The first showers of rain in June have barely settled over Rayagada district in southern Odisha when Sabani Majhi picks up a bamboo basket and a hoe, and embarks into the nearby sal forest. The 52-year-old Paroja Adivasi woman is in search of the Sargi Chhatu (Astraeus hygrometricus) hidden beneath the soil. 

Found near the roots of sal trees, the mushroom resembles a small, dusty potato buried under fallen leaves. This is the stage at which it is picked, when it is young, and still closed. As it matures, its hard outer skin splits open like a star, revealing a dark, powdery centre. With its nutty flavour and meaty texture, Sargi Chhatu is a seasonal delicacy that families eagerly await every monsoon. 

"If Sargi Chhatu is part of our meal, we don't miss meat. It is the tastiest mushroom we get from the forest," says Majhi. "Finding it takes patience. We look for tiny cracks or raised patches in the soil before digging carefully with a hoe. Sometimes, it takes nearly an hour to collect just a kilo." 

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The mushrooms are washed, peeled and cut into pieces before being boiled once to reduce their bitterness. They are then cooked with mustard oil, onions, garlic, ginger, green chillies and local spices. During a productive season, part of the harvest is also sun-dried for the months ahead. 

Majhi is one of thousands of Adivasi women across Odisha who enter forests every monsoon to gather wild edible mushrooms hidden beneath leaves, inside termite mounds, under sandy soil and on decaying logs of wood. This seasonal harvest feeds families and brings home a modest income. It is made possible through years of observation and learning, and an intimate understanding of the forest.

If Sargi Chhatu is part of our meal, we don't miss meat. It is the tastiest mushroom we get from the forest

The indigenous knowledge about foraging and harvesting, preserved orally and learnt by doing, is becoming harder to pass on. Fewer young women now accompany their mothers on monsoon foraging trips, while changing rainfall patterns are making wild mushrooms harder to find. They have not disappeared, but do they grow farther inside the forest, turning picking into a more time-intensive process. As the forests change, so does the wisdom that has long helped Adivasi communities to live with them. 

The forest’s generosity

One of the first mushrooms to emerge after the monsoon is Benua Chhatu (Termitomyces heimii), which pushes through termite mounds after the first steady rain. Large, umbrella-shaped caps rise above the forest floor on long, slender stalks, sometimes dozens from a single mound. The mushroom survives through a close partnership with termites, which create the conditions it needs to grow, while the fungus breaks down dead leaves and wood into nutrients that feed the colony. 

For 79-year-old Surumani Mankidia, no other mushroom captures the spirit of the monsoon quite like Benua Chhatu. "When it appears, we know the rains have settled," she says with a smile. "And when it cooks, the whole house is enveloped in a mutton-like aroma," says the resident of Dengam village on the fringes of the Similipal Tiger Reserve in the Mayurbhanj district.

The mushrooms are washed thoroughly to rid them of mud before being rinsed again in turmeric water—a traditional practice believed to cleanse them before cooking. They are usually prepared as a light stew or seasoned with salt, turmeric and crushed garlic, wrapped in sal leaves and slow-cooked over a gentle fire. Among the Dongria Kondh community in Rayagada district, boiled Benua Chhatu is also used as a traditional herbal remedy for fever, colds and certain skin ailments. 

As the monsoon gathers strength, other mushrooms begin to appear across the forest. Bali Chhatu (Termitomyces microcarpus) grows in dense clusters around termite mounds and bamboo groves after heavy showers. Its tiny, cream-coloured caps are tender and quick to cook, making it a regular feature in Adivasi kitchens during the farming season. Women often collect it in large baskets and cook it with simple spices, believing it gives them strength for long days of agricultural work. 

Among the Dongria Kondh community in Rayagada district, boiled Benua Chhatu is also used as a traditional herbal remedy for fever, colds and certain skin ailments. 

Unlike mushrooms that emerge from the forest floor, Lathi Chhatu (Lentinus tuberregium) grows on decaying logs from a large underground tuber-like structure. Its firm, chewy texture makes it well suited to slow-cooked curries, and many Adivasi communities consider it a nourishing food for people recovering from illness. 

In the bamboo forests of southern and western Odisha, women search for Banji Chhatu, the bamboo mushroom (Schizophyllum commune), which appears in clusters of dead and decaying bamboo. Small, fan-shaped and mildly earthy in flavour, it is usually cooked fresh, while part of the harvest is sun-dried and stored for the lean period from March to May. 

"For Adivasi families, wild mushrooms are more than a seasonal delicacy. Rich in protein, fibre, vitamins, minerals and essential amino acids, they provide nutrition and have long been valued for their medicinal properties," says Dr Srikanta Dhar, an internal medicine specialist at the All India Institute of Medical Sciences, Bhubaneswar. 

Also read: In Odisha’s insect eating traditions, a blueprint for a food-secure future

Life-saving, enriching knowledge

Foraging is about ‘reading’ the forest rather than simply collecting food, says Mangi Gomango, a 63-year-old Saura Adivasi woman from Raldipanka village in Gajapati district. "The forest gives us food, but only when we understand its ways," she explains. "Every mushroom has its own season and its own place. We don't grow them. We simply know where to find them. That's how our elders taught us to forage." 

Not every mushroom that emerges after the monsoon is safe to eat. Hidden among the edible varieties are poisonous species, some so similar in appearance that only experienced foragers can tell them apart. Recognising them takes years of distilled learning and instincts. 

Hidden among the edible varieties are poisonous species, some so similar in appearance that only experienced foragers can tell them apart.

"You can't identify a mushroom by its colour alone," says Saibeni Majhi, 42, a Kondh Adivasi farmer from Talbora village in Kalahandi district, who has spent over two decades foraging wild mushrooms in the foothills of the Niyamgiri Hills. "We look at everything, the cap, the stem, its smell, the tree or termite mound nearby, even how old the mushroom is. If something doesn't feel right, we leave it where it is." 

Tragically, the community elders who are keepers of this knowledge are now aging. Migration, access to education, changing livelihoods and a reduced dependence on forest foods mean that fewer young women are incentivised to accompany their mothers and grandmothers on foraging trips. 

Madhabi Jani, a 20-year-old from Siriguda village in Rayagada district, still relies on her mother’s skills. "My mother notices things I don't. She can tell where a mushroom might grow just by looking at the soil and the trees. I still follow her whenever we forage because I'm afraid of making a mistake." 

For Sukanti Majhi, 22, from the neighbouring Koraput district, the challenge is finding time to learn. "Many of us are in school or college, and some leave the village for work," she says. "Because of that, many young people know much less about wild mushrooms." 

The consequences of a knowledge system with gaps can be deadly. Every monsoon, Odisha reports cases of mushroom poisoning after unidentified wild mushrooms are consumed. In September 2024, six people died in Malkangiri district after eating wild mushrooms and bamboo shoots. Similarly, in August 2025, eight people were hospitalised in Gajapati district. Health officials routinely advise people to avoid produce unless they are certain of its identity. 

Also read: A push for hybrid maize is driving Odisha’s resilient ‘maka’ out of fields

The forest becomes unrecognisable

Surumani the septuagenarian, who lives near the Similipal Tiger Reserve, has watched the forest change over the years. It no longer follows the established rhythms that she recognised in her childhood. "The denser the forest, the more mushrooms it gave us. But the forests are shrinking, and so is the harvest," she says. "There used to be many termite mounds around our village. That's where we found plenty of Benua Chhatu. Now we have to walk much farther into the forest to find them." 

Surumani believes the growing use of chemicals on nearby farms has impacted the number of termite mounds. "Earlier, we knew exactly when and where wild mushrooms would appear. Now the rains are unpredictable. Some years, we return from the forest with only a small basket full." 

Migration, access to education, changing livelihoods and a reduced dependence on forest foods mean that fewer young women are incentivised to accompany their mothers and grandmothers on foraging trips. 

Her observations are echoed by scientific research. Studies carried out in and around Similipal in Mayurbhanj show that wild edible mushrooms are highly sensitive to rainfall, humidity and temperature. Even small shifts in weather can shorten their fruiting season and reduce their abundance. Researchers who have documented a rich diversity of wild edible mushrooms across the forested landscapes of Mayurbhanj, Keonjhar and Balasore districts caution that the depletion of forest habitats and changing land use threaten mushroom diversity.

The fate of mushrooms is crucial not merely because of culinary history and diversity; wild mushrooms also fill an important seasonal gap in the diet of many Adivasi households. "When we talk about minor forest produce, wild mushrooms are rarely recognised as part of the forest economy," observes Abhishek Pradhan, an agriculture expert at Watershed Support Services and Activities Network (WASSAN). "Unless we value both these forest foods and the indigenous knowledge that helps communities harvest them safely, we risk losing an important livelihood and a rich food tradition," says Pradhan.

When we talk about minor forest produce, wild mushrooms are rarely recognised as part of the forest economy,"

During a good monsoon, Adivasi women stand to earn between Rs. 15,000 and Rs. 18,000 across three months through mushroom sales in weekly haats and along the roadside. Through these sales, they earn enough to buy essentials such as cooking oil, salt, vegetables and school supplies. But that income is becoming increasingly uncertain as rainfall patterns shift, forests come under greater pressure and mushroom harvests decline. 

Pradhan believes that for younger Adivasi community members to continue foraging and develop a curiosity for the wisdom at its foundation, it must have value from a cultural, culinary and economic perspective. Better market opportunities could make it more attractive to young people, while community-led learning could help pass on knowledge. “Elders can train younger people through community foraging walks, teaching them to identify, harvest and cook different varieties,” he says.

It is not impossible for traditions rooted in sustenance to endure, even as the circumstances around them change. For women like Sabani Majhi, gathering mushrooms is a way of staying connected to a changing landscape. As the morning sun filters through the sal trees, she bends down one last time before beginning the walk home. A faint crack in the damp earth catches her attention. She brushes aside a thin layer of leaves and smiles as another Sargi Chhatu emerges from the soil. 

"The forest still teaches us," she says. "But our children must keep coming here to learn."

Also read: In rural Odisha, the Juang community’s seeds are gifts from ancestors

Edited by Anushka Mukherjee and Neerja Deodhar

When we pick up an avocado at a supermarket or a local bazaar, to examine it for quality and ripeness, the distance it travels may be the last thought to occur to us; if anything, its origin in a faraway place only adds to its appeal and reinforces its authenticity.

Having to pay a high price for this well-travelled ingredient is no longer a deterrent, nor does it give pause to many urban consumers; in 2024 alone, India imported nearly 11,828.47 metric tonnes of avocados. Many of these avocados arrive at our neighbourhoods from farms in Tanzania and Australia by cargo ships or planes—a journey made possible thanks to cold storage technology.

The term gained popularity because it enabled consumers to translate an abstract environmental problem into tangible data.

This “invisible”, intercontinental distance has a name: food miles. In simple terms, food miles refers to the distance an item travels from where it was produced to where it is consumed, and the resulting impact. Its coinage was intended to raise awareness among consumers about the environmental costs of transportation over long distances; the more your food travels, the more fossil fuels are burned, increasing greenhouse gas emissions. The term was coined in 1992 by Prof. Tim Lang, who was part of the Sustainable Agriculture, Food and Environment (SAFE) alliance. It first appeared in a print report compiled by Angela Paxton, a researcher with the UK-based alliance.

The term gained popularity because it enabled consumers to translate an abstract environmental problem into tangible data. Measured in tonne-kilometres, food miles are calculated by multiplying the weight of the food item by the distance travelled. By being conscious of the final figure, in the context of ingredients like avocado, consumers can take the first step in environmentally-conscious consumption.

The concealed costs of produce

​The concept emerged at a time when food systems were undergoing a global transition. Previously, food was mostly sourced from nearby farms and markets. Diets were, to a great extent, shaped by geographical specificity and seasonal availability, which meant certain foods, such as varieties of mango, remained local delicacies rather than becoming widely available commodities. However, globalisation and advancements in storage and economical transportation technologies altered supply chains and their inherently short nature. Improvements in packaging extended the shelf lives of even perishable goods.

An increase in the consumer demand for foreign products resulted in higher food miles. The liberalisation of world trade and the reduction of trade tariffs have made it easier for countries to trade goods produced in surplus. India’s own agricultural exports rose from $3.35 billion in 1990-91, after the landmark economic reforms of that decade, to $52.55 billion in 2025-26. Producers found new markets beyond local territories, while consumers gained access to an unparalleled variety of food choices.

Longer supply chains mean more dependence on energy-intensive processing units and storage infrastructure.

The rise of large retail chains strengthened the dependence on sophisticated distribution networks involving multiple warehouses and modes of transportation. For example, tomatoes from a local farm in Andhra Pradesh do not go straight to consumers; rather, they pass through several intermediaries and godowns across India. About 80% of the total tomatoes produced in the state are either exported to other states, or processed and sold as finished goods across the country.

In many ways, longer supply chains may have benefited producers by improving the availability of ready-to-eat foods and reducing seasonal shortages. But this comes at a price borne by the environment. “Longer supply chains mean more dependence on energy-intensive processing units and storage infrastructure. This also means extra stops between the producer and the consumer,” shares sustainability expert Dr. Indu K. Murthy, who works with the Center for Study of Science, Technology and Policy (CSTEP), a Bengaluru-based think-tank.

According to a study by the European Commission, food miles are responsible for nearly 20% of global food emissions. High-income countries have a stronger contribution to this, constituting only 12.5% of the world’s population, but accounting for nearly 46% of food miles globally. Nonetheless, India has a significant footprint when it comes to food miles emissions, owing to its large area and population. It ranks as the second-largest producer of domestic food miles (or the miles food travels to reach the domestic population) after China. 

A country’s dependence on food imports, and by extension the food miles it generates, are also shaped by factors like climate shocks, conflicts and structural poverty. This is particularly true of low-income countries in the Middle East, North and Sub-Saharan Africa. These countries face challenges of food insecurity and extreme malnutrition while battling scarcely available natural resources. While high-income nations drive food miles through choice, low-income countries unconsciously contribute to food emissions in their attempt to prevent widespread hunger and famine. 

Also read: Fish and seasonality: How year-round demand and extraction hurt our seas

Frequent flyer miles

Each mode of transport contributes differently to food miles, both in scale and the emissions it contributes. For instance, food travels almost twice as much by sea than it does by road. But road transport releases far more carbon dioxide, producing 60% of the world's food transport carbon emissions. Air transport, though minimal in absolute food miles, accounts for 20%, and rail and sea transport contribute 10% each to global food transport emissions. Due to recent improvements in roadway infrastructure, heavy goods trucks have become the most favoured mode in India.

Road transport releases far more carbon dioxide, producing 60% of the world's food transport carbon emissions.

Transportation, however, plays only a minimal role in the mounting increase in greenhouse emissions. The environmental footprint of a tomato begins even before it is sown. It includes diesel guzzled by farming machinery, fertilisers and pesticides, and the emissions from refrigeration, packaging, cooking, and food waste. This makes food miles alone an incomplete measure. 

Also read: What it takes to feed India’s growing cities

Limitations

Agricultural and climate scientists have debated the efficacy of food miles as a sustainability indicator. The term’s simplicity is one of its greatest weaknesses, as it fails to consider other externalities associated with food systems aside from transportation. Food miles exclude questions of how something is grown, stored, or prepared. Consider meats—particularly processed meat and cold cuts which eat up a lot of resources—where food miles contribute to a smaller proportion of their overall emissions. 

A shorter journey does not automatically mean a lower emission rate. For urban Indians, driving outside city limits every weekend to source local, organic produce in a private vehicle can reverse the effects of shorter food miles. Similarly, food that has travelled farther does not necessarily have a large environmental impact. Importing produce that is naturally rain-fed can be less carbon-intensive than growing the same crop locally under resource-heavy conditions. For instance, apple production methods in New Zealand are more energy-efficient owing to the favourable climate, efficient farming techniques and fewer artificial inputs. This makes importing apples from New Zealand to the UK a more sustainable option, despite the distance, than growing them in resource-intensive greenhouses in the UK.

Importing produce that is naturally rain-fed can be less carbon-intensive than growing the same crop locally under resource-heavy conditions.

Thus, food miles solve only one part of a larger puzzle. “By themselves, food miles may not be transparent enough to provide all the details about emissions that a consumer needs. There is a pressing need to increase transparency, at least by mentioning details about the produce and its place of origin on the label,” Dr. Murthy explains. 

In some cases, how food is produced can matter more than how far it travels. Scientists now rely on a much more comprehensive and efficient tool called the Life Cycle Assessment  (LCA), which is recommended by both the European Commission and the United Nations Environment Programme. LCA assesses the potential environmental impacts of a product throughout its life cycle, starting from the acquisition of natural resources, production, and waste management, including disposal and recycling. This keeps a check on not just the carbon emissions, but also other aspects concerning utilisation of resources during food production. By accounting for each unit of the supply chain, LCA provides a much more accurate picture of food carbon emissions. However, calculating LCA involves specialised software and complex technical procedures that are not consumer-friendly, making it inaccessible. 

Also read: Traceability in Indian food supply chains: Complicated by costs, lack of incentive

Should consumers measure miles?

One means to reduce the consumption of items with high food miles is opting for seasonal produce grown locally and in natural climates, without the need for additional support via greenhouses, artificial lighting or intensive preservation and storage methods. According to Dr. Madhura Rao, who teaches food systems governance at Maastricht University in the Netherlands, “Local food has the strongest sustainability case when it is grown in season and suited to the local agroclimate, requires fewer inputs like fertilisers and pesticides, is produced without damaging forests, wetlands or scarce water resources, is associated with low food waste and loss, and uses limited non-biodegradable packaging.”

Reviving native crops can help reduce the dependence on resource-intensive cash crops, which require more chemical inputs. The midday meal scheme and the public procurement policies in India can play a significant role in making this possible by sourcing ingredients directly from local small-scale farmers.

Since cities are not built for food production, reducing their reliance on long-distance food supply chains is not feasible

Since cities are not built for food production, reducing their reliance on long-distance food supply chains is not feasible, observes Dr. Rao. “Competition for land is intense in these areas, and farming is generally not prioritised in urban and peri-urban development. Regardless, urban and peri-urban farming projects are worthwhile pursuits because they help strengthen food security and keep urban residents connected with the origins of their food to some extent.”

Although food miles, as a sustainability index, do not capture the complexities of food carbon emissions, they do prompt consumers to consider that the food they eat could leave an invisible carbon footprint. They serve as a reminder that every item on the plate has undergone a journey. A label on the produce might not tell you whether the avocado you are eating has depleted groundwater levels or if tomatoes in your salad were grown in a greenhouse. However, choosing organic counterparts and investigating the place of origin could help. Sustainability does not depend on isolated, individual choices. It requires an understanding of the broader context in which these choices are made.

Edited by Aathira Konikkara and Neerja Deodhar

Artwork by Alia Sinha

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domesticate ᛫ verb ᛫ to tame

We usually imagine domestication to be an act of selection. The fastest horse. The friendliest dog. The sweetest fruit. In plants, it reveals itself in larger, more visually appealing produce. In animals, it is a gentler temperament that can be moulded to suit agriculture and human domesticity.

Microbial activity, on the other hand—let alone its domestication at the hands of humans—is harder to spot. Microbes occupy an uneasy place in our imagination, embedded more in the language of sickness, germs and contamination than of co-operation and creation. Unlike plants and animals, microbes are invisible to the naked eye. Our ancestors couldn't see bacteria, yeast or moulds, let alone deliberately choose the ‘best’ ones to breed. So how can we say that microbes were ever domesticated? 

The answer lies in one of the world’s oldest human practices: fermentation. 

We may intuitively recognise fermentation as the process which makes our dosa batter fluffy, or lends a tangy hit to our pickles. But it is also the primary metabolic activity of the human gut microbiome! At any given time, nearly 40 trillion bacterial cells are busy fermenting within our bodies. The products of this process (nutrients, lactate, energy, short-chain fatty acids, among others) nourish our cells, regulate our immune systems, and protect our tissues.

So deep was the human fascination with fermentation that we actively sought to incorporate it within our culinary practices. This domestication process was rather unusual, occurring not by selecting individual organisms, but by repeatedly recreating the environments in which certain microbes thrived. We cannot see bacteria, yeasts or moulds as they transform milk into yoghurt, dough into bread or soybeans into miso. Every pot of milk left to sour, every batch of fermented rice, every loaf begun with yesterday's dough starter favoured some microbes over others, forging one of humanity's oldest—and most invisible—relationships. 

So who really domesticated whom? Is there any hierarchy at play in this relationship at all?

This domestication process was rather unusual, occurring not by selecting individual organisms, but by repeatedly recreating the environments in which certain microbes thrived.

Travelling companions

“Most of the strains of bacteria that make up the human gut microbiome have been with us for more than 1,00,000 years,” says archaeologist and culinary anthropologist Dr. Kurush F. Dalal. When the first humans migrated from Africa about 60,000-70,000 years ago,  and when  they fanned across the globe in different terrains, they diversified genetically—and so did the microbial strains in their bodies. In other words, hundreds of generations of humans and microbes have co-diversified together, keeping each other company in the journey of evolution. Many of these became dependent on their host environment (aka the human body). They shed genes not required outside the gut and became sensitive to sudden changes in oxygen and temperature. 

Culinary fermentation was simply an extension of an already intimate partnership we had shared with microbes inside our body.

History suggests that our animal ancestors and other creatures had already tapped into the nutritional properties (and deliciousness) of fermented foods. Ethanol—which is present in the alcohols consumed today, like beer and wine—occurs naturally when yeast grows in fruits, saps, or nectars. And so, many of our predecessors encountered it everyday in the wet, wild jungle. Several species of extant apes and chimpanzees knocked fruit off the branches, and returned to them once they had reached their boozy afterlife. Tree shrews spent many hours feasting on the naturally fermented nectar of the bertam palm while pollinating it. 

The ADH4 gene, which has a much greater propensity for metabolising ethanol (up to 40 times more), evolved in the last common ancestors of humans, apes, and chimpanzees, over 10 million years ago. This was before humans diverged from other African apes, and therefore, much before fermenting technologies like brewing were invented. Because of genes like these, humans developed a greater tolerance to fermenting bacteria and their by-products. This proved especially useful as we moved towards more open grasslands and terrestrial environments, where we were more likely to be exposed to fallen fruit, which had a higher percentage of ethanol than those still on trees.

The presence of ethanol-metabolising enzymes in our bodies (like the ADH4 gene) largely boosted our chances of survival and gave us an edge during ecological upheaval and climate change-driven alterations in habitat. By the time we intentionally started fermenting our alcohols, our bodies had naturally been processing ethanol for years. We were well-adapted and ready to party! 

Just as microbes inside our bodies were already fermenting our food, microbes outside our bodies were transforming the foods around us. As humans moved into terrestrial lands, fermentation also became valued because of its ability to externally ‘predigest foods.’  Fermentation broke down the tough mesocarps of certain fruits (the thick, fleshy edible layer) and reduced secondary plant compounds such as tannins and saponins, making them safer and easier to digest.  Humans eventually travelled to grassier territories, which were plentiful in underground tubers. Environmental fermentation broke down the tough starches and fibres present in these, enabling us to keep expanding our dietary niche even through harsh climatic transitions. 

Long before humans understood the microbial process inside our bodies or learned to ferment, they were already benefitting from fermentation naturally occurring in the environment, incorporating these fermented ingredients/items into their diet. Culinary fermentation was simply an extension of an already intimate partnership we had shared with microbes inside our body.

Also read: Crop domestication: A brief history of how humans made plants edible

Early experiments

Fermenting bacteria (single-celled organisms that break down sugars or energy in the absence of oxygen) are thought to have emerged relatively early from the primordial prebiotic soup, before the atmosphere had a sufficient concentration of oxygen to support or enable the evolution of aerobic life-forms like mammals. For many million years, bacteria were Earth’s first and only inhabitants. According to biologist Lynn Margulis, the evolution of complex life was driven not just by competition but by cooperation. Her research suggests that symbiotic relationships between fermenting bacteria and other primitive single-celled organisms became so deeply intertwined that they evolved into the first eukaryotic cells, from which plants, animals and fungi eventually emerged. 

We did not ‘invent’ fermentation—rather fermentation created and sustained human life. The ferments, in spontaneously occurring forms, predate our consciousness. Humans eventually learned to nurture these invisible microbial partners, making fermented foods the outcome of a shared evolutionary history rather than a unilinear domestication. Today, nearly a third of all the food that is consumed globally, across cultures, are ferments! 

Fermentation predates empires and supply chains. It includes delicate processes which have been perfected and transmitted over generations, and whose traditional custodians have been women and indigenous communities. Fermented products, at heart, contain a sea of microbial diversity. While humans have found ways to standardise and bottle many of them by introducing lab strains in precise industrial environments, this often requires narrowing that diversity into predictable microbial cultures. Left to themselves, ferments resist being easily standardised, labelled and transported. They demand care and time—and a relinquishing of complete control. 

We did not ‘invent’ fermentation—rather fermentation created and sustained human life.

A Swedish Mesolithic settlement is the earliest known evidence of fermentation being deliberately used to preserve food, says Dr. Dalal. While excavating a 9,200-year-old Mesolithic site in southern Sweden, archaeologists encountered an unusually dense layer of fragile fish bones (which would otherwise normally decompose long before they can enter the archaeological record). Sifting the soil through fine mesh, they recovered tens of thousands of bones along with fragments of pine bark. Clues suggested that the fish had been wrapped in pine bark and seal fat, and buried to ferment.

Early fermentation was likely a process of trial and error. As humans became agro-pastoralists and settled down, new questions arose. How was surplus food to be stored so that it could tide communities over during harsh seasons of scarcity? Seeds, grain and fruit possibly changed during conditions of moisture; fruits, grain and vegetables at times decomposed, at times soured and transformed in different environments of heat, cold and compression, and meat and fish fared differently and lasted longer based on dampness and salinity. Foods changed colour and smell, which our ancestors were likely puzzled by; they experimented with what lasted longer and tasted better in this hitherto unknown, liminal space between freshness and rot. Communities gradually learned that some transformations which looked like spoilage were, in fact, preservation. Pacific Islanders fermented surplus breadfruit in underground pits so it could sustain villages through lean seasons, while in Iceland, generations later, people learned to ferment toxic shark into an edible—if notoriously pungent—food. Thus, Neolithic humans were harnessing the metabolic capacities of certain bacteria, yeasts and moulds in an effort to control the digestibility, palatability, and longevity of their newly abundant foods—not fresh but safe to eat, not just tasty but sustainable. 

Communities gradually learned that some transformations which looked like spoilage were, in fact, preservation.

Fermentation also shaped the technologies around it. Microbes inhabit the earthen pots, wooden barrels, bamboo baskets and cheese caves in which ferments are made. “Some of the earliest fermentation likely happened in natural depressions in cave floors, before pottery became widespread. Once clay vessels appeared, they offered more than just storage: porous walls that regulated moisture and oxygen exchange,” says Dr. Dalal. This is why the same recipe can produce different flavours in different homes, and why traditional fermenters often resist sterilising their equipment. Pottery also likely gave us different mediums to play with the knobs of fermentation—how varying levels of oxygen, compression, time and porosity could change the ferment. "A good fermentation vessel has to be porous—but not too porous. After the first batch, you don't need to keep adding the starter. Enough bacteria remain inside the microscopic pores of the vessel itself to inoculate every subsequent batch," he adds.

Also read: For Assam’s Mising community, this fish paste represents tradition, food security

Takes two to tang-o

Microbes have repeatedly demonstrated that they resist being ‘domesticated’ in a straightforward way, or being bred through a simple act of selection. We didn’t engineer microbes directly, but repeatedly created specific environments which would favour the growth of different strains. For instance, wild Lactobacillus species, a form of which we now associate with turning milk into curd and cheese, wasn’t always a dairy specialist. Lactic acid bacteria naturally existed in the soil and on plants. Fresh milk, once milked from cows, was a highly perishable food. People stored milk in containers made from the stomachs of young ruminants (goats, sheep, calves). These stomachs naturally contain rennet, an enzyme whose biological function is to help young animals digest milk.

When fresh milk sat inside these stomach bags, rennet coagulated the milk proteins, naturally occurring lactic acid bacteria (LAB) fermented lactose into lactic acid, and the milk separated into curds and whey. 

Once people discovered that the curds lasted much longer than fresh milk and were easier to transport, they began recreating this ecosystem. Every day, they milked cows, stored the milk in vats, and saved some portion of the yoghurt or cheese to inoculate the next batch. Milk was a remarkably stable habitat, containing only lactose, proteins and fats, as compared to the complex cellulose, diverse sugars, and nutrients found in plants. Eventually, LAB became so specialised that traces of their plant-dwelling ancestry remain only as pseudogenes (broken genes) in their genomes.

Cheese moulds followed a similar journey. The ancestor of the white mould that gives camembert and brie their snowy rind once grew on decaying plants and spoiled food. By repeatedly choosing moulds that spread quickly, formed an even white rind and produced better-tasting cheese, cheesemakers unknowingly reshaped the fungus over centuries. The result was Penicillium camemberti—a domesticated mould that produces fewer toxins, has much less genetic diversity, and is now so specialised for growing on cheese that it struggles to survive in the wild. The koji mould, which ferments sake, miso and soy, evolved from the wild fungus Aspergillus flavus, a crop pest capable of producing dangerous aflatoxins. By repeatedly selecting strains that worked well with yeast and efficiently broke down starch into sugars, sake brewers transformed it into Aspergillus oryzae—a safer mould that is highly specialised for fermentation and co-exists with yeasts.

Also read: The secret lives of fungi: The forest’s invisible architects of survival

A chicken and egg situation

Microbes took their own sweet time (literally, as they broke down sugars) to play and marinate leisurely in the ferments, keeping us constantly guessing. These processes evolved and became more fine-tuned over thousands of years—a horror that may have driven today’s modern human over the edge. 

Backslopping was one of the primary evolutionary engines of fermentation. By saving some portion of a successful ferment and adding it to the next batch, each cycle favoured microbes better adapted to that particular environment—be it milk, alcohol, rice or bread. Over generations, specific environments became safe habitats for microbes gradually being domesticated. This is not unlike the process of saving seeds from a previous harvest to sow during the next season. 

Unlike plants and animals, where it is essential to identify progenitors to target preferred genes, the size and diversity of microbes makes domestication much more complex. Humans participated more in ‘ecological selection,’ creating stable environments (with much lesser competition) with similar temperatures, moisture levels, ingredients and vessels. These in turn would select microbes that would thrive, and nudge them to shed some genes and take on others, becoming more human-friendly in the process.

Fermented foods are highly nutritious and have immense health benefits, especially for the gut and immune system. Today's diets, primed by technological interventions, are disrupting that partnership. A starter culture which may vary with each household is now relegated to being grown in a laboratory, and produced in factories. Fermentation knowledge, traditionally held by indigenous communities, as sacred as a family cookbook, has been co-opted by multinational companies, bottled, labelled and sold under ‘superfood,’and ‘probiotic’ labels. 

To ferment your own food is to lodge a protest of the senses against the homogenisation of flavours and food experiences.

We are shifting away from a diet which prioritises eating local and in harmony with nature to a dependence on a fragile global infrastructure of monocultures, homogeneity and synthetic chemicals. "Processed foods tend to be low in fibre and high in sugars, unhealthy fats and additives," says Dr. Dalal. "As a result, we now have fewer microbial species and less diversity overall." 

To soak in the world of ferments then, is to return to the interconnected world of humans and microbes. To ferment your own food is to lodge a protest of the senses against the homogenisation of flavours and food experiences. It is also a declaration in an economy that would much prefer we were all passive consumers of its commodities, rather than creators of unique products expressive of ourselves and the places where we live.

The question of who serves whom, then, actually serves no one. Are the acidifying bacteria in milk or the yeasts in grapes bending to our will, or are we doing their bidding by creating the specialised environments in which they can proliferate so wildly? As Dr. Dalal says, the story of human civilisation and microbial evolution is intensely symbiotic. We are participants in interdependent evolutionary stories that sustain each other—with creatures that came much before us who continue to keep us alive, and will be fermenting our bodies even in death’s wake. 

Dr. Kurush Dalal delivered a talk titled 'Origins: Archaeology of Fermentation' at the Desi Cultures 2.0 festival, held on 18–26 July, 2026.

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"Fermentation is older than humans," says Payal Shah, in a matter-of-fact manner. "Microbes were here long before we were. Animals ferment, nature ferments. We've simply found new ways to work with something that has always existed."

Shah speaks of fermentation with this familiarity because she has long been listening to microbes. She has watched them, played with them, and witnessed them transform. Today, she is one of India's most respected voices on the subject, consulting with chefs, mixologists, farmers and food producers, all while championing a practice that is at once ancient, scientific and deeply intuitive.

Yet she doesn’t see herself as a fermentation expert in the conventional sense. Instead, she calls herself a "shepherd of microbes"—someone who creates the right conditions for life to flourish, while accepting that the microbes themselves ultimately decide the outcome. "It's the microbes who choose what they want to become," says Shah, "You're simply providing the environment."

It's the microbes who choose what they want to become. You're simply providing the environment.

Her philosophy is rooted as much in humility as it is in science, and I find that fascinating. Perhaps even spiritual. Shah agrees with this assessment, drawing parallels with gardening, where one plants the seeds, nurtures them with water, sunshine and nutrients, but really doesn’t know when or how the plants will yield, if at all.

She founded Kōbo Fermentary in 2018 after her passion evolved into more than a hobby and could be channelled into something with a more expansive scope. Kōbo is a multifaceted endeavour, imagined as a think tank, flavour lab and creative studio. In the early days, Shah was invested in real-time fermenting and retail products. After the COVID-19 pandemic, much of her work migrated online, assuming a wider knowledge-sharing format via Youtube videos, Substack posts and a range of playbooks available on Kōbo’s website; these playbooks are step-by-step guides to prepare kombucha, pickles and other fermented foods.

I met her last year in Bengaluru at The Good Craft Co., where she seemed very at home: standing before a stretching wall mounted with jars and jars of fermenting ingredients, leading us through a tasting of the various stages of fermentation.

First forays

Shah isn't a microbiologist by training. Her academic background is in Psychology, and she readily admits she has been a self-taught fermenter for the last 25 years. Everything she knows about fermentation has been painstakingly learned through experimentation, observation and, sometimes, failure. Her first obsession was wild-fermented ginger ale. At 18, she brewed more than a hundred batches in a single year, fascinated that no two were ever alike. "Some were brilliant, some failed spectacularly. But every batch taught me something," she says.

Unlike baking or classical cooking, fermentation resists precision. Temperature, humidity, geography, ingredients, even the microbes present on the hands of the creator shape the final result. The same recipe can produce entirely different flavours depending on where it is made.

Growing up in Bengaluru in a Gujarati household where her grandmother was a central figure, fermentation wasn't a niche culinary pursuit. It was simply everyday life. Summers revolved around pickle-making, butter was churned at home, and handvo, idlis, dosas and countless seasonal preserves bubbled away in the kitchen.

Like many children, Shah was entrusted with small but essential jobs: carrying jars into the sun, stirring mixtures, and bringing them indoors before dusk. At the time, she thought little of it. But, looking back, she realises how those rituals introduced her to a world where patience mattered more than speed, and that deep observation resulted in the most valuable lessons.

Inspired by ancient Indian practices

“India's relationship with fermentation stretches back thousands of years, long before the process acquired its modern scientific vocabulary. Across the country, communities developed fermented foods as a practical response to climate, preservation and nutrition, creating a remarkable diversity of regional traditions,” shares Shah.

Unlike baking or classical cooking, fermentation resists precision.

From idli and dosa batter in the South, to dhokla in Gujarat, kanji in North India, panta bhat and even kasundi in Bengal, appam batter in Kerala, bamboo shoot ferments in the North-East, homemade curd, pickles and rice beers, fermentation has long been woven into everyday cooking. Before it found a place on fine-dining menus, generations of grandmothers around the world were naturally fermenting foods in their home kitchens, making it one of humanity's oldest and most enduring culinary traditions. “These living foods not only enhanced flavour and extended shelf life, but also nurtured beneficial microbes that support gut health,” she adds.

Fermentation has found a new audience through contemporary restaurants, craft beverages and wellness culture, but Shah believes the revival is already well underway. Indigenous techniques are appearing on restaurant menus, in specialty stores, and increasingly, in conversations about nutrition, biodiversity and sustainable food systems.

Her involvement as co-curator of Desi Cultures 2026, a festival celebrating India's fermentation heritage, reflects this broader vision. The conversations went far beyond recipes, exploring how fermentation intersects with coffee, cacao, cheese and spirits, while also examining questions of labour, caste, gender and cultural knowledge.

Spreading the gospel

“‘Kōbo’ is Japanese for yeast, like a mother enzyme; you can't have fermentation without it, so that is the genesis of the name. That is where it all started,” says Shah, reflecting on how the fermentary has grown over the years.

The impact of its knowledge sharing initiatives is most palpably felt in the response to Shah's weekend ‘AMA - Ask Me Anything’ sessions, which encouraged many of Kōbo’s Instagram followers to take up fermentation at home during the COVID-19 lockdown. The regularity and generosity with which she shared tips, tricks and details during these sessions helped many to unpack the subject. 

Shah uses her gut instinct to rustle up ferments, even during her travels. Guided purely by intuition and with the knowledge that no list of steps undertaken can ever be fail-safe, Shah prefers to label them “non-recipes”. Having gradually shifted from the production of fermented foods at Kōbo, she spends most of her time teaching, consulting and establishing fermentation programmes for restaurants, bars and food businesses across the country. Her clients range from progressive chefs seeking deeper layers of flavour, to mixologists experimenting with naturally fermented ingredients for cocktails. Farmers approach her to help preserve surplus harvests through fermentation, reducing waste while creating products with longer shelf lives and greater value. Restaurants work with her to rethink kitchen waste, transforming leftovers into intensely savoury condiments rather than sending them to landfills.

Shah has worked closely with Kikui Farm near Coonoor, the Vivekananda Estate in Coorg, alongside restaurants like Brik Oven, where her insights also inform pantry ingredient planning.

An answer to food waste?

For those curious about experimenting with fermentation at home, Shah recommends beginning with something almost impossible to get wrong: ginger or garlic fermented in honey. "You don't even have to measure anything," she says. Simply submerge the ginger or garlic completely in honey and allow nature to take over. The ingredients already contain the microbes, sugars and nutrients required for spontaneous fermentation, making it an ideal introduction for beginners. Better still, the jar becomes a living project: one can replenish it with more honey or fresh ginger and garlic.

At her own home, Shah uses fermentation less as a culinary experiment and more as a solution to food waste. She has devised an elaborate fermentation system that transforms leftovers into a richly savoury tamari sauce. Almost anything destined for compost, from vegetable scraps, to stale pizza crusts, leftover mint chutney, aloo buns or even sushi, finds its way into the process. Using koji, the Japanese fermentation mould, along with salt, the ingredients are slowly developed into a miso-like mixture. Through a multi-tiered system of nested containers, the intensely flavourful liquid, or amino sauce, gradually drains into the bottom vessel. The result is a deeply umami condiment that keeps for months and can be used just like soy or fish sauce.

For Shah, the real magic lies not in the technique itself, but in its ability to turn food waste into flavour.

The Desi Cultures 2.0 festival was held on 18–26 July, 2026.

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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 materials have transformed human civilisation as profoundly as plastic: lightweight, durable, inexpensive, and endlessly versatile. It's in the thin film coating fruits and vegetables in supermarkets, the bottle holding our water, the keyboard beneath our fingers, the fibres in our clothes, the dashboard of our cars, our spectacle frames, and the medical devices that save lives every day.  

It is woven into modern existence so intricately that it has become indispensable. And that is precisely what makes plastic so fascinating, and just as problematic.

Origins

Plastic originated as an alternative to natural materials like ivory, tortoiseshell, and shellac; this new, flexible synthetic polymer was considered remarkably useful, especially as industrialisation increased the demand for durable and affordable substitutes.

The 1860s saw the invention of Parkesine, a hard but flexible semi-synthetic plastic, and then celluloid, which gained commercial success as a substitute for ivory in products like piano keys, combs, and other objects.  

Then, in 1907, Belgian-American chemist Leo Baekeland invented Bakelite, the first fully synthetic plastic. Durable, heat-resistant, and electrically insulating, it found widespread industrial and household use, laying the foundation for the modern plastics industry. Incidentally, many pan handles today are still made of Bakelite.

The 1930s saw the development of polymers such as polyvinyl chloride (PVC), polyethylene (PE), polystyrene, and nylon, expanding plastic's applications across textiles, construction, and consumer goods. World War II accelerated plastic production, as synthetic materials replaced scarce natural resources in military equipment, packaging, and communication technologies. After the war, these innovations transitioned into everyday life, with plastics becoming central to mass consumer culture, democratising everyday products like dinnerware, that were once made of ivory and horn and considered luxuries. Synthetics like nylon revolutionised women’s fashion by replacing fragile silk with durable, affordable hosiery.    

In 1940, Fortune Magazine described the early years of the plastics industry as "something like the world on the first day of creation"; a limitless frontier where chemists could seemingly invent entirely new materials. Plastics were celebrated for their colours, and their ability to transform ordinary household objects into symbols of modern living. Manufacturers advertised what plastic replaced rather than the material itself, and by becoming ubiquitous, plastics became invisible.  

In the following decades, plastic production continued to rise rapidly, accompanied by the growth of disposable packaging and single-use products. It rose from approximately 2 million tonnes in the 1950s to 436 million tonnes in 2023.

At the same time, environmental awareness began to emerge, with early concerns about litter and pollution evolving into broader recognition of plastic's long-term ecological impacts.  

Manufacturers advertised what plastic replaced rather than the material itself, and by becoming ubiquitous, plastics became invisible.

By the 2000s, plastics had become indispensable to modern life, even as their persistence in the environment and accumulation in ecosystems raised urgent questions about sustainability and waste management. Environmentalists showed how ‘biodegradable plastics’ didn’t really degrade in real-world conditions. Marine samples collected in 2019 found plastics dating back to the 1960s.  

The irony here is impossible to ignore: the very qualities that made plastic revolutionary—durability, affordability, longevity, and versatility—are why it has now become one of humanity's most enduring environmental challenges.

From novelty to dependence

Plastic has become the backbone of the food and beverage industry, as well as agriculture: it now lines irrigation systems, covers crops, preserves freshness and nutrients through supply chains, prevents contamination, extends shelf life, reduces food waste and losses, and enables global supply chains that deliver exotic fruits, seafood, and even relief materials across continents.

Without plastic, modern food distribution systems might not exist on the scale they do today. Agricultural value chains use around 12.5 million tonnes of plastic annually, and food packaging comes up to a whopping 37.3 million tonnes. The food packaging market in 2025 was valued at over $420 billion, projected to touch $599 billion by 2033.

By 2023, the world was already producing over 430 million tonnes of plastic annually, a significant portion of which leaked into the environment. This comes up to roughly 52 kg of plastic produced by every single one of the 8.3 billion people on this planet, annually—which means that each of us generates a kilo of waste every week. Multiply that by the many more years we’ll live, and you get an even more alarming lifetime total.  

Also read: Bugging out: Why declining insect populations in India spell doom for agriculture

The problem

Unlike organic waste, plastic does not biodegrade or integrate into the soil. Instead, it fragments under sunlight, oceanic waves, and weather into progressively smaller particles: microplastics (smaller than 5 mm) and nanoplastics (smaller than 1 mm). These particles have now been found virtually everywhere, from deep oceans and Arctic sea ice to mountain snow, agricultural soils, rivers, and the air we breathe.  

Without plastic, modern food distribution systems might not exist on the scale they do today.

But plastic is no longer just an environmental issue; it is increasingly becoming a biological one.  

Marine organisms, from plankton and fish to turtles and seabirds, all ingest plastic directly or through contaminated prey, carrying it through entire food webs—webs that lead back to humans. Microplastics have now been detected in human blood, lungs, placentas, breast milk, liver, kidneys, and brain tissue. While scientists are still investigating their long-term health effects, studies suggest they may trigger inflammation and can have toxic effects at the cellular and tissue level.

Each year, millions of tonnes of plastic enter marine environments, where turtles mistake bags for jellyfish, and seabirds feed plastic fragments to their chicks. Abandoned fishing gear or ghost nets continue trapping marine life, coral reefs are smothered by debris, and hermit crabs occupy plastic caps instead of shells.  

Plastics created decades ago are still around, and while they may have originated on land, many have ended up in the oceans.

Which raises an uncomfortable question: what exactly are we leaving behind?

The scope and limits of solutions

The Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO) recommends a hierarchical 6R framework—Refuse, Redesign, Reduce, Reuse, Recycle and Recover—to move from a linear to a circular economy. The hierarchy prioritises avoiding unnecessary plastics and keeping products in use for as long as possible before recycling them.

However, recycling is not the solution many think it is. In 2019, only 9% of global plastic waste was recycled; 50% of it ended up in landfills, 19% was incinerated, and 22% was mismanaged, allowing around 22 million tonnes to leak into the environment. Many plastics can only be recycled a limited number of times before their quality degrades, ultimately going into landfills again.

Extended Producer Responsibility (EPR) is a policy approach that shifts accountability from consumers alone to the companies that manufacture and market plastic packaging. India’s Guidelines on Extended Producers Responsibility aim to do just that: the producers, importers, and brand owners are required to collect and process the plastic packaging they introduce into the market through deposit-refund systems, buyback schemes, or other strategies. When companies cannot realistically manage this on their own, they can outsource EPR to qualified third parties called Producer Responsibility Organisations (PRO).  

However, the success of these measures depends on collective choice, effective implementation, transparent monitoring, and meaningful integration of India’s vast informal waste sector.  

Also read: Fish and seasonality: How year-round demand and extraction hurt our seas

The plastic legacy

India’s situation probably reflects that of every developing country. We entered the plastic age much later than nations that were already industrialised, but plastic became integral quite rapidly after 1991’s economic liberalisation. Single-use sachets, introduced in the 1980s, soon became popular for their convenience and affordability. By the 1990s and 2000s, this low-cost packaging had expanded to consumer goods for ‘one serving’ portions, from coffee to oil to ketchup and pickle. These one-serve packets made consumer goods more accessible and affordable for rural populations, and companies capitalised on that.

Now, it is one of India’s most persistent challenges as sachets, with their mixed materials and small pieces, cannot be recycled, and these often leak out of the waste management chain into the environment.

Extended Producer Responsibility (EPR) is a policy approach that shifts accountability from consumers alone to the companies that manufacture and market plastic packaging.

I have childhood memories of walking to a dairy with my grandfather to buy milk, which was poured into our large, stainless-steel milk cans. The same dairy sold fresh paneer, and fresh curd set in large steel trays—nothing was packaged—and the grocery store nearby sold cold drinks in returnable glass bottles.  

I don’t remember when everything changed, but packets and plastic bottles became the norm. Admittedly, some of these options were more hygienic and made food easier to transport, with fewer chances of mid-chain adulteration or contamination. But it all came at a cost.  

We cannot eliminate plastic altogether, but we can attempt to use it intelligently, where it is genuinely indispensable, and reduce the unnecessary single-use applications that drive modern consumption. Our vegetables do not need extra packaging, nor do we need plastic carry bags for everything we purchase. We definitely do not need to use single-use sachets of face packs and cosmetic creams when reusable containers fit travel bags easily, and you can’t really go wrong with a reusable stainless steel water bottle.

Many of us aware of the problem have the privilege to choose better; but are we truly exercising that privilege in a way that matters? Shampoo and detergent sachets may be an affordable necessity for some, but not small packs of cosmetic skin creams and hair conditioner.

We are leaving behind trillions of microscopic particles already embedded in oceans, soils, freshwater systems, wildlife, food, and living tissues. Long after today's products have been forgotten and discarded, their microscopic remnants might still be circulating through ecosystems and living bodies, where they definitely don’t belong.  

We cannot eliminate plastic altogether, but we can attempt to use it intelligently, where it is genuinely indispensable, and reduce the unnecessary single-use applications that drive modern consumption.

For context: a plastic bottle can take around 450 years to break down, a fishing line 600, plastic bags can take 20 years, and your takeaway containers and coffee cups hang around for at least 50 years. These eventually break down, continuing to live on in the environment for decades more. They are never truly gone.

But let’s hit pause here. None of this means plastic is inherently evil. On the contrary, the invention has enabled major advancements across several fields.  

The problem lies in our usage, in the lack of accountability of big corporations, and policies that do not translate into action. All the plastic we produce today is likely to outlive us in some form. The tragedy is not that plastic was invented, but that we built a disposable culture around a material that was designed to last.

‍Cover art by Pratik Bhide

Also read: In an age of food abundance, why does ‘hidden hunger’ hold India back?

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Welcome to the Good Food Movement’s Climate Crisis Dictionary—your online guide to environmental phenomena and the science behind them.

Sponge City (noun)

Coined in: 2003

Coined by: Chinese landscape architect and urban planner Kongjian Yu (While it was formally introduced by Yu as an urban planning model in his home country, the concept draws inspiration from many water harvesting techniques around the world, like India’s stepwells and johads, and Water Sensitive Urban Design in Australia)

TLDR: Restoring our cities’ naturally ‘spongy’ blue-green infrastructure (like lakes, rivers, soil and mangroves) and creating more absorbent landscapes can help store, filter and reuse stormwater, and mitigate flood risk.

The longer explanation

By June 19, 2026, the seven lake reservoirs that supply drinking water to Mumbai had fallen to just 9.34% of their combined capacity. In other words, Mumbai had 40 days of water left. This prompted domestic and industrial water cuts across the metropolitan region.

Yet, when the first rains arrived in the last week of June after a long wait, Mumbai flooded overnight. Shrinking wetland cover and turbocharged concretisation mean the city can now scarcely absorb rainwater, which darts away as run-off. 

Like Mumbai, India's other cities, too, are oscillating between floods and chronic water shortages. Globally, floods account for 35–40% of weather-related disaster occurrences, as per data from the United Nations Office for Disaster Risk Reduction. By the middle of this century, 4 out of every 5 people affected by a flooding-related disaster will live in Asia.

But why are cities more prone to flooding today, and why are they taking longer to recover from floods? Their surface area is covered with hard, impermeable surfaces. Just like our skin, our cities need pores. Asphalt and concrete seal those pores shut. Paved areas prevent rainwater from sinking into the ground.

A 2022 study conducted by the World Resources Institute–that examined India’s ten most populated cities–demonstrated that built-up area (land covered by human-made structures as opposed to open land) expanded by 52% between 2000 and 2015, with 44% of new development occurring on high or very high groundwater recharge zones—areas where rainwater seeps into the earth, replenishing groundwater reserves. This diverted nearly 300 billion litres of water annually away from aquifers, which could have met 20% of the water demand generated by a growing urban population.

The frequency and intensity of flood events in India make the image of Noah's Ark feel less like legend and more a modern parable. In this environment, sponge cities are emerging as a nature-based intervention of learning to live with water rather than fighting against it. Modern cities borrow water from the future, sponge cities try to pay it back.

As Kongjian Yu says, “When water has space, it slows down.” Conventional urban planning has long treated rainwater as a nuisance to be speedily redirected, especially away from the more gentrified areas of the city. Gutters, storm drains and concrete channels are designed to rush water away from where it falls. But this approach can simply move the problem downstream to other parts of the city, and especially increase flood risk elsewhere, like for informal settlements in low-lying areas.  

 Modern cities borrow water from the future, sponge cities try to pay it back.

Sponge cities, on the other hand, are rooted in the ancient wisdom of traditional water use and harvesting techniques. Cities have various natural drainage systems like lakes, waterways, open soil and vegetation, and marshlands. A space redesigned as a sponge city, such as playgrounds or parking lots, works with these aspects of the land to slow, absorb, filter and hold, and reuse stormwater rather than channeling it away through grey infrastructure like pipes and concrete channels.

Their framing as an urban development model was first integrated as part of China’s nationwide sustainability policy in 2013-14. Cities across the world, including Shanghai, Copenhagen and Auckland are also investing in nature-based engineering like permeable pavements, and building ponds and rain gardens that store excess rainfall in underground storage tanks and tunnels. By temporarily storing excess rainfall, cities can release it gradually once rivers and existing drainage systems have enough capacity to safely carry it.

In India, urban nature-based design and landscaping firm Sponge Collaborative has worked with the Greater Chennai Corporation (GCC) to restore a degraded wetland in Porur as the Dr. M. S. Swaminathan Wetland Eco Park, after the city experienced devastating floods in December 2015. Reflecting on the lessons learnt from working with this highly successful project, co-founder Manushi Jain says that identifying a location for a park is a data-driven approach, and not an arbitrary process of converting parks at random. What was the site’s historical ecology, and can that natural character be restored? Assessing its drainage patterns, soil type, hydrology and lithology (physical characteristics of the rocks) are as important. At Porur, rain is not treated as a nuisance, but invited to linger. Stormwater enters a chain of ponds, where gravity settles out any large particles and impurities. Native reeds and wetland plants cleanse the water and fix nitrogen and phosphorus. The restored wetlands and ponds hold this rain before releasing it downstream.

Sponge parks can thus also act like a city’s ‘savings account.’

Since its opening in 2025, the M. S. Swaminathan Park has reportedly managed over 20 million litres of stormwater during the height of monsoon; it has also been able to manage over 90% of stormwater runoff generated on-site rather than discharging it into the city's drains. In storing about 30 million litres of rainwater, it has eased the pressure on conventional drainage and mitigated flood risk in the city. Sponge parks can thus also act like a city’s ‘savings account.’

Thermal imaging has also mapped the area to be 10-15°C cooler than its surrounding built area. 

More from our Climate Crisis Dictionary: Urban heat islands: Sweaty cities made of rising skyscrapers, vanishing trees 

What this means for humans

Can sponge cities be imagined in India? What would they look like in the face of the country’s environmental governance? India has enthusiastically experimented with this model, with Chennai being the most visible testing ground; the GCC constructed 57 sponge parks across Chennai in 2023-24 alone. Others have mushroomed in cities like Mumbai, Kochi and Ahmedabad. However, the limitations of constructing sponge parks at scale have been stark. Large funds are siphoned away, only for construction to involve quick fixes. Pond bunds have been raised with cement and plastic, which risk polluting the aquifer. Stormwater drains have been linked directly with ponds, risking an intermingling with sewage.

We’re used to building concrete boxes as rainwater harvesting systems, says Jain. Governments believe that ‘landscape’ shouldn’t cost much and should maintain itself. Administrative red tape, departments functioning in silos, the nature of the sponge city not being standardised or included in policy, and political motivations to pseudo-adapt sustainable solutions at scale only result in flawed solutions and implementation. 

There is no cookie cutter mechanism of designing a sponge park. It’s important to look at site-specific conditions—whether it has rocky, clayey or sandy soils, compacted ground, different aquifers and drainage patterns—and then decide on optimal interventions (like improving soil porosity and selecting appropriate vegetation).

These early experiments raise a larger question: what does an aspiring sponge city look like?

Sponge cities are not a hark back to what once was, but champion a sensitive development. The aim is to enhance the natural capacities of a region. What if we were to restore Bengaluru’s historic kaluves, a centuries-old network of interconnected man-made lakes and storm-water canals, which are now carriers of sewage? Or preserve Mumbai’s vast marshlands and mangroves, often deemed wasteland and up for grabs in the land reclamation battle, which have historically protected against sea level rise and the fierce monsoon? Dr. Hita Unnikrishnan, Sustainable Development Studies professor at University of Warwick, says that the focus of sponge cities should be on restoring what already exists, in a socially sensitive manner, before applying newer solutions. 

“This is not just important from the perspective of reducing urban flooding and facilitating adequate drainage, but can also foster local biodiversity, improve local microclimate, as well provide water that recharges cities’ shallow aquifers,” she explains. “This will reduce dependency on deep underground reserves of groundwater—the depletion of which is one of the reasons regions like Bengaluru are constantly on the verge of running out of water supply.” Only when this isn’t possible, solutions that are in tandem with the character of the site can be engineered, she says. 

Ultimately, even nature-based solutions have their limitations— including heavy investment in long-term sustainable returns (a newer position for India’s instant gratification-charged bureaucracy). In an extreme weather event, like a cloudburst, or a 25-year return storm event, even sponge cities may reach their threshold and collapse. China's experience illustrates that sponge cities are not a silver bullet—and work best in shepherding moderate rainfall, not eliminating flood risk altogether. 

India is yet to standardise what the meaning and implementation of sponge cities would look like, which significantly complicates things.

In already built-up neighbourhoods, they can be created incrementally by replacing impermeable surfaces with permeable pavements, converting parking lots into rain gardens, installing bioswales along roads, creating green roofs, or redesigning public spaces to temporarily store stormwater. The idea is not always to create entirely new landscapes, but to make existing urban infrastructure work more like a sponge.

One of the biggest challenges was getting engineers and contractors to embrace unfamiliar materials and construction methods instead of defaulting to concrete, Jain says. Her team spent months on site, teaching contractors how to work with new materials. The hidden success of designing a sponge park was that engineers themselves understandood the value of nature-based solutions. Small steps on the ground propel change.

But India is yet to standardise what the meaning and implementation of sponge cities would look like, which significantly complicates things. Our cities are highly built-up, with fragmented land ownership and competing development pressures. Sponge cities also have their limitations: it might be difficult to retrofit existing neighbourhoods given the model’s initial expense. No less effortful is customising each sponge park, extending care and consideration for local micro-complexities and conditions. If sponge cities are going to be the next big buzzword in climate adaptation strategies, then it is very important that they steer clear of panacea approaches—what has worked elsewhere is not likely to guarantee the same success when transplanted into other contexts, Dr. Unnikrishnan says. 

Another thing to consciously ensure is that sponge cities work especially for the most climate-vulnerable groups and not exacerbate existing inequalities. It’s easy for them to translate into interventions in certain neighbourhoods being prioritised over others. From what history tells us, this would then lead to further forms of gentrification. Neighbourhoods (and cities) that are economically well off, financially profitable and important to India’s global image may be singled out, which would also mean that an entire city might not function as a sponge city, but rather might give rise to ‘islands of sponges’ where change is concentrated, creating an illusion of climate resilience while the rest of the city still suffers climate risks.

Successful sponge parks are built with people, says Jain. Much depends on the people who live alongside them. Involving the community and making the sponge park a biodiversity haven as well as a social amenity is vital. Do people in the neighbourhood have a place of recreation; or are there schools and hospitals that could be flooded? Solutions shouldn’t be top-down but make use of this ecological knowledge suffused in that region, and make the most vulnerable members part of the planning process, says Dr. Unnikrishnan. That participatory approach not only leads to better designs, but also creates a sense of ownership, strengthens long-term stewardship and maintenance—and acknowledges that this is not another construction initiative, but a co-creation with people whose histories actually play out here.

Illustrated by Jishnu Bandyopadhyay

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Editor’s note: Urban farmer Simran Moorjani is the founder of Simbiosis, a regenerative farm on the outskirts of Mumbai, where she grows tomatoes and salad leaves while maintaining a symbiotic relationship with the land. In this column, she reflects on the realities of farming—sometimes with humour, sometimes with candour, always with curiosity.

One (among many) unexpected realisations I’ve had about farming is the persistent way in which it compels me to think about more than myself—about the microbes in the soil that aren’t visible to my eyes, the earthworms I keep trying to spot, the caterpillar chomping on a leaf that I hope turns into a butterfly, the combinations of leaves that I grow that work best for a salad, the leftovers that are being wasted in my bowl, the load that this handful of waste will put on my city’s landfills, the methane that they generate into the air. These thoughts—interconnected in an overwhelming sort of way—leave me feeling breathless, quite like that sentence just did.

It’s easier to set the thoughts aside than to confront them. But one of my favourite essays, called ‘Why Bother?’ by Micheal Pollan, makes a case for why we shouldn’t. It addresses how, on a personal scale, any change we make towards living a more “sustainable” life can be puny when compared to the scale of the problem. Sometimes I think about the turtle with a plastic straw stuck in its nose, and sometimes, I think about how much better my iced latte would taste if I didn’t have to change out a paper straw four times over. And is my ruined coffee experience really making a difference in a world where bombs are dropped at an unbelievable frequency?

But Pollan also speaks of hope, and of reducing our dependence on capitalist economies by finding one pursuit that is free of charge; for example, growing our own food. “Rip out your lawn, if you have one, and if you don’t–if you live in a high-rise, or have a yard shrouded in shade–look into getting a plot in a community garden. Measured against the Problem We Face, planting a garden sounds pretty benign, I know, but in fact it’s one of the most powerful things an individual can do–to reduce your carbon footprint, sure, but more important, to reduce your sense of dependence and dividedness: to change the cheap-energy mind,” he writes.

Unfortunately, the reality of most cities and metros in India doesn’t serve such a pursuit, since the citizen-to-open space ratio is far too low, and access to land comes at a grave cost. May I suggest a slightly different approach? One that fits more neatly into urban Indian schedules and the pace of city life?

Know thy farmer

In a world overtaken by quick commerce platforms and delivery apps, there’s great value in knowing more about your food, how it reaches you, and where it is grown. This is not an easy transition or way of living; it calls for planning meals ahead of time, going to farmers’ markets, and shopping in person. In a food economy increasingly focused on efficiency and standardisation, you’d be daring—and “inconveniencing”—yourself if you decided to eat with the seasons. This means resisting the urge to buy mangoes before the summer hits, and being skeptical of strawberries on sale in July.

In a food economy increasingly focused on efficiency and standardisation, you’d be daring—and “inconveniencing”—yourself if you decided to eat with the seasons.

All of these everyday decisions, whether big or small, add up to answer one question: “How can I eat in a way that isn’t just good for me, but is good for the planet, too?” As a cultivator and consumer, I’d argue that knowing your farmer is the best way to get started. It’s the surest way to know what is the freshest produce now, and what you can look forward to in the weeks to come. In fact, if the opportunity presents itself, consider spending a day with a farmer to see where your food comes from. We don’t bite, I promise! Most small-scale farmers are happy to host buyers or curious consumers, to show off the work we’re doing and share a meal. 

A visit to Gorus Forest Farm on the outskirts of Pune was full of revelations to me. When I think of coffee, I instinctively think of the southern half of India—the states of Karnataka, Kerala and Tamil Nadu. But here, in the Western Ghats of Maharashtra, under the dense canopy of native trees, grow strong plants of arabica coffee. We walked around the farm guided by Ashwin Paranjpe, who is also an educator, as he plucked different wild leaves for us to try, or pointed at different species of chillies he grows. It ended with copious cups of coffee, grown, roasted, and brewed right there.

Also read: Tomato truths: What this novice farmer learnt and unlearnt about the fruit

The hands that harvest

During a recent online session on heirloom rice by chef and researcher Anumitra Ghosh Dastidar of Edible Archives, a food research project and restaurant in Goa, I learnt about the wealth of paddy varieties that India was home to—over 1,10,000 of them. Tragically, Ghosh Dastidar observed, 90% of them have been lost to time, disuse or other reasons.

Much of this has to do with the adoption of high-yielding varieties (HYVs) of grains like rice and wheat in the years following Independence, when the hunger of a new nation had to be quelled and dependence on foreign aid had to be eliminated. Following the Green Revolution, Indian agriculture assumed an industrial form and scale, embracing the use of chemical inputs like pesticides and fertilisers. And food has never quite been the same. 

When I first began experimenting with farming, I noticed my choices as a consumer shifting.

Still, initiatives like Edible Archives document and showcase India's rice, using food as a powerful tool for preserving agricultural biodiversity. Ghosh Dastidar combines a PhD in Theoretical Linguistics with formal culinary training. At the Kochi-Muziris Biennale 2018-2019, she showcased nearly 50 heirloom varieties, inviting visitors to engage with the sheer diversity of grains. 

OOO Farms is another collective whose impact spans across 63 villages in Maharashtra and Gujarat, and they remain committed to working the old way. In their work with over 2,200 farmers from tribal communities, they focus on safeguarding indigenous practices and promoting the cultivation of native rice, wheat, dal and millets. Ancestral wisdom drives their ability to nurture microclimates and biodiversity, and their bottom line is nutrition per acre rather than the typical, “optimised” yield per acre. Every year, they organise the Wild Food Festival in Mumbai—a means to learn about foods you won’t typically find at the market. It’s also an opportunity to see the OOO seed bank in all its glory, and to shop for some of their produce in person. 

When I first began experimenting with farming, I noticed my choices as a consumer shifting. I had greater respect for the food I was eating, for how it had been grown, when I could put a face to the person who harvested it. Even composting the peels of this produce felt more joyful, as I thought of the nutrients from their land someday nourishing my land. This shift in consumption is also not just limited to the food I eat; it has trickled down into many different facets of my life. Outfits feel more ceremonious when they’re made by designers who believe in conscious clothing, be it in the materials they employ, or the dyes they use to colour them, or the wages they pay to their teams. Skincare feels better when I can pronounce all the ingredients on the back of the label.

With generosity come imperfections

The mainstreaming of hybridised vegetables over hyperlocal, traditional grains and produce—another convenience of modern life—has its own consequences. Our diets become formulaic, and our pantries become limited. In the process, the curiosity to seek out unglamourous ingredients is lost; I’ve seen this up close, as someone who chooses to grow heirloom tomatoes the organic way.

To be friends with farmers is to acquaint yourself with these ingredients and how to actually use them. Lately, I’ve been looking up different ways to cook with Gondhoraj lemons, and testing the correct amount of time needed to boil Ajara Ghansal—a GI-tagged short grain rice local to Maharashtra—to perfection.

Knowing your farmer is to also embrace the imperfections in the fruits of their labour.

If you get on the good side of your farmer, they may even offer you things from their secret stash. This is exactly how I got my hands on Termitomyces mushrooms, farmed, quite literally, by termites. Despite humanity’s best efforts, it simply cannot be grown by our hands. They emerge at the end of the monsoon at Vrindavan Farm near Mumbai, and I was lucky to be there at the time to try them. I also came across some of the nicest potatoes grown by Anil ji, who is otherwise a strawberry farmer; he generously sent a few taters along with my berry order. 

Knowing your farmer is to also embrace the imperfections in the fruits of their labour. Food was never meant to look “perfect”, it is the human desire for standardisation that makes two tomatoes or heads of cauliflower look and taste identical. If a spinach leaf has a couple of holes in it, that means it’s probably not been sprayed with pesticides. It means the same piece of produce has fed us and a little critter on a farm—a critter, using only its instincts, came to this very leaf, and couldn’t resist taking a bite of it. How lucky we are to share the spinach with it.

At a time when food safety is being hotly debated in India, from the quality of paneer to contaminants in spice powders, it’s only sensible to reduce the number of people between you and your food; subtract the intermediaries, go directly to the source! You could even turn this quest into the guiding force of your travels. Go to Chikmagalur in Karnataka to find where the perfect cup of coffee comes from, or to Nagaland in search of the spiciest chillies.

Also read: Tomato truths: Growing your own food is a radical, rewarding thing

From appreciation to meaningful support

To show respect for a farmer’s work is not simply to get to know them; it is also compensating them justly for their toil in the fields and their battles against the weather and pests. Maybe this will nudge the farmer's child to spend their life being a steward of the land, too, instead of migrating to the city in the hope of better prospects.

To switch from the ease and familiarity of what we know and are used to, to becoming the patron of small, sustainable farmers is a hard switch. But the best things in life often are. 

Convenience comes at a cost, whether it is compromised flavour, lower quality, or a decline in the very health of the planet. And though these costs may not be visible to us, we’re not immune to them either. To switch from the ease and familiarity of what we know and are used to, to becoming the patron of small, sustainable farmers is a hard switch. But the best things in life often are.

‍Cover Art by Pearl D'Souza

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Every morning, Hajra Begum visits her saffron fields in Lethpora, in Jammu and Kashmir’s Pulwama district. The 56-year-old religiously plucks out the weeds from the earth that may threaten the growth of the precious spice. Lately, she has monitored another intruder in the fields: a porcupine.

Begum is one among many farmers worried about the fate of this age-old crop. Kashmir's saffron belt Pampore and nearby areas have seen a sharp increase in porcupine incursions. Experts claim that the destruction of the large rodent’s natural habitat by cement factories and mining sites has forced them to move towards the plains.

The land lost to porcupines eats further into the holdings of saffron cultivators.

These farmers have watched their fields rapidly shrink due to climate change. Prof. Mir Ghulam Hassan, Chief Scientist at the Saffron Research Centre (IIKSTC), Dussu, says, “We have been witnessing rain deficits and snowless winters that are affecting saffron production… This past winter, too, there was very little snowfall. There’s a high possibility of lower production again.” These weather events specifically damage saffron corms—round, onion-like bulbs that grow under the surface of the soil, and store the energy that the Crocus sativus plant needs.

According to the 2011 Census, nearly 16,000 families in the area depended on saffron cultivation for their livelihoods–a sector that employed over 11,000 women in Jammu and Kashmir.

Along with extreme weather events, it is fluctuations in climate, too, that have a bearing on the crop. “Abrupt, heavy rainfall is followed by a sharp increase in temperature in recent years. These weather variations create favourable conditions for the growth of fungi on saffron corms, and cause them to rot. Farmers often do not realise the damage until the harvest season, when the fungi have already destroyed the crop,” Prof. Hassan explains. 

“In the past, we had more than two hectares of land under saffron cultivation. I used to earn over Rs 8–9 lakh annually. Now, only four kanals (0.20 hectares) of that land remain,” Begum rues. Until a few decades ago, saffron farming was the main source of income for Begum‘s family. In 2003, her husband was diagnosed with kidney failure, and the responsibility of supporting the family fell on Begum. “I was able to educate my four children and afford medical care for my husband because of my saffron fields. Now, breaking even on production costs is difficult,” she says.

According to the 2011 Census, nearly 16,000 families in the area depended on saffron cultivation for their livelihoods–a sector that employed over 11,000 women in Jammu and Kashmir. But cultivation has been in decline since the turn of the century, prompting farmers to shift to other profitable crops like apples. And though apples have provided a safety net, the women who were dependent on saffron have lost out on their individual incomes.

A crop that demands love and attention

Interestingly, the spice isn’t grown from a seed. This perennial crop slowly erupts from the corm, which the farmers dig up, divide, and replant directly into the soil. Before planting, the farmers plough their fields for a year or more, letting the soil loosen and absorb nutrients. The corms then go into the earth in July, until September–sometimes even the beginning of October–then lie dormant through the dry Kashmir summer.

As long as its lifespan is, so rare the revered spice born of it: each flower gives just three delicate crimson stigmas.

As the winds chill, in a small flowering window in October and November, the corms send up thin, purple flowers. Generally, the crop needs little irrigation, being sensitive to water; the rains from August to November are crucial to its growth. Manual irrigation is recommended post sprouting, right before flowering, and then right after.

A single saffron plant can keep producing for years: corms can be productive for up to 15 years. But as long as its lifespan is, so rare the revered spice born of it: each flower gives just three delicate crimson stigmas. These are then hand-plucked—making saffron one of the most laboriously harvested spices—and dried.

A backbreaking, unstable livelihood

Traditionally, women have formed the backbone of Kashmir's saffron industry. A 2026 study by the Sher-e-Kashmir University of Agricultural Sciences and Technology, Kashmir (SKUAST-K) found that women account for 70% of labour–planting the corms–65% of weeding activities, 80% of harvesting, and 75% of post-harvest processing in saffron cultivation. 

The first de-weeding, which involves digging the entire field, starts in the first week of June. The second begins between August and September, just a few months before the saffron starts flowering. The women in the household work shoulder to shoulder with men. 

Once the crop blooms in October through November, farmers bring their entire families to the fields to pluck the purple flowers. Farooq Ahmad, a 48-year-old, fifth-generation saffron grower, says that the production used to be so high that they either sought help from neighbours and returned the favour when their neighbours undertook harvest in their fields, or they would employ women from landless households (The wages for these labourers range from Rs. 500 to Rs. 700 per day). The same women also participated in the next phase of the harvest: carefully, tenderly picking the stigmas from the flowers—the orange threads that impart both colour and flavour to food. Ahmad says, “If we happen to employ labourers in the fields, we pay them in cash. Traditionally, we used to pay local women with saffron for their work, but that is now unimaginable." 

In the face of few employment opportunities, saffron farming was the only source of livelihood for Shaheena (name changed upon request), a 50-year-old resident of Meej, a village that borders the Pampore town. Working in the fields as well as helping the farmers with plucking and post-processing usually provided her with work for over three months. In the winter, Shaheena would engage in carefully extracting the saffron stamens from the petals, known locally as paet—the pollen-bearing, yellow male reproductive parts—which fetched women like her between Rs. 50 and Rs. 100 per 10 gm. The bright paet strands are used in Ayurvedic medicines, and even as natural yellow dyes. Shaheena recalls, “I used to earn Rs. 400–500 a day working in the fields.”

The work in the saffron fields enabled her to take care of her and her children’s expenses.

She owns a very small piece of farmland with her husband, who was a daily wage worker; here, they cultivate vegetables for their own sustenance. The work in the saffron fields enabled her to take care of her and her children’s expenses. “Now, there is no work left for me. The farmers mostly do it all by themselves, or they use motor tillers to save on labour costs,” she explains.

Now, Shaheena mostly stays at home. “I have two sons who work as masons; they take care of all my needs,” she says. 

The unravelling of women’s work—and networks

Jammu and Kashmir is reported to have received only 49.8% of its normal precipitation between October 2024 and February 2025. During the corresponding period from October 2025 to February 2026, precipitation stood at just 45.6% of normal levels. “Thirty years ago, farmers used to give more huss posh—the share of saffron produce given to the women in the families after the peak bloom—than the total production many farmers can achieve today,” observes Ahmad, as he monitors labourers working in his field. Last year, his production—a total of only 30 gm—declined by 80%, in contrast to quantities of 300 to 400 gm in the past. “The crop failed due to drought-like conditions,” Ahmad explains, “There is no alternative irrigation facility available to farmers.”

The impact is also felt by local trade networks that women once occupied. Shakeela Banu, 45, a resident of Khrew near Pampore, has been running a saffron firm for the past two decades. She goes door to door, purchasing saffron directly from farming families. One of the few women in the spice’s trade business, Banu occupied a unique position, as a solid confidante for female farmers, and a source of hope in times of distress and need. 

“I used to buy all the saffron from the women in one season,” Banu says, wryly. “Not a kg or two; I used to buy 20-25 kg from over 70 to 80 women,” she adds. In the golden days of her business, she recalls buying at least 2 kg every day and selling it in the market. “The business was lucrative. I was able to build a house and send my children to private schools.”

In present times, she can scarcely source 500 gm from farmers in an entire month. “None of the women I used to buy from have enough saffron to sell for in order to earn a disposable income,” Shakeela says. Tragically, villagers speaking to this reporter estimated that only four out of 500 families in Khrew continue to farm saffron.

Naseema, another resident of Khrew, remembers the time spent in her family’s saffron fields. “It used to take us days to collect the flowers. The process itself was a social activity that allowed me to meet friends whose fields bordered ours,” the 46-year-old says. 

“None of the women I used to buy from have enough saffron to sell for in order to earn a disposable income”

All of their land is now barren. Her family followed new farming practices as reportedly advised by the Department of Agriculture under the National Saffron Mission; this included sowing seeds 6-8 inches deep into the soil, instead of the typical logic of burying them a few inches deeper. They observed the more intense impact of the heat wave on these shallowly sown seeds, in addition to crop failure owing to delayed rain. “During the first season, more flowers bloomed than normal, but in the second year, we found our land ruined… few saffron flowers here and there, and then nothing,” Naseema says.

When the yield was more generous, Naseema could expect to earn Rs 50,000 and Rs 70,000 for a little over a kilo of paet. The yellow-coloured stamen comprised a major chunk of income for women like her—an income that has entirely vanished. “Since the saffron production is very little, the farmers keep both the saffron strands as well as the paet for themselves,” Banu says. 

Also read: Climate change in my cup: Why India’s cocoa and coffee production is at risk

Encouragement falls short

In 2010, the central government launched the National Saffron Mission to encourage growers to pursue standardised saffron farming, aimed at increasing yields. More than Rs. 400 crore was sanctioned under the scheme, including provisions for financial assistance and irrigation infrastructure.

In 2020, Kashmiri saffron was granted a Geographical Indication (GI) tag to strengthen its market identity. A spice park, India International Kashmir Saffron Trading Centre (IIKSTC), was constructed at Dussu to aid farmers with post-production. The facility is reportedly equipped to process, dry, grade, pack and e-auction the spice. 

In 2020, Kashmiri saffron was granted a Geographical Indication (GI) tag to strengthen its market identity.

In 2022, the Department of Agriculture issued a notification banning the sale of saffron corms outside the union territory. Suhail Inamullah, Technical Officer at the Directorate of Agriculture, Jammu and Kashmir, explains that this ban was aimed at keeping the prices of seeds in check, ensuring that they remain available and accessible to farmers.

Amid disastrous climate events, the mass exit of farmers from saffron farming, and the lack of robust data, figures concerning land under cultivation and production remain disputed.

Also read: The fragile future of Guchi mushrooms

Corms leaving the Valley

“A 100 kg of saffron corms now cost between Rs. 1.5 lakh and Rs. 2 lakh. No farmer can afford seed at that price,” says Abdul Majeed Wani, President of the Jammu & Kashmir Saffron Growers Association. The rise in price is evidenced by the fact that farmers used to buy the same amount of corms for one-tenth the cost in the past; this steep rise is attributed to a decrease in availability of corms, as well as the increased demand from indoor units across India, which employ aeroponic or soilless systems agriculture techniques to grow the spice, typically outside the Valley where the weather conditions aren’t otherwise feasible. 

Wani advocates for the development of corm nurseries by the government, so that farmers who want to revive cultivation can access planting material at affordable prices.

Despite restrictions, growers say corms continue to leave the Valley through road transport networks. “The responsibility also lies with farmers. It is difficult to stop illegal exports when growers can earn significant profits through illicit means,” the Directorate of Agriculture’s Suhail Inamullah says.

Amid uncertain climate conditions, rising production costs, and weak policy support, many women still hold on to the hope that Kashmir’s red gold, and their livelihoods, can survive. 

Also read: The perilous future of Kashmir’s once-abundant trout

Edited by Anushka Mukherjee and Neerja Deodhar

Andrea Pinto, a librarian in Mumbai, felt as if she was “possessed by an alien” when she started experiencing menopause at 55. Besieged by aches and pains, fatigue, bouts of crying and insomnia, she hardly recognised herself anymore.

Pinto’s experience is not an exception: despite the outlandish symptoms it arrives with, there’s little conversation about this drastic bodily change, rues gynaecologist Dr. Tanaaz Bhatt. It is not merely a transition from a reproductive to a non-reproductive phase, as it also has deep social and emotional impacts. “It's like you've never felt this way before, ever in your life. Everybody pays so much emphasis to puberty and pregnancy. But no one talks about perimenopause or menopause,” says Dr. Bhatt, who practices in Mumbai.

While in the West, women hit menopause around 52 to 54 years of age, in India, the age is typically between 45 to 50.

The menopausal population in India was projected to reach 103 million by 2026. Studies also show that Indian women experience menopause earlier. While in the West, women hit menopause around 52 to 54 years of age, in India, the age is typically between 45 to 50, says Dr. Bhatt. 

Not a predictable, straight line

Menopause sets in when a woman has had 12 months of no menstruation, including any spotting. Endocrinologist Dr. Roshani Sanghani explains that this happens when the secretion of two hormones from the ovaries—oestrogen and progesterone—drops to menopausal levels.

But before menopause comes the tumultuous period of perimenopause, when there is a gradual and variable decline in the ovarian hormones. The pituitary gland pumps more FSH (follicle-stimulating hormone) into the system, to try to get the ovaries to respond more, leading to fluctuations. The age of perimenopause can vary, and Dr. Sanghani advises tracking symptoms to check if you are perimenopausal.

There are some women who experience premature menopause, too, between 30 and 35.

Women could be perimenopausal even when they’re observing what looks like a regular, monthly period.

Dr. Sanghani says about perimenopause, “Female hormones don't fall in a straight line. They start fluctuating wildly, going low some months, high some months, which makes it difficult to predict or even catch that a woman is going into perimenopause, because every month does not feel the same.”

This means that women could be perimenopausal even when they’re observing what looks like a regular, monthly period–and this could go on for 5 to 8 years.

Also read: PCOS, now PMOS: A name change to alter a disorder’s perception

Oestrogen, the master controller

Nearly all organs in our bodies have oestrogen receptors. Oestrogen, like all hormones, is a chemical messenger. Released into the bloodstream it travels to various organs which have a protein called oestrogen receptors. It binds to the receptor, and prompts a particular action. Oestrogen governs our moods, bone health, cardiovascular health, digestive systems, memory, and even energy levels. When oestrogen secretion is in a flux, every aspect of life is impacted, making it difficult to navigate the choppy seas of perimenopause. 

Women can develop a range of symptoms, including ‘a menopause belly’. Dr. Bhatt says, “Even though a woman exercises or she eats the same food she has had all her life in an effort to be healthy, she may put on a lot of weight.” She explains that this is a result of erratic metabolism, which leads to the loss of muscle mass in the body. With a decreased ability to burn calories naturally, menopausing women are more likely to gain weight, despite exercising. 

With a decreased ability to burn calories naturally, menopausing women are more likely to gain weight, despite exercising. 

Hormonal fluctuation can lead to crying spells, mood swings, irritability, anger, recurrent urinary tract infections, bladder issues, joint pains, ringing in the ear (tinnitus), vertigo, impaired decision-making, change in heat or cold tolerance, and even change in cognition. A woman may enter a room, or open a cupboard, only to pause and wonder why she did that. This feeling is commonly known as brain fog.

“It feels like the body is slowly disintegrating along with the mind, and you're not in control,” says Ujalaa Chaudhuri, a 45-year old media  professional from Mumbai, who began experiencing perimenopausal symptoms a few months ago. Her menstrual bleeding began seesawing between heavy and light, she started to feel sudden flashes of rage and mood swings. Sleep has become elusive, with insomnia and anxiety occupying her nights and days. She also experiences tingling in her feet, and stiffness in her joints.

Pinto also went through myriad symptoms. Her tolerance for spice went down drastically, and acidity became a frequent occurrence. She found herself unable to stay home by herself for long periods, and different parts of her body started paining. She, too, suffered from insomnia, like Chaudhuri.

On the other hand, Dr. Charuta Mandke, a 49-year-old ophthalmologist in Mumbai–who recently took an online test to examine her experience–is not experiencing severe perimenopausal symptoms. 

That is the tricky part about menopause and perimenopause—symptoms can vary widely, and so can their severity. Dr. Sanghani says that one starts noticing these changes during perimenopause, but they need to be looked at as a whole, instead of assessing them piecemeal. She illustrates this through an example: a woman may go to an ENT specialist for tinnitus and vertigo if she experiences them in her early 40s. But an ENT may not make note of the other symptoms, which could otherwise lead to a diagnosis of perimenopause. “It's about looking at a cluster of symptoms and the patient as a whole,” she adds. She suggests that women keep a symptom diary, so the doctor can take a holistic view of their experiences. Dr. Bhatt also urges that women see a gynaecologist regularly after they turn 35.

Also read: Insulin, explained: The lock-and-key mechanism controlling blood sugar

Medical interventions

There are clinical options which can help women during this stormy period. A treatment which has gained widespread application is the Menopausal Hormonal Treatment (MHT), formerly called HRT. It affords the protection that oestrogen and progesterone offer even after menopause. For a long time, both doctors and patients were wary of this treatment. A study conducted by the National Institutes of Health (NIH) in the US as a part of the Women’s Health Initiative trial, warned that MHT could lead to breast cancer, endometrial cancer, strokes, and other conditions. The study ended in 2002. “But now many studies are coming up, which have shown beyond a doubt that HRT can help,” says Dr. Bhatt.

In administering MHT, the depleting hormones in the body are replaced by external, bioidentical hormones. Oestrogen may be taken orally or applied topically (directly to the skin, body, or vaginal area). Dr. Sanghani adds that women who have not undergone hysterectomies need to take progesterone along with the oestrogen. MHT typically costs upwards of Rs. 1,200 to 2,000 a month in India–this is for the hormones alone. 

The treatment is tailored to the individual patient’s conditions, including starting with getting tested to determine if it is safe and appropriate for the patient. It is crucial to discuss the possible risks and side effects with the doctor before making a decision. It should be taken only under medical guidance, stresses Dr. Mandke, who is considering MHT for herself.

In administering MHT, the depleting hormones in the body are replaced by external, bioidentical hormones.

Dr. Sanghani adds that we now have long-term data of women who've been on the treatment for 10 to 20 years, and there's been no signal to show that it's potentially dangerous. In fact, the FDA has already removed the black box warning (the most stringent safety notice the U.S. Food and Drug Administration requires a prescription drug to state) from MHT, so that doctors now prescribe it with more confidence.

Shaista Vaishnav, an advertising professional, noticed a change in her menstrual pattern when she was 36. She went into perimenopause by 38. Initially, her doctor put her on birth control pills, but also suggested she see a gynaecologist who was an expert in perimenopause and menopause—who further recommended MHT. She has been on MHT for around eight months now, using an oestrogen gel and an orally administered progesterone tablet.

But before she began this treatment, she had in-depth conversations with her doctor, read extensively, and even completed short courses on the subject. Her doctor told her about potential risks—blood clots, and the possibility of a stroke for smokers or people with a sedentary lifestyle. She was also asked to get a yearly sonography and mammography done. Though aware of these risks, she opted for it as her doctor advised that for her, the benefits outweigh the risks, especially due to her early menopause. 

Lifestyle changes

But not everyone chooses MHT, and nor can everyone afford to. Pinto was sure she didn't want to seek medical interventions such as MHT or anti-depressants to treat her symptoms, insteading choosing modalities like naturopathy and homeopathy. In her case, Pinto started experiencing menopausal symptoms during the COVID-19 pandemic, which compounded its effects. What helped was a book called The Change by Germaine Greer, which listed the symptoms she was experiencing–accurately–and made her feel seen and comforted. This was especially important because the older women she had spoken to had dismissed her concerns. She also comforted herself with art, reading, crossword puzzles, and by talking to friends and family. 

Melody D’Souza’s perimenopause, too, coincided with a particularly stressful event in her life. It brought on drastic weight loss, hair fall, body aches, and allergies. She also chose lifestyle changes to cope with it, cutting out white sugar completely as it gave her extreme highs alternating with crashes. Next, she stopped stimulants like tea, coffee and other caffeinated foods. She also diversified her diet, adding different kinds of proteins, millets, and fermented foods. For joint and muscle relief, she practised fascia release techniques, which work on connective tissue.

Also read: India is the world’s pharmacy. How did it become a superbug hotspot?

Mental and physical health

Doctors warn of bone loss and weakening muscles during perimenopause and menopause. Dr. Bhatt cautions that MHT is not enough without  regular exercise and a healthy diet. “Muscles are the new brain,” she adds. Strength training is strongly recommended to prevent muscle loss. Experts are increasingly using the term Musculoskeletal Syndrome of Menopause (MSM) to describe these symptoms. A 2024 review found that over 70% of women experience musculoskeletal symptoms during the menopause transition, with 25% disabled by them. Dr. Bhatt puts the risk of osteoporosis in post-menopausal women even higher, at one in two women.

An oft-neglected part of this period of sea change is mental health. “All women need to be told how to prepare for this much before it even starts,” says Dr. Syeda Ruksheda, a Mumbai-based psychiatrist.

A 2024 review found that over 70% of women experience musculoskeletal symptoms during the menopause transition, with 25% disabled by them.

She says that the oestrogen dip can lead to psychiatric symptoms: for instance, a pre-existing condition such as borderline anxiety can get exaggerated. Even women with no underlying conditions may develop symptoms, most commonly of depression and anxiety, necessitating  intervention, she adds. PMS symptoms also get exaggerated during perimenopause.

She emphasises adopting a healthy lifestyle with adequate sleep, a nutritious diet, and stress management. She also advises women not to ignore symptoms and get them tested, lest they get amplified and affect their quality of life.

The role of family and friends cannot be stressed enough. The menopausal woman is undergoing changes such as tooth and hair loss, pigmentation, weight gain, and even reduced libido and painful intercourse. The family needs to be aware of this, so that they can empathise with her instead of being dismissive, and ensure she gets enough rest. Perhaps the most important part of this journey is acceptance. As Chaudhuri says, “I think there's so much taboo and shame still about these conversations… in truth, there is nothing to be ashamed of.” This milestone needs to be not just accepted, but celebrated.

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