year after year. As climate change tightens its grasp, farmers struggle with unseasonal rainfall. There has also been a growing reliance on irrigation facilities.

Mumbai’s monsoon typically lasts four months, beginning from the first week of June. Aarey’s farmers sow their seeds about 15 days before this annual commencement. The seeds germinate during this fortnight, beginning to grow as soon as the showers begin. But now, unpredictable rainfall patterns have disrupted this pre-established agricultural rhythm. “The balance is lost. This is why crops cannot yield the same quality and quantity of vegetables,” Bhoir says.

His own seed preservation techniques have been affected in the process. Reusing seeds from the previous year used to be a community tradition. Now they are now forced to buy seeds from commercial markets that are genetically modified to withstand extreme weather conditions. “The weather has changed. The vegetables are different now. Even the trust within the agrarian community is lost. Now, everyone prefers to opt for corporate jobs that pay a guaranteed salary.” 

Also read: One Odisha woman’s mission to preserve taste, tradition through seeds

‘This land is our land’

Agriculture no longer provides the financial assurance that it did until two generations ago. Neither is it a fallback option if nothing else works out for Aarey’s residents. Unsurprisingly, many Adivasi youth are straying away from this traditional occupation, in search of more trusted and less risky sources of income.

Artist Manisha Dhinde, a young and crucial member of the Aarey Conservation Group, is deeply invested in her heritage. She educates her audience about Adivasi art, culture and food. Dhinde is eager to hold forth on the nitty-gritties of her people’s agricultural practices, which reveal the functional nature of urban agriculture. “The Adivasis who reside near the Sanjay Gandhi National Park (SGNP) in Borivali, Aarey Forest, and near Bhandup, cultivate rice because of their proximity to water bodies. The ones residing in the mountainous parts tend to grow seasonal crops such as Galka (sponge gourd), cucumber, and bottle gourd,” Dhinde points out. “Here in Maroshi Pada, where I stay, we grow vegetables throughout the year, and rice once a year. We also grow dals [lentils] such as Urad [black gram] and Tur [pigeon pea].”

But in Mumbai, urbanisation is rapid and constant. Projects like the Aarey Metro Car Shed, Film City, and, more recently, the Goregaon-Mulund Link Road, are considered a hindrance to the livelihoods of Aarey’s indigenous groups. Dhinde insists that it is a problem that has persisted right from the conception of the Aarey Milk Colony, and has only grown since then. “We’ve always had to struggle, right from the time when the Aarey Dairy was first built. However, the situation today is starkly different: all of these [development] projects are meant to contribute to Mumbai’s ‘progress’. Yet they do not benefit us, and we are not consulted in the process [of their conceptualisation]. People say India is an agrarian nation, but if you wipe out farms to make way for ‘development’, where does agriculture go?”

Reusing seeds from the previous year used to be a community tradition. Now they are now forced to buy seeds from commercial markets that are genetically modified to withstand extreme weather conditions.

Her words ring true. Aarey’s alarming depletion has been a warning sign for Mumbai’s ecosystem, right from the 1990s when the Jogeshwari-Vikhroli Link Road was opened to traffic. The road is only a seven-minute walk from Bhoir’s hamlet. Similarly, in 2019, the Maharashtra Government reportedly got rid of over 2,000 trees within the Aarey Forest in order to build a car shed for the Mumbai Metro Rail Corporation. The Mumbai Metro Line 3 project is reported to reduce a sizable portion of the forest as well. Moreover, a few months ago, the Goregaon-Mulund Link Road, a 6.5 km underground twin tunnel project connecting the two suburbs, was slated to cut down approximately 1,567 trees, inciting criticism from citizens. 

The ambiguity of Aarey’s geographical location adds to the chaos. Aarey started off as one of the first civilised zones in the city, with the commencement of Dara Khurody’s Bombay Milk Scheme in the 1950s, which revolutionised India’s dairy industry. The project remains immortalised in the colony’s name to this day. The forest land, at this time, was declared as a No Development Zone (NDZ); the part which falls under the SGNP area has since come to be classified as an Eco-Sensitive Zone (ESZ). Today, however, the demarcations of the “forest land” remain largely equivocal. The spread begins at one end in Jogeshwari, goes over to the eastern part of Goregaon, and eventually merges with the SGNP, sprawling across the northern suburbs of the city. 

The lack of formal education among the residents of the tribal hamlets further complicates the hurdles posed by development projects and changing climate. Vanita Thakre, a significant cultural figure in the forest, says, “We are not well-educated. Where do we go? How do we live? How do we look after our children? These are the questions we’re asking of authorities.”

Also read: Can India’s traditional knowledge future-proof its food system?

Most farmers have started looking beyond agriculture to make a quick buck. Several have taken up oddball jobs such as housekeeping, gardening and security. Several others have left their homes in search of better employment avenues. Thakre herself earns a little by showing tourists around the forest. “I give tourists information and teach them about organic farming. I offer knowledge about making fertiliser and managing waste, too.”

Adivasis have started considering their own farmlands as a backup option–but with looming development plans that threaten to swallow up more of their forest, even the idea of a Plan B seems distant. “Though some work for corporate entities outside the forest, a majority of us remain heavily dependent on agriculture and the forest. We have enough to feed ourselves—and that is why this land is so inextricably tied to our existence,” she concludes.

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(Edited by Neerja Deodhar and Anushka Mukherjee)