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.
{{marquee}}
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
{{quiz}}
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.
{{marquee}}
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
{{quiz}}
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?
{{quiz}}
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)
{{quiz}}
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
{{quiz}}
.png)
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.
{{marquee}}
(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.
.jpg)
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
{{quiz}}
Editor's Note: The planet we inherited as children is not the planet we will someday bid goodbye to. The orchestral call of cicadas in the evenings, the coinciding arrival of the monsoon with the start of the school year, and the predictability of natural cycles—things we thought to be unchanging are now at risk. An altered climate, declining biodiversity and warming oceans aren’t distant realities presented in news headlines; they affect us all in seen and unseen ways. In ‘Converging Currents’, marine conservationist and science communicator Phalguni Ranjan explores how the fine threads connecting people and nature are transforming with a changing planet.
Few aromas are as universally comforting as the scent of freshly brewed coffee, or that of freshly baked chocolate goodies. From filter coffee to fudgy brownies, two beans—coffee from Coffea arabica and C. canephora (robusta), and cocoa from Theobroma cacao—are woven into our daily rituals, cuisines, and cultures.
Yet, beneath their familiar flavours lies a sobering truth: climate change touches everything.
The story of coffee begins around 850 CE in the Ethiopian plateau, where bushes of arabica coffee grew wild. Legend holds that at this time, a goat-herd named Kaldi noticed that his flock grew unusually energetic after feeding on certain red berries. Curious, he tried them himself. Kaldi experienced a new sort of exhilaration–a high–and he shared his discovery with local monks, who began roasting and brewing these mystery beans to stay awake during long prayers through the night.
It is believed that a Sufi saint by the name of Baba Budan smuggled raw beans from Mokha in Yemen and planted them in the hill slopes of present-day Chikkamagaluru, Karnataka
By the 15th century, coffee had crossed the Red Sea into present-day Yemen (whose trading port city, Mokha, still remains the namesake for the chocolatey version of the coffee we drink), eventually journeying into Europe over the next 200 years. From there, the Dutch brought coffee to the East Indies, while French and British colonists carried it to Martinique, Jamaica, India, and Brazil (now a global coffee giant). Around the same time, it is believed that a Sufi saint by the name of Baba Budan smuggled raw beans from Mokha in Yemen and planted them in the hill slopes of present-day Chikkamagaluru, Karnataka—now known as the Baba Budangiri hills. Under colonial influence, commercial plantations of coffee flourished across Karnataka, Kerala, and Tamil Nadu in the 19th century.
Over time, coffee developed a distinct cultural identity here, and continues to be drunk in many forms; a classic example that persists is the beloved South Indian filter coffee (or kaapi), made by combining a strong coffee decoction with frothy milk and sugar.
Cocoa’s lineage, too, is ancient and deeply entwined with human culture, although admittedly more bitter. The tropical cocoa tree Theobroma cacao—meaning ‘food of the gods’ in Greek—was first cultivated in the Ecuadorian Amazon around 5,300 years ago. It then spread across Mesoamerica (present day Guatemala, Honduras, Mexico, and El Salvador) before Europeans (hello, Columbus) chanced upon it.
As the Spanish colonised the continent in the 1500s, the ceremonial drink of the Aztec nobles—chocolatl—caught their eye. Thereafter began a reign of exploitation and coerced cultivation to expand production, which eventually extended to plantations in West Africa, another enslaved colony.
Cocoa’s history in India is relatively recent, but also colonial in origin. Introduced by the British in the late 1700s, cacao trees were mostly planted in gardens. Large-scale cocoa farming only took off in South India in the 1960s and 1970s when Cadbury established a demonstration cocoa farm in Wayanad, Kerala. Over subsequent decades, cultivation spread across Andhra Pradesh, Kerala, Karnataka, and Tamil Nadu, bringing together India’s cocoa and craft chocolate belts.
In southern India’s shaded hills, coffee and cocoa thrive under delicately balanced conditions.
Coffee planters cultivate two different varieties: arabica and robusta. As a consumer, the difference in taste emerges when you notice that arabica is smoother, has more fruity, floral notes, and a complex, bright aroma. Robusta is usually a bit stronger with a higher caffeine content, more bitter, and has more woody notes. The agricultural differences are clear: while arabica prefers the cool highland slopes at 1,000–1,500 m elevation with milder temperatures, high humidity and rainfall, robusta grows lower down between 500-1,000 m, where it’s warmer and even more humid.
This intercropping system allows smallholders (farmers with small-scale lands less than five hectares) to combine climate-sensitive, cash-generating cocoa and coffee with stable, year-round tree crops.
Cocoa loves similar tropical comforts of warm temperatures, high humidity and rainfall, and is grown in a mixed or intercropping system; the crop is cultivated under shade in coconut and areca-nut plantations, where the tall palms act as natural umbrellas. This process shares a similarity with Indian coffee farms, which also typically use agroforestry systems with two-tier shade canopies—a lower or temporary canopy, and a higher or permanent one—of silver oak, dadap, Indian walnut, red cedar, Indian rosewood, or ficus trees to protect the plants and maintain a moist and cool microclimate.
This intercropping system allows smallholders (farmers with small-scale lands less than five hectares) to combine climate-sensitive, cash-generating cocoa and coffee with stable, year-round tree crops. It offers them a diversification of income sources and a buffer in lean seasons.
However, this is not enough to combat the challenges posed by erratic weather.
Globally, the cocoa and coffee sectors are both grappling with serious climate-driven setbacks and shrinking suitable areas for production.
Arabica makes up around 60% of global coffee production, and just for context: an estimated 2.25 billion cups of coffee are consumed each day worldwide! Coffee contributes to the economies of over 70 tropical nations, supporting more than 125 million people globally across over 12 million farms; 95% of these are held by smallholders. Cocoa, similarly, is cultivated by about 6 million farmers globally, 90% of them being smallholders.
Climate change, increased temperatures, and erratic rainfall are already affecting growth and yields for both coffee and cocoa. Declining global yields of coffee—around 20% in Vietnam and 16.5% in Indonesia, both key producer countries—and cocoa (13%) inflated the prices of both commodities to an all-time high in 2024—high rates that could still not make up for the losses incurred by growers.
Projections show that by 2050, regions climatically most suitable for growing cocoa (like the Ivory Coast that supplies 45% of the world’s cocoa) and coffee (key hotspots in Africa) could both shrink by 50% because of unprecedented climactic patterns. In this scenario, cultivation could benefit from a shift to higher altitudes and away from the tropics as the minimum temperatures in these cooler areas increases. Indeed, in parts of the world, farmers are already taking arabica cultivation to higher altitudes to avoid heat-related losses.
Robusta, being the more robust variety as the name suggests, is emerging as an attractive alternative to the more climate-sensitive arabica—for both farmers and companies. However, historically assumed to withstand a broader and higher temperature range than arabica, robusta has recently been found to be more temperature-sensitive than previously thought. With a narrow optimal range somewhat similar to that of arabica, every 1°C increase in temperature beyond the range can result in yield declines by around 14%—significantly diminishing the temperature advantage. It is also more sensitive to lower temperatures outside this range. Furthermore, while robusta is drought-tolerant (not resistant), prolonged and severe droughts have resulted in farmers in Vietnam shifting to cultivating fruits for survival. So, while it is definitely a more resilient option, robusta is not immune to climate change and market dynamics in the long run.
Robusta, being the more robust variety as the name suggests, is emerging as an attractive alternative to the more climate-sensitive arabica—for both farmers and companies.
Market viability is another challenge. Arabica is preferred for its milder, less bitter, nuttier flavour profile, often the only component of specialty and premium coffees. Robusta, with its bitter, woodier and stronger flavour profile finds fewer takers and is considered of lower quality, posing a potential challenge for its mainstream adoption.
Similarly, cocoa yields suffered significantly with prices hitting an all-time high in 2024, highlighting a concerning reality that could make chocolate unaffordable. Non-cocoa alternatives that replicate the texture and flavour of cocoa have existed for a while, but the incentive to switch to them has only cropped up in recent years. Substitutes like chicory roots and carob, a legume touted for its nutritional benefits, are already being used to reduce or replace cocoa. While this alters the flavour profile of the chocolate, the differences are barely noticeable by many—a fact trumped by the many health benefits offered by carob, along with its affordability. Indeed, carob could well be the ‘robusta’ of the cacao world, potentially facing the same challenges of perception and mainstream acceptance.
Also read: Omega-3 fatty acids: The hidden costs of ‘health’ to our seas
Climate change is exerting multifaceted pressure on India’s coffee and cocoa sectors as well, especially across the Western Ghats.
Coffee is especially susceptible to rainfall variability during the flowering and post-flowering stages, and irregular or heavy rains damage flowers and fruit set (formation of fruit from the flower). Significant fluctuations in yield have been recorded over the past three decades across India’s coffee belt already. Long-term observations confirm that unpredictable monsoons can upset the delicate synchronisation of flowering and pollination, and ultimately impact yield and quality of coffee berries. In fact, local case studies report that extreme rainfall events—such as 30 inches of rainfall in a single day—have caused up to 50% losses in some coffee areas across southern India. Coffee planters in this belt identify erratic weather and climate change as the biggest challenges, followed by water scarcity (for irrigation) and increased pest attacks.
Though the two-tier agroforestry system reduces heat stress and stabilises microclimates, it cannot offset large-scale warming. Yields at agroforestry coffee farms in Karnataka and Kerala were found to decline sharply due to rising maximum temperatures and erratic rainfall. Moreover, they are projected to further drop by another 10–20% if global average temperatures rise by 2°C above pre-industrial levels—a reality that is not far off, since we are already dangerously close to breaching the 1.5°C average.
Climate change is not always quantifiable or linear. A seasoned farmer’s keen eye observes subtle changes not evident to us.
Largely confined to the same southern belt in India, cocoa also depends on consistent rainfall, high humidity, and moderate temperatures. Climate change is not always quantifiable or linear. A seasoned farmer’s keen eye observes subtle changes not evident to us. Over time, cocoa farmers in Pollachi, Tamil Nadu observed rising temperatures, erratic and declining rainfall; shortened monsoon periods translated directly into falling yields and deteriorating cocoa bean quality. Warmer temperatures and prolonged dry spells are known to cause moisture stress and a drop in flowers. They also lead to smaller pods (fruits) and beans—because of accelerated development—and variations in the fat content of the cocoa bean, which can further affect the flavour profile. Additionally, increased heat and higher exposure to light can negatively affect the concentrations of secondary metabolites in coffee that determine its quality (and thus, economic value), causing a shift in sensory characters like acidity, aroma, flavour, and ‘balance’.
For both crops, erratic climate has also made pests and disease outbreaks more frequent and severe, with emerging outbreaks of newer diseases. Outbreaks of swollen shoot virus and black pod fungus in cacao, and fruit, stalk, and root rot and borers in coffee further affect productivity, driving up prices due to falling yields.
The problem extends beyond just the crop. Socioeconomic challenges plague farmers, especially those who operate smallholdings with limited irrigation infrastructure and funds. While some farmers have responded with local adaptation strategies such as shade management, mulching, and adjusted irrigation, these efforts are fragmented and insufficient. Few have access to training or technical guidance on climate adaptation, and institutional support does not reach all those who need it.
For many small-scale growers in southern India, coffee and cocoa are vital sources of livelihood. India’s total coffee production currently stands at 4,03,000 tonnes (1 tonne = 1000 kg), with Karnataka leading the way, contributing roughly 70% of this output. India exports around 80% of the coffee it grows—a major source of revenue for the smallholders in the sector.
The clear downward trend in income from cocoa and coffee cultivation has also resulted in some smallholders considering transitioning to other crops like coconut or areca-nut, fruits, or pepper.
By comparison, cocoa production is around 27,000 tonnes, but India is set to capitalise on that sector. The global 2024 cocoa price surge, driven partly by climate shocks in West Africa, has somewhat benefitted Indian growers in the short term. However, the very factors that caused massive crop losses in West Africa threaten India’s cocoa belt as well, in the long term.
As rainfall becomes less predictable, irrigation and labour requirements rise—increasing production costs in both sectors. At the same time, input costs for fertilisers and pesticides to combat increasing infestations are rapidly soaring, further compressing farmer margins. Export-dependent coffee, being a larger commodity, has been hit harder. Increasing debt, erratic weather and failing yields have driven coffee farmers to either abandon their farms or die by suicide.
The clear downward trend in income from cocoa and coffee cultivation has also resulted in some smallholders considering transitioning to other crops like coconut or areca-nut, fruits, or pepper. These are perceived to be less climate-sensitive and resource-intensive—and thus, financially more viable in these changing times.
Also read: Bugging out: Why declining insect populations in India spell doom for agriculture
Agroforestry—the practice of cultivating coffee or cocoa beneath taller shade trees—remains one of the most effective strategies to buffer these crops against climate extremes. Shade canopies moderate soil temperature, reduce evapotranspiration, and improve soil organic matter, while providing secondary income from timber, fruit, or inter-crops such as pepper and cardamom. These strategies are already widely practiced in the cocoa-coffee belt. In fact, agroforestry systems are like small ecosystems on their own: the diverse, native shade trees offer refuge to birds, small animals, and multiple insects. Even as this system is not completely resistant to climate change-induced problems, it remains the best of a small pool of potential strategies.
Government-run crop improvement programmes are developing resilient coffee and cocoa varieties and hybrids. This year, the Central Coffee Research Institute (CCRI) is introducing new pest-resistant coffee varieties to improve yield and pest resistance, while the Kerala Agricultural University (KAU) has been working on developing stress-resilient (drought, heat) cocoa hybrids and providing farmer training for decades. Notably, the Cadbury-KAU Co-operative Cocoa Research Project set up in 1987 is believed to be the first true public-private partnership in India.
Market mechanisms like Fairtrade, pledges of climate-smart and net-zero production by companies, and public–private partnerships to support farmers and the sectors have begun offering support and technical assistance to Indian smallholders, but these are still in early stages. Fairtrade certifications seek to make farming more equitable and sustainable through training and support, enforcing threshold environmental standards, and empowering farmers through market access. Scaling these models across India’s many, many small farms would require a systemic overhaul. Sustained gains will depend on integrating resilient varieties, better irrigation management, expanded agroforestry, farmer training and education, a supportive infrastructure for farmers, and policy incentives that link research institutions with cooperatives and credit systems. Until that change comes about proactively, many smallholders will continue to face rising uncertainty, and the consumer will eventually have to accept a cup of much bitter (and stronger) robusta coffee in the face of declining arabica.
Each bean represents the labour and legacy of farming communities whose future now depends on ecological stability. But this is somehow lost behind a brand label, its various certifications and proclamations, as well as our own habits and proclivities.
Coffee and cocoa are far more than commodities; they are cultural bridges connecting India’s tropical hills to cafés and kitchens across the country. Coffee and chocolate are emotional experiences, and marketed as such. For the more refined palate, brands are happy to offer specialty coffees and single-origin, artisanal dark chocolates at a premium. For occasions, there are assorted gift boxes and curated tasting experiences.
Each bean represents the labour and legacy of farming communities whose future now depends on ecological stability. But this is somehow lost behind a brand label, its various certifications and proclamations, as well as our own habits and proclivities.
A case in point: as I wrote this over many days, I sipped on several coffees and enjoyed some 75% dark chocolate as well as chocolate cookies. All of this, I take for granted daily (or did). For me, it is ridiculously simple: come rain, hail, or drought, there will always be comforting coffee at home, and there will always be chocolate in the stores. But, pausing and realising that in the face of erratic climate, our farmers have no guarantee of the healthy yield they need (to give me the products I want) makes me appreciate every glass of piping hot filter coffee so much more, burnt tongues and all.
Artwork by Radha Pennathur, Communication Designer & Illustrator
{{quiz}}
The last few months have been a time of discovery for 24-year-old Saraswati Majhi, who hails from the Gond community and lives in Odisha’s Kalamidadar village. As part of a quiet, rural movement comprising two hundred young individuals, Majhi has been learning and re-learning about traditional, indigenous varieties of crops grown in her district. The factor that prompted the rise of this movement? The gradual disappearance over the last decade of varieties nurtured by Adivasi elders and forefathers for generations. “These native crops and traditional foods are part of who we are—because we are what we eat,” Majhi says, in reflection.
From the remotest corners of the Nuapada and Malkangiri districts, young adults from the Gond, Paroja, Kotia, Kondh, Chutkia Bhunjia and Paharia communities have undertaken this ambitious effort which goes far beyond learning and acquainting oneself with an agricultural past and present; it is also to reclaim and revive food systems rich in diversity, resilience, and nutrition.
Launched in 2023-24 by the Department of Agriculture and Farmers’ Empowerment (DA&FE), Government of Odisha, the Forgotten Food Pilot Project aims to restore neglected and underutilised crops to local fields and plates. These include heirloom varieties of tubers, pulses, cereals, oilseeds, leafy greens, and vegetables—foods once central to Adivasi diets, but now on the verge of extinction.
The youth also documented a wealth of wild edibles—tubers, roots, fruits, berries, mushrooms, and leafy greens—still foraged from nearby forests and woven into daily meals.
Facilitated by the Watershed Support Services and Activities Network (WASSAN), a non-profit organisation working with rain-fed agricultural communities in Odisha, the initiative places Adivasi youth at its heart. They have been instrumental in identifying, documenting, conserving, and promoting the sustainable use of traditional crops. For this new generation, the question of indigenous crops has much to do with identity, cultural assimilation, and conflicting feelings of pride and loss. Kalamidadar resident Deolal Bhunjia, who is from the Chuktia Bhunjia community, says, “I feel proud knowing the richness of what our community once grew and ate. But it’s also saddening that much of this knowledge is not recorded anywhere, and is barely recognised outside our villages.”
To bridge gaps between ancestral wisdom and present-day practice, youth volunteers organised a series of focused group discussions across villages in the Chitrakonda, Malkangiri, and Nuapada and Komna blocks. Elders—both men and women—came forward to share inter-generational indigenous knowledge, recounting local crop varieties, traditional farming methods, and seasonal dietary habits. From these discussions, detailed crop calendars were developed, mapping cultivation patterns by season and month, and linking them to cultural rituals and community life. The youth also documented a wealth of wild edibles—tubers, roots, fruits, berries, mushrooms, and leafy greens—still foraged from nearby forests and woven into daily meals. Through this intergenerational collaboration, Adivasi youth are not just preserving seeds, they’re reviving a living heritage of food, culture, and climate resilience.
{{marquee}}
In the Nuapada and Komna blocks, Adivasi youth have meticulously identified and documented a wide range of traditional crop varieties that once thrived in their villages. Among pulses, they recorded indigenous types such as laha biri (black gram), tola biri (black gram), jhain mung (green gram), chikni mung (green gram), khabra ranj semi (bean), dhab ranj semi (bean), ranj jhudanga (cowpea beans), khabra kandula (red gram), ranj kandula (red gram), and choto kandula (red gram). In the process, they have also rediscovered heirloom maize varieties, such as white and red maize, which are still grown by a few elderly farmers.
To ensure community-wide engagement, the youth leading these documentation drives have shared the health and nutritional benefits of traditional foods with friends, relatives, and neighbours—a fulfilling exercise.
This documentation effort extends beyond fields, as the youth turn their eyes to forests. Several wild tubers—kochei konda (taro root), pita konda (air potato), and sap saru (elephant foot yam)—have been listed. Also documented are traditional vegetables such as bhejri tomato (cherry tomato), kanta baigan (thorny brinjal), dhala baigan (white brinjal), katei bhendi (red colour okra), satapatria bhendi (small-size okra that starts flowering after seven leaves), gol lau (round shape bottle gourd), jhumki torei (cluster ridge gourd), and chikni torei (loofah gourd).
In each variety is a story of taste, resilience, and the deep relationship between people and their land. For instance, among the Gond and Chutkia Bhunjia communities, pregnant women traditionally eat katei bhendi, satapatria bhendi and gol lau for their nutritional value and cooling properties.
Similarly, in the Chitrakonda block of Malkangiri district, several lesser-known wild fruits and berries have been identified, along with their harvesting periods. These include char koli (cuddapah almond), sindhi koli (dwarf date palm), kusum (ceylon oak), bana bhalia (marking nut tree), ambada (Indian hog plum), podai (drooping fig), and futfutedi (wild tomatillo). Among the Paroja community, the seasonal consumption of these forest fruits and berries has long been valued for boosting immunity and maintaining good health. Several varieties of wild tubers have been documented, such as chereng konda (Wallich's Yam), kasa konda (Dioscorea puber), targei konda (hairy yam), ful sarenda konda (five-leaved yam), and sika konda (mountain yam).
“Having witnessed the diversity of our forests and fields, I feel a sense of pride,” adds Tulu Pangi, 24, from Purulubandha village. “But they ought to be recognised as cultural heritage.”
To ensure community-wide engagement, the youth leading these documentation drives have shared the health and nutritional benefits of traditional foods with friends, relatives, and neighbours—a fulfilling exercise. As Madhav Tangul, 24, of Purulubandha village, says, “It’s not merely about farming, it’s about teaching our friends and families to value the foods that have kept our communities healthy for generations.”
Youth-led initiatives have also inspired practical changes. Those with upland plots began cultivating diverse crops, while backyard kitchen gardens bloomed with more vegetables and fruits. Over a year, the diversity of crops in kitchen gardens increased from two to three varieties to six to eight, and previously fallow paddy fields were now used for pulse cultivation, making the most of residual soil moisture. “Earlier, we grew only a few crops—paddy, ragi, mustard, and maize,” explains Bimala Gollari, 22, from the Mutluguda village. “Now, households are growing nine to eleven varieties, including little millet, foxtail millet, and a range of tubers and vegetables. It’s incredible to see our plates becoming so colourful and nutritious”.
Also read: How sitafals delivered fairer pay and livelihoods for Adivasi women
The necessary urgency of the youth’s work and interventions is evidenced by the recent shifts in Adivasi diets in the region—especially among the younger generation—from a diverse, nutrient-rich palate to a one that is cereal-centric and carbohydrate-heavy. “These days, the younger generation is fond of rice, potatoes, and fried foods,” says Lilambar Majhi, a 65-year-old Gond farmer from Pethiapalli village. He explains that the widespread distribution of rice at subsidised rates under the Public Distribution System (PDS) has gradually changed food habits and reduced dietary diversity.
Another key cause is the increasing rates of migration among Adivasi youth. With limited sources of livelihood in their villages, many young people from Nuapada and Malkangiri districts migrate seasonally to cities and industrial hubs in states like Telangana, Andhra Pradesh, and Tamil Nadu to supplement household incomes. While migration helps families meet their financial needs, it is also bringing subtle but profound cultural changes—especially in what people eat.
“After going to Hyderabad for work, I started eating more rice and spicy curries,” says Gurubai Bhunjia, 23, from Kalamidadar village. “We don’t get millets or wild edibles there. Even when we return home, we crave and miss those flavours and continue eating like we do in the city.”
For many, exposure to urban food cultures has created new preferences that are slowly replacing traditional diets rich in millets, pulses, and foraged foods. “In the cities, we mostly eat what is cheap and filling—rice or chapati,” says Naven Gallori, 26, from Jantapai village. “When I come back home, my mother still cooks ragi porridge and leafy vegetables, but my younger siblings now prefer packaged snacks.”
Yet, amid this change, some young people are beginning to reflect on what they have already lost—and stand to lose in the future. “In the city, we eat fast, but never feel full, unlike when we ate mandia (ragi) or foxtail millet rice at home,” says Dhanu Khillo, 25, who works in a brick kiln in Hyderabad. “Now I realise those foods gave us strength. I want to grow them again in our fields.”
For many, migration has also brought an uncomfortable realisation: that their traditional foods are often viewed with prejudice. In big metropolises, millet-based dishes, wild greens, or tubers are sometimes dismissed as “poor people’s food” or “Adivasi food”. This stigma has made some young migrants hesitant to embrace their culinary heritage. “When I carried mandia pej, a porridge made from finger millet flour, rice, and maize for lunch at the construction site, my co-workers laughed and called it Adivasi food,” recalls Arjun Khillo, 23, from Purulubandha. “After that, I started eating rice and curry like everyone else.”
For many, exposure to urban food cultures has created new preferences that are slowly replacing traditional diets rich in millets, pulses, and foraged foods.
The pressure to fit into city life has distanced many from the food that once nourished them. “When I tell them I miss eating boiled tubers and leafy greens from home, they joke that it’s food for the poor. It hurts, because that’s the food that kept our ancestors healthy,” says 22-year-old Sanjita Jani, who is pursuing her college education in Bhubaneswar.
But some young people are beginning to see indigenous produce in a new light—as a source of pride rather than embarrassment. “Now I realise our foods are healthy and natural,” says Keshav Majhi, 23, who works as a construction labourer in Visakhapatnam. “In the city, everything feels artificial. When I go back home, eating mandia pej and wild mushrooms makes me feel alive again.”
Also read: For Odisha’s Chuktia Bhunjias, preservation by drying is tradition—and sustenance
Odisha is home to 64 Scheduled Tribes and 13 Particularly Vulnerable Tribal Groups, which comprise over 22% of the state’s population combined. For these communities, indigenous crops and wild foods play a crucial role in ensuring food sovereignty and self-sufficiency.
The state’s rich food heritage faces mounting challenges from an environmental perspective, too: depleting natural resources and the changing climate threaten future generations’ access to nutritious food. According to the Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO), there are over 30,000 edible plant species globally, of which 6,000–7,000 have been historically used as food. Experts argue that the future of food security may well depend on the neglected crops and forgotten foods that Adivasis express concern for.
Recognising this, the DA&FE, government of Odisha, has launched the scheme ‘Revival and Sustainable Intensification of Forgotten Food & Neglected Crops in Odisha’ in 2025. The initiative aims to restore the state’s traditional crop and food culture, with a strong focus on the conservation, value addition, and marketing of such produce. Over the next five years (2025-2030), the programme will be implemented across 25 blocks in 15 districts, and will reportedly directly benefit around 60,000 farmers. “Food is more than nutrition—it carries culture and knowledge passed down through generations,” says Nivedita Varshneya, South Asia Regional Adviser at Welthungerhilfe, New Delhi. “We need policies that nourish tribal food systems and protect the wisdom embedded in them.”
Also read: The Chitlapakkam Rising story: How a Chennai community saved a lake
{{quiz}}
Imagine this: You’re a young adult at the supermarket, finally living on your own, trying to stock a kitchen for the very first time. You squint at the labels printed on the back of each product, but you can barely pronounce the words, let alone decipher their meaning. Tossing familiar items like bags of potato chips and ready-to-eat dumplings into your cart, you shrug and walk on towards the next shelf.
You are not alone in making these choices. The packaged foods industry in India was worth over $110 billion in 2023. This category includes household essentials like oil, salt, nuts and lentils; frozen foods; snacks like biscuits, noodles, and chips; dairy items like butter and cheese spreads—the list goes on. A recent survey by the National Sample Survey Office (NSSO) reveals a shift in Indian dietary habits. For both rural and urban households, the biggest share of monthly per capita consumption expenditure (MPCE) now goes towards beverages, refreshments, and processed foods (notwithstanding informally packaged foods). The decade between 2011 to 2022 reflects a massive jump in these numbers—from 7.9% to 9.6% of the total MPCE in rural households; and from 8.9% to 10.6% of the total MPCE in urban ones.
Worryingly, the 2024-25 Economic Survey linked the rising consumption of ultra-processed foods (a Rs. 2,500 billion industry)—fuelled by misleading advertisements, celebrity endorsements—to nearly 32 non-communicable diseases, including obesity, diabetes, and cardiovascular conditions.
If the front misleads and the back confuses, where does that leave the everyday eater?
Even before this shift in consumption habits—but especially now—nutritional labels were meant to help consumers make informed choices when buying packaged foods, helping them reduce negative health outcomes. Yet, in today’s food economy, they double as advertising: bold claims like ‘low fat,’ ‘cholesterol free,’ or ‘natural’ dominate the front, even as the fine print tells another story. This dissonance has real consequences for customers. Most Indians struggle to read or trust labels—not because of indifference, but because they are crammed with jargon, printed in tiny fonts, and overshadowed by flashy promises of health and energy. If the front misleads and the back confuses, where does that leave the everyday eater?
Before 2006, India’s food labelling was scattered. It had been regulated under the Prevention of Food Adulteration Act, 1954, but labels were basic and largely focused on the name of the product, manufacturer details, a list of ingredients, net weight and expiry date. Any nutritional labelling beyond this was not mandatory.
The Food Safety and Standards Authority of India (FSSAI) was set up in 2006 (yes, six decades after Independence!), and introduced the Food Safety and Standards (Packaging and Labelling) Regulations only in 2011. This was the first time that an exhaustive set of regulatory guidelines was released by a central authoritative body on food. They mandated a detailed nutritional facts panel (indicating amount of energy, protein, carbohydrates, sugar, and fat), and vegetarian/non-vegetarian symbols. The label was also required to mention ‘the amount of any other nutrient for which a health claim was made.’
In a 2013 survey conducted in New Delhi and Hyderabad, most consumers said taste, price, and brand name guided their choices.
In 2018, the FSSAI introduced the Food Safety and Standards (Advertising and Claims) Regulations, 2018. This revised version more strictly stipulated that foods must first meet specific nutrient thresholds for manufacturing companies to make claims like ‘zero cholesterol,’ ‘low-sugar’ or ‘gluten-free.’ For example, a ‘zero cholesterol’ or ‘cholesterol-free’ claim must be backed by the product containing no more than 5 mg cholesterol per 100 g (solids) or 100 ml (liquids).
Despite this, brands have had a history of coming under fire for routinely violating these regulations. Nutrition supplement powders for children promise to help them grow taller, stronger and sharper with not only negligible evidence to back up these claims, but counterintuitively, also containing additives like sugar in excess. Many packaged fruit juices also carry ‘natural’ or ‘no added sugar’ claims on the front, even though fruit juice syrups can contain as much—or more—sugar as aerated drinks. In 2020, products worth nearly Rs. 9 crores were seized by the Maharashtra Food and Drug Administration (FDA) for falsely being marketed as healthier alternatives to regular butter and dairy.
Yet, such established brands continue to hold sway over consumers because of brand loyalty and consumers’ inability to scrutinise labels. In a 2013 survey conducted in New Delhi and Hyderabad, most consumers said taste, price, and brand name guided their choices. When they did turn the pack over, they checked manufacturing and expiry dates, but rarely the ingredients list or nutrition table. Many felt that buying ‘trusted’ brands made checking such details unnecessary.
Ashim Sanyal, CEO of VOICE (Voluntary Organisation in Interest of Consumer Education), says there’s a principal dysfunctionality in the law, which allows brands to make unsubstantiated claims. “While generic phrases like ‘high in energy’ aren’t registered, brands can trademark variations of claims like ‘real juice,’ ‘100% juice,’ or ‘pure apple juice’ at the state or central offices of the Trade Marks Registry under the Controller General of Patents, Designs and Trade Marks (CGPDTM). Once trademarked, other brands can’t use the exact same phrase, but it does give the illusion to customers that these are FSSAI-approved. However, in reality, these are statutory bodies with little knowledge about food regulation,” Sanyal says.
The loophole is that brands bypass nutrition regulations by embedding these terms in trademarks, which are governed by laws pertaining to trademarks, not food safety. “Only if a regulator happens to inspect a product (among the thousands launched everyday) that is in violation, then action can be taken.”
Bejon Mishra, founder of Patient Safety and Access Initiative of India Foundation (PSAIIF) and a former FSSAI member, confirms this misguided faith. A Consumer Welfare Fund, set up by the central government and intended to support ministries working on consumer awareness and redressal, lies largely idle. “State governments do not issue utilisation certifications if and when they use these funds, which is why the Centre refuses to further allot money. Ministries work independently, and consumer empowerment lies by the wayside. Instead, the [food and beverages] industry at large is cajoled, with their stakeholders dominating regulatory meetings,” Mishra says. Different regulatory bodies assess different parameters of food production, regulation and distribution–and work in silos.
Also read: Add crisis to cart: Why instant delivery and antibiotics don't mix
The nutrition fact panel on the back of the product may have become a government mandate over the years, but the panel, combined with other elements, is filled with technical lexicon that makes it close to impossible for the lay consumer to discern. Even literate consumers living in cities cited a myriad of reasons for not pausing to peruse the table: the information was too dense and packed with jargon, the fonts too small, and the nutrients so unfamiliar that they were intimidated and demoralised.
Mumbai-based nutritionist Aditi Prabhu says that clients who often believed they were eating healthy were dismayed when they realised what the nutrition tables actually said. “I start with the basics and ask them to look at the ingredients list first—the shorter this list, the less processed it is,” Prabhu says.
Brands may include claims like ‘low-sugar’ on the front of the pack, in bold, intended to make consumers pick up the product. However, the panel at the back may reveal that it is high in other components—sodium, saturated fats, and other additives and preservatives. Instant soups and ready-to-eat mixes often fall into this category: marketed as light or wholesome, but carrying an eye-watering amount of sodium in a single serving.
“Brands have become very clever. They may claim there’s no added sugar. But there are over 60 types of sugars. The nutrition table might reveal aspartame, sucralose, glucose syrup, and some malt,” Prabhu adds. Similarly, a biscuit labelled ‘multigrain’ may still list refined wheat flour (maida) first, followed by sugar, palm oil, emulsifiers, and flavouring agents.
Even when people make the effort to decode the nutrition table, they often walk away with incomplete or only partially-understood information. As one consumer puts it in the 2013 survey, “Nutrition facts are there on labels…when buying for my father or mother…I check the fatty acids composition, especially trans-fats. But frankly speaking, I do not know what they mean exactly.” Label literacy could be a potential key to food sovereignty. But this model assumes a certain kind of consumer—one who is urban, educated and can be empowered.
The loophole is that brands bypass nutrition regulations by embedding these terms in trademarks, which are governed by laws pertaining to trademarks, not food safety.
Dipa Sinha, developmental economist and professor at Azim Premji University, says that affordability plays a determining factor. “Low income groups can only afford specific food items, which are often informally packaged (for instance, fried snacks and candies that are portioned into small, unbranded packets). They don’t always have the luxury to choose a ‘healthier’ alternative. Data shows that the proportion of income spent on processed foods is on the rise even among rural and poor populations, which contributes to existing problems like malnutrition, anaemia and stunting.”
She stresses that regulation must address both access and informed choice together. “Caste, gender and occupation shape what people eat in our country, whether it is farmers producing their own food, or intra-household distribution of food (women and girl children often go hungry in houses with inadequate food). Label-based interventions are necessary, but they won’t solve India’s nutrition problem,” she says.
“With pre-packaged foods migrating to quick commerce apps, often, the ingredients list and nutrition table aren’t updated, or even visible,” Prabhu adds. With more consumers making split-second choices on grocery apps, they are likely to go by taste alone, she says.
Also read: Traceability in Indian food supply chains: Complicated by costs, lack of incentive
Consumer organisations in India have been lobbying for Front Of Package Labelling or Front Of Package Nutrition Labelling (FOPL/FOPNL) since 2014, Sanyal states.
Given that packaged food has been linked with deteriorating health, there has been a consistent push by food scientists and medical professionals to adopt FOPL—a global practice proven to reduce the consumption of unhealthy foods. The variant of FOPL that Indian consumer advocates are calling for involves printing warning labels of whether a product is high in sugar, sodium or saturated fats (HFSS), based on standardised thresholds, on the front of the packet. This makes it visible, easy to understand and immediately indicates the nutritional pitfalls of the product to a consumer.
Label literacy could be a potential key to food sovereignty. But this model assumes a certain kind of consumer—one who is urban, educated and can be empowered.
The first draft of such an FOPL was based on a star-rating system, but was shelved soon after. “Star ratings are inherently suggestive of approval,” explains Prof. K. Srinath Reddy, Founder President of the Public Health Foundation of India. Following pressure from consumer organisations, the FSSAI released a revised draft in 2022.
“About seven of us consumer organisations are representing public interest in stakeholder meetings,” Sanyal says. At the heart of this advocacy is the belief that consumers deserve clarity, not persuasion. Rather than banning products, these groups argue for clear warning labels that counter industry-devised ideas of health and make nutritional risks immediately visible. FOPL, then, is not a one-stop solution, but a proposed intervention—premised on the idea that accessible information can shift choices, at least for some consumers. These details may not be what consumers memorise. But once noticed, they are hard to unsee.
Globally, FOPL has proved successful. Chile’s black octagonal ‘high-in’ labels cut sugary drink sales by 24% in just 18 months and Mexico saw a 12% drop in junk food consumption. Visual cues incorporated in FOPL can also be more inclusive than current nutrition labels in India, which are text-heavy and printed in only English and a select few regional languages. This method seems to clearly be more favourable to consumers. Is it then stalled because of marketers and advertisers, who may have more to lose if it comes into effect?
“Marketers do want what’s best for consumers as well, but often, it’s difficult to find that sweet spot,” says Geetika Singh, Director of Consumer Research at Ipsos, an MNC in market research. “Consumers are probably not going to buy a biscuit which is 100% husk, let alone pay a premium on it. They would probably much rather buy something that has some percentage of something ‘healthy,’ and other ingredients which make it tasty.”
Singh also reaffirms how brands try to profit off of consumer ignorance. They do want to provide information, but not at the cost of their own sales. A few flax seeds or ‘multigrain’ claims often mask a product that’s highly processed and high in sodium. It’s a case of ‘you didn’t ask, we didn’t tell.’
FOPL, then, is not a one-stop solution, but a proposed intervention—premised on the idea that accessible information can shift choices, at least for some consumers.
FOPL is one way of empowering the rural, illiterate consumer, Sinha says. “There simply needs to be a symbol that warns when a product contains components that may harm your health. It could be as simple as what has been achieved with tobacco and cigarette packaging,” she says.
Who is the Indian food label really serving? As ultra-processed foods become more central to the urban and rural diet, the burden of health literacy has shifted onto the consumer—one armed with little more than brand loyalty and a hard-to-read nutrition panel. Meanwhile, the industry continues to wield disproportionate influence over what is said, shown, and left unsaid on the packet.
Efforts like FOPL offer a chance to flip the script—to give consumers not just information, but clarity and an understanding of what's on our plate. There’s a higher chance of a consumer taking an easy-to-read label into consideration when adding items to cart on quick-commerce apps—translating into better public health too. Today, transparency remains an aspiration. Enforcing a pictorial warning-based FOPL will be a landmark decision in Indian food regulation history and policy. Until that shift happens, the label will remain fine print hiding in plain sight.
Also read: Ultra-processed foods are reshaping our diets. Should we be worried?
Edited by Durga Sreenivasan, Anushka Mukherjee, and Neerja Deodhar
{{quiz}}
Please try another keyword to match the results
.jpg){kind=link}
.jpg){kind=link}