The Plate and the Planet is a monthly column by Dr. Madhura Rao, a food systems researcher and science communicator, exploring the connection between the food on our plates and the future of our planet.

Across India, it is not uncommon to find people relying on nature and its signs to determine the course of their own actions, from farmers predicting monsoon showers by observing the movement of ants, to herders navigating pasture routes based on the flowering patterns of local trees. Practices, skills, and insights that emerge from a community’s long-standing relationship with its environment, often passed down through generations, are referred to as traditional knowledge. The term is often used interchangeably with ‘Indigenous knowledge’, particularly in contexts where settler communities form the majority of the population, such as in the US or parts of Latin America. In these settings, Indigenous communities are typically recognised as the primary custodians of place-based knowledge systems.

However, in the Indian context, the distinction is less clear-cut. Much of what is termed traditional knowledge is held not only by constitutionally recognised Indigenous communities (Adivasis), but also by a wide range of rural and agrarian communities who have co-evolved with their local environments over centuries. Therefore, for the purpose of this column, I use the term ‘traditional knowledge’ as an inclusive umbrella that encompasses the diverse, place-based knowledge systems developed and sustained by both Indigenous and non-Indigenous communities over generations.

Traditional knowledge vs. science 

In mainstream discourse, science typically refers to Western science—a system of knowledge production that privileges measurement, objectivity, and replicability. Built on principles of observation, experimentation, and statistical inference, it has yielded extraordinary insights into the natural world. It is, however, not the only way of knowing. Traditional knowledge, in contrast, emerges from long-term, lived engagement with particular landscapes. It is often transmitted orally, embedded in cultural rituals, and carried forward through everyday practices. 

The two knowledge systems differ not only in method, but also in worldview. Western science often draws boundaries between the empirical and the spiritual, and the observer and the observed. Traditional knowledge tends to be holistic, integrating material, moral, and metaphysical understandings of the world. This divergence, shaped by colonial histories that privileged European systems of knowledge while actively suppressing others, has led to the devaluation and erosion of traditional knowledge in our societies over time. 

Western science often draws boundaries between the empirical and the spiritual, and the observer and the observed. Traditional knowledge tends to be holistic, integrating material, moral, and metaphysical understandings of the world.

Indian agriculture’s divergence from tradition

Agriculture in India has a 10,000-year-old history. Traditional knowledge systems related to food, farming, and land management have evolved over millennia, closely attuned to local ecologies and cultural practices. But despite this rich inheritance of place-based knowledge, Indian agriculture has steadily shifted away from these practices over the past two centuries. This departure is rooted in a complex web of historical, economic, and political forces, beginning with colonialism and continuing through post-Independence development policies.

Under British rule, Indian agriculture was reshaped to serve imperial interests. A system of exploitative land taxation, combined with the expansion of railways–and thus, access to markets– incentivised farmers to abandon biodiverse, subsistence-oriented polycultures like bajra, legumes and pulses in favour of monocultures of cash crops such as cotton, jute, indigo, and opium. In the second half of the 19th century, these shifts not only displaced food crops like millets, but also eroded the role of local ecological knowledge in shaping farming practices.

A second major transformation came with the Green Revolution of the 1960s and 70s. Introduced as a solution to food shortages, it promoted high-yielding varieties of wheat and rice, supported by state subsidies for fertilisers, pesticides, and irrigation. These new varieties produced nearly 3-4 times more yield than the traditional wheat and rice crops–at nearly 4 tonnes per hectare, over a shorter cycle. So, while this model boosted short-term productivity, it created dependence on chemical inputs, reduced crop diversity, and displaced traditional practices such as intercropping, seed saving, and organic fertilisation. As subsidies declined, smallholder farmers, who form the backbone of Indian agriculture, became increasingly burdened by debt and lacked access to affordable credit or secure land tenure.

Indian agriculture today finds itself at a critical juncture. It is shaped by decades of structural dependence, yet there is growing awareness of the ecological and nutritional costs of marginalising knowledge systems that were once central to its sustainability. The shift toward input-intensive staple crops has depleted soils, drained groundwater, and introduced harmful pesticide residues into the food supply, while displacing diverse, traditionally grown foods—making nutritious diets increasingly unaffordable and out of reach for much of the population. The current food system may deliver in quantity but falters in quality, with long-term consequences for both public health and ecological resilience.

Also read: The circular bioeconomy movement can change how we see waste

Can traditional wisdom inform innovation?

In recent years, a number of initiatives have shown that traditional knowledge and science need not exist in opposition. When approached with mutual respect and institutional support, they can work in tandem to create food systems that are both ecologically sound and socially just.

The UN Food and Agriculture Organization’s Future Smart Foods (FSF) project, launched in 2018, offers an important example. The initiative aims to diversify food systems by identifying and promoting underutilised crops that are rich in nutrients, climate-resilient, economically viable, and locally available. West Bengal was one of the regions included in the effort. The process involved mapping agrobiodiversity by drawing on both scientific literature and consultations with local communities, helping to identify a range of crops that had long been part of local food cultures but were largely absent from mainstream agricultural policy. Some foods identified as part of this exercise include black rice (kalonunia), swamp taro, elephant foot yam (ol kachu), jackfruit, and moringa pods (drumsticks). Low input requirements and a strong tolerance to climate fluctuations make these foods especially suitable for smallholder cultivation. Based on this local knowledge, the FSF initiative compiled a set of priority crops now recognised as vital for enhancing dietary diversity, supporting livelihoods, and building resilience.

Indian agriculture today finds itself at a critical juncture. It is shaped by decades of structural dependence, yet there is growing awareness of the ecological and nutritional costs of marginalising knowledge systems that were once central to its sustainability.

A similar convergence of science and traditional knowledge can be seen in the popularisation of millets. Long ignored in national food policy, these climate-smart grains are once again being recognised for their nutritional value and cultural significance. Scientific research has helped validate their role in addressing malnutrition and supporting sustainable agriculture, leading to renewed policy attention–for instance, including Ragi, or finger millet, in public distribution systems and school meal programmes. The recent declaration of 2023 as the International Year of Millets by the United Nations marked a turning point in how these traditional crops are being reframed through both scientific and policy lenses.

The case of Sikkim, India’s first fully organic state, is another example that demonstrates how traditional agri-food knowledge can be supported and scaled through institutional mechanisms. Many farmers in the region had long relied on low-input, ecologically attuned practices such as  mulching with forest litter and crop residues, intercropping herbs like ginger and turmeric with staples such as buckwheat, beans, and tapioca to improve soil resilience, and using plant-based pest deterrents like neem and agave extracts. Farmers also practised nutrient cycling using forest biomass and employed terrace farming and local water diversion channels to prevent erosion and excessive run offs. 

The state’s organic policy, implemented over more than a decade, built upon this foundation by phasing out chemical fertilisers and pesticides, introducing organic certification, and offering training and subsidies. The policy helped legitimise traditional practices within formal systems, creating new economic and social value for local knowledge. Agricultural scientists worked alongside farmer networks, helping to document and refine existing techniques, while the state facilitated access to organic markets. 

However, the transition has not been without its challenges. Many farmers report declining yields for key crops like rice, maize, pulses, vegetables, and grains as pest management methods have proven insufficient and government support inconsistent. Organic inputs and training have not reached all cultivators, and critical data on pest attacks is lacking. And while the ‘organic’ label was expected to command higher prices, most farmers cannot access premium markets and remain dependent on middlemen. Certification costs are high, and commercial crops often receive policy preference over traditional food crops. Many also expressed dissatisfaction with the state's top-down approach, noting a lack of meaningful participation and democratic decision-making in the transition process.

Also read: The promises—and perils—of Indian aquaculture

Re-imagining what expertise looks like

A meaningful revival of traditional knowledge would require more than symbolic gestures or archival preservation. It would involve creating the conditions for these knowledge systems to be valued, practised, and allowed to evolve on their own terms; not as supplements to science, but as legitimate ways of understanding and engaging with the world. 

At present, the integration of traditional knowledge into formal systems remains uneven and often tokenistic. Communication barriers, conceptual mismatches, and deep-seated power imbalances continue to limit meaningful collaboration. Knowledge is frequently extracted from communities, decontextualised, and repackaged within scientific or policy frameworks, with little regard for the social, spiritual, or ethical dimensions from which it originates. 

Reviving traditional knowledge also means addressing the political and structural forces that have marginalised it. This includes recognising how colonial legacies, existing trade regimes, corporate hegemony, and gendered and caste-based power relations have shaped who gets to be seen as a knowledge holder. In many agroecological settings, women and caste-oppressed communities play a critical role in sustaining traditional knowledge. Yet their access to land, finance, and decision-making remains constrained. As Indian agriculture faces the twin challenges of feeding a growing population and adapting to climate change, it is essential to value the perspectives and knowledge that these communities bring to the table. Supporting their leadership should not be seen as an act of charity but a necessary step toward building a resilient, future-proof food system.

A meaningful revival must begin with the active involvement of knowledge holders in shaping research agendas, policies, and educational curriculums. Traditional knowledge should be documented through scientific but participatory methods that centre community voices and consent, rather than extractive research practices. Legal protections must be strengthened to prevent the appropriation or commercial exploitation of traditional knowledge without fair compensation. Public procurement programmes and agri-food subsidies should be restructured to support diverse, low-input farming systems rooted in local knowledge. And finally, a revival must be grounded in institutional humility—an openness to sharing authority and redefining what counts as expertise in the first place.

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Illustration by: Kaushani Mufti

Editor’s note: The last two decades have been witness to the rapid and devastating march of unchecked urbanisation and climate change in India’s cities. Among the first victims of this change is freshwater and access to it—from rivers which sustained local ecosystems, to lakes and groundwater which quenched the thirst of residents. In this series, the Good Food Movement examines the everyday realities of neglect and pollution. It documents the vanishing and revival of water bodies, and community action that made a difference.

In an ever-expanding city of 1.4 crore people, where food, language, and socioeconomic class can range wildly from district to district, no question animates the entirety of Bengaluru quite like this one, even if the danger is not the same for everyone. 

In 2024, the city was reminded of just how close it lives to disaster. Around 40% of Bengaluru relies on groundwater, which plummeted after little rain fell in 2023 and the early months of 2024. Roughly half of the city’s 13,900 borewells ran dry. Private tanker trucks jacked up their prices, forcing residents to pool their cash to buy water just so they could shower every other day.

Even the city’s wealthy residents started using their own bathrooms sparingly, showering at work or at nearby gyms. Those who rely on piped water from the Kaveri River were better off–but they, too, were told to use only wastewater when watering their plants.

The onset of rains in late 2024 and early 2025 has prevented a repeat of the crisis this year, but the base condition of Bengaluru’s water supply is nonetheless getting worse. Still, if the city got through last year largely unscathed, what would it take to bring about a genuine catastrophe? Is there a point at which Bengaluru could actually run out of water? 

If you’re looking for a specific date, you’re going to be disappointed–but the randomness of the actual answer is only a little less concerning. For Bengaluru, a water crisis is never more than a few fallen dominoes away.

Also read: The grave personal cost of pesticide use

Shrinking green cover, unchecked development

Like most other cities in India, Bengaluru’s water supply (or lack thereof) hinges primarily on rainfall. There’s evidence that climate change has actually delivered more rain to the city than it would otherwise have received over the past few years–but this rain often comes in rough torrents that are difficult for the Kaveri and the earth to absorb, as opposed to steady showers that lead to a stable recharge and supply. 

Rampant and unplanned development has not helped. The Kaveri’s water comes from the Western Ghats, where the expansion of coffee plantations and tourist resorts has ripped up so many trees that the ground funneling water into the river can no longer hold much moisture, according to Krishna Raj, a water supply expert at the Institute for Social and Economic Change.

Rain can’t refresh groundwater at the rate it’s being extracted, because the rain simply can’t find the ground.

Chaotic, unplanned development is also an enormous problem for Bengalurueans who get their water from underneath their feet. Bengaluru’s population has exploded since the turn of the millennium, and the city has responded by expanding like an overflowing lake. In 2007, administrators inflated the official size of the city to encompass all the new communities popping up in the outskirts, which were even less planned than the old ones. A lot of these newly included areas were “revenue layouts”—areas that were originally agricultural land that hadn’t been formally converted to residential use. So, at the time, none of these districts had access to a piped water supply. 

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Private tankers filled this gap, plundering groundwater in an ever-expanding radius and selling it to residents at prices that go up as water levels go down. Groundwater is replenishable, but an estimated 93% of the city’s earth will be paved over with asphalt or concrete by the end of 2025. Bengaluru’s green cover has also shriveled from 68% in the 1970s down to just 3% today. Rain can’t refresh groundwater at the rate it’s being extracted, because the rain simply can’t find the ground. It flows down streets and tries to escape through overwhelmed stormwater drains, which is why parts of the city flood about 20 minutes into a decent downpour. 

Also read: RTI Act: A powerful tool in fighting hunger

Unsustainable reliance on groundwater

It’s easy to think of groundwater as an infinite resource. We can’t see it, and officials who have the tools to measure groundwater and its extraction just aren’t doing it accurately. Earlier this year, for instance, the Bangalore Water Supply and Sewerage Board (BWSSB) reported that extraction is at 800 million litres per day (MLD), while an independent report identified it as 1,392 MLD. There is also a severe lack of adequate monitoring systems and manpower that can span the intricate network of borewells in the city.

What we do know is that groundwater levels are nosediving. According to KC Subhash Chandra, an urban groundwater management expert who used to work for Karnataka’s Department of Mines and Geology, borewells are now being drilled beyond depths of 500 meters. Borewells that deep have likely dug 100-200 meters into Bengaluru’s layer of hard rock, which means they are sucking up possibly ancient water from an underground region that probably can’t be replenished within many human lifetimes. 

Even if the water below the city never dries up, pulling it to the surface will cost more and more money, which will make it increasingly difficult for residents to afford. 

“If the extraction and mining of groundwater is taking place continuously, about three-four times more than the recharge, then naturally there will not be any water,” Chandra says. The city is consistently extracting water from the ground at an unsustainable rate: in 2023, extraction was reported to be over 1300 MLD, when nature only replenishes 148 MLD through green spaces and water bodies. Even if the water below the city never dries up, pulling it to the surface will cost more and more money, which will make it increasingly difficult for residents to afford. 

Groundwater can also be a dangerous thing to rely on even before it begins to run out. Most lakes in Bengaluru are clouded with sewage, and some tankers draw their groundwater from wells that rely on those lakes for their supply, according to Priyanka Jamwal, a water quality expert at the Ashoka Trust for Research in Ecology and the Environment. "People don’t have any option,” Jamwal says. “Even if groundwater is contaminated, what do we do?”

The prescriptions for these problems are all things you’ve probably read before. Developers should stop chopping down trees in parts of the Western Ghats that are important to the Kaveri. Apartments, hotels, houses, and other buildings should all be fitted with rainwater storage tanks, and the government should make sure that this actually happens. Lakes need to be allowed to expand into areas that have been paved over, and they should be cleaned up so that the water seeping underground is safe to drink. Several experts were at pains to point out that Bengaluru actually gets enough water to satisfy the demands of its booming population–for one, through a stormwater flow of nearly 17,500 hectare metres of rainwater every monsoon season. It just wastes the vast majority of it. 

It would be easy to invoke a sense of urgency about all this if the city’s water supply had a definitive endpoint, but the nebulousness of the truth is in some ways more frightening. 

Also read: The circular bioeconomy movement can change how we see waste

Bengaluru’s water supply is threatened by a range of problems, and these problems can compound at any time to plunge the city into crisis. Let’s say Bengaluru gets very little rain in 2026. People on the outskirts will have to drill more borewells to compensate, depleting the groundwater supply even further. The city manages to get through the year, but 2027 also brings hardly any rain. A few big storms dump massive amounts of water on the city in a matter of hours, but almost all of it rushes off the pavement and into polluted sewers. Borewells were already drying up, and now they are failing at catastrophic rates. The city can’t dig enough new wells to keep up with demand, and suddenly, that demand includes the center of the city, because the piped water supply from the Kaveri is failing. Decades of deforestation have dried out the river’s supply of water, and two years of little rain have turned the artery of South India into a shriveled creek. Bottled water becomes Bengaluru’s last resort, but prices are so high that only the wealthy can afford to stock up, and even they soon struggle to find any.

Bengaluru will not necessarily run out of water in five, 10, or even 100 years, but so long as the city wastes its supply, the possibility of running dry will never be more than a few years away. 

Illustration by: Kaushani Mufti

Produced by Nevin Thomas and Neerja Deodhar

Editor's note: Every farmer who tills the land is an inextricable part of the Indian agriculture story. Some challenge convention, others uplift their less privileged peers, others still courageously pave the way for a more organic, sustainable future. All of them feed the country. In this series, the Good Food Movement highlights the lives and careers of pioneers in Indian agriculture—cultivators, seed preservers, collective organisers and entrepreneurs.

A chameleon rests on the back of a couch; children wander in and out of rooms; and a dog, upon whom tiger stripes have been painted by the children, prances around playfully. At Babulal Dahiya’s home in Madhya Pradesh’s Pithaurabad, which doubles up as a museum of forgotten agricultural tools and traditional cooking utensils, the pace is anything but slow. A crow lands on the porch from time to time, while a few sparrows—a rare sight in India’s cities— chirp away. Outside, cows and their calves peek through the entrance.

An otherwise narrow, quiet lane in the Unchahara tehsil of Satna district turns lively on the early April afternoon when we visit Dahiya. The 83-year-old farmer, poet and retired postmaster is the beating heart of this neighbourhood. He is also a recipient of the Padma Shri (2019), India’s fourth-highest civilian award, for his contributions to agriculture—particularly to organic farming and the conservation of indigenous crop varieties.

When Dahiya speaks, he blends personal memory with documented and undocumented fact, offering a perspective shaped by decades of working in fields, writing, and collecting grassroots knowledge. His home and life reflect a vision where culture, ecology, and rural identity continue to inform each other. As a writer who nurtured a long association with the Adivasi Lok Kala Academy—an MP state initiative to promote tribal culture—Dahiya has published detailed studies on the Kol and Khairwar communities backed by extensive research.

The octogenarian is frail; he climbs up a flight of stairs to show us the three rooms he has turned into a museum, which leaves him momentarily breathless. He pauses to rest before slowly resuming, carefully walking this writer through the many objects and memories he has preserved over the years.

“I inherited farming,” he says, as we sit down to talk, “We have been farmers for generations. My father practised agriculture, as did my grandfather before him.” As a boy of eight or nine, he was sent to another town to study, returning home only during fasli chutti [harvest holidays]. It was the early years of India’s independence. “Back then, we had harvest holidays from Dussehra to Diwali—nearly 28 days long. I would do everything that children could do to help,” he recalls, "Hum ek mah chidiyon ki takai aur dhan ki gahai karte the aur damri chalate the. [For a month, I used to guard the crops from birds, pound the paddy, and operate the manual threshing device]."

Observing these fields became a form of education for a young Dahiya. He revisits memories of how sorghum was often intercropped with lentils and other staples like green gram, black gram, pigeon pea, sesame, and kenaf. Those early experiences, he believes, taught him more about agriculture than any textbook could—simple yet rarely documented lessons such as which crop attracts which species of bird or animal. Parrots, for instance, were known to go straight for the sorghum. 

He says in jest, “Kauwe ka rang kaala hota hai, ye humko padhkar nahi pata chala. Woh humko kauwe ko dekhkar pata chala. [I didn’t learn that a crow’s plumage is black by reading it in a book. I learned it by seeing the crow].”

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

The decline of indigenous crops

The passage of time made Dahiya witness to the drastic changes and losses the surrounding ecosystem was undergoing. But the loss that felt most personal was of indigenous rice varieties—which faced the highest risk. His family farmed on two plots: one in Pithaurabad, and another in Birpur, three kilometres away. Through his chronicling of folklore, he saw how traditional mixed cropping was being replaced by monocultures. “The farms and fields weren’t as colourful as they used to be,” says Dahiya, recalling the decline of diverse dhan (rice) varieties.

This shift came about a decade after the Green Revolution. It was the introduction of IR-8, a high-yield rice strain developed by the International Rice Research Institute, in 1967—first introduced in Andhra Pradesh, and later across the country—that marked a turning point in India’s farming history.

Dahiya acknowledges the necessity of the Green Revolution in its time. “The country struggled with famine and diseases such as smallpox, malaria, and plague. We needed a stronger food system. I adopted its principles, too. But, as the saying goes, ‘Science is a blessing, but beyond a point, it can become a curse,’” he adds. 

No one anticipated the long-term effects of what was deemed a ‘revolution’. “Puri ki puri dhane khatam ho gayee [The entire stock of traditional rice varieties disappeared]. It was a blessing until the 1990s.” By the mid-to-late 1990s, he realised the urgent need to preserve native rice seeds. This marked the beginning of the work he is known and recognised for: beginning with 15 varieties, by the late 2000s, he had collected 110, and now his bank boasts of around 200.

While walking this writer past rows of seed jars, Dahiya pauses at certain varieties, opens a jar and spreads the grains in his creased palm. He explains their traits patiently, peeling back the husk to show the grain inside. He picks Galari, named for its husk that resembles a myna’s eye—rounded, bordered, and striking. Then he reaches out for Kalavati, a black rice with long spikes and a rough husk; inside is a dark brown grain with a lighter tip, akin to a glinting bead. “These are nature’s marvels,” he notes, referring to their diverse qualities and their ability to thrive in different conditions.

In a handmade booklet, he writes: “Like soybean, it’s hard to trace when or where a grain originated... But we can confidently say paddy is the oldest grain in our country... Today, there are many hybrid varieties developed through research. But in ancient times, it wasn’t scientists who discovered them, but farming ancestors who brought them from the forests into fields. The wild ancestors are gone; what remains, survives only with farmers. That’s why saving traditional varieties matters... If even one disappears, so do its traits preserved for thousands of years in tune with this land’s ecology.”

Suresh Dahiya, a journalist and the veteran farmer’s son, talks about a variety called Saathi or Sathiya, known for its short growth cycle. It typically ripens within 60 days of planting—the characteristic that gave it the name. “This makes it ideal for regions with short growing seasons or water scarcity, such as Bundelkhand and parts of Uttar Pradesh. It’s also useful for farmers aiming for multiple harvests a year,” he explains.

“The seed bank is regularly visited by farmers across the country,” Suresh says. “Most come looking for specific seeds—rice or wheat varieties. Some, like the rice variety, Ram Bhog, are both popular and hard to find now. There are about 15 such varieties.” Farmers from faraway villages and towns also write in to request seeds, which are gladly dispatched to them by Dahiya and Suresh, with the courier cost covered by the recipient.

Conservation costs run deep

“The work he was doing was important, and he had the support of our whole family,” says Suresh. Over the last three years, the 59-year-old has taken over his father’s seed-saving effort. While two acres of their farmland in Pithaurabad are reserved for seed preservation, the remaining five are leased out on batai basis (sharecropping). “We grow 25 wheat varieties,” Suresh says, pointing to the ripening stalks.

It takes an investment of Rs 5,000–7,000 per season to grow wheat, he notes, but preserving over 200 rice varieties has become a far more expensive project—around Rs 60,000 per season in recent years. This cost is not just due to the larger number of paddy varieties, but also the technical demands of rice cultivation, which calls for more water, labour, and care—especially since each traditional variety has its own distinct sowing and harvesting cycle.

Financial aid for Dahiya’s conservation efforts has been minimal. Around 2010, the Madhya Pradesh Rajya Jaiv Vividhta Board/Madhya Pradesh State Biodiversity Board helped set up the seed bank, but beyond that, state support has been scarce. For over two decades, Dahiya has sustained his work through an NGO, the Srajan Samajik Sanskritik Evam Sahityik Manch.

“We receive some funds, but they barely cover the basics. We often dip into our own pockets,” Suresh admits. Sadly, Dahiya’s Padma Shri honour has not moved the needle on this front. What’s more disheartening, he says, is that despite growing research backing traditional and organic farming, the larger agricultural ecosystem still prioritises high yield over awareness and sustainability.

Also read: How an Alappuzha coir exporter nurtured a one-acre forest

The ‘yield’ dilemma

A persistent obsession with higher yields has—and continues to—do more harm than people realise, Dahiya says. He recalls memories of a 2012 exhibition in Delhi where he showcased 110 native rice varieties: a group of scientists, including plant geneticist and agronomist M.S. Swaminathan, visited his stall. One of them asked, “Which variety delivers the highest yield?” Dahiya explained that traditional rice varieties often yield about 80–85% in the first year, drop to 25–30% in the second, and give nearly nothing by the third if seeds are reused. “That’s how it has worked for thousands of years,” he told the group, “They’ve survived (all these years) because they’re strong in other ways—by adapting to the soil, warding off pests and surviving the seasons. If you chase only yield, you’ll kill off these crops in three years.” Some of the scientists were embarrassed by their line of inquiry, while Swaminathan smiled at his comment, Dahiya says.

Unlike modern high-yielding varieties (HYVs) introduced in India during the Green Revolution, which often demand new seed stock each season in order to perform well, traditional landraces (old, local crop types that farmers have saved for eons) are more resilient to local conditions, but may see some natural decline if not carefully selected and saved. The exchange, Dahiya felt, underlined a deeper tension: between sustainable seed saving practices and the push for uniform, industrial-scale production that has steadily eroded biodiversity. The problem has grown multifold since Dahiya’s interaction with the scientists.

The resultant fallout

“Look at what this race for higher yields has led to. Our water is gone, the trees and plants have dried up, even orchards have withered. We’re living under a curse. The consequences are so far-reaching that our villages have been cut off from the larger economy. Crop prices have crashed,” Dahiya rebukes. It’s not just farmers who have suffered; the livelihoods of agricultural labourers, too, have declined. A plunge in income levels has made them flee to cities, he remarks.

“Agriculture today belongs to the seths [capitalists],” he says. This is in stark contrast to how things were in the past, when a sense of collectivism brought together a village; where grain was shared with the oil presser, cobbler, blacksmith, carpenter—all those who supported the farmer in return. What remained with the farmer was sold or bartered in the town.

Now, Dahiya rues, every step a farmer takes is controlled by a different seth in the system. Seed agents, fuel suppliers, fertiliser sellers, pesticide dealers, harvest contractors, and middlemen at the market. “Like the cow whose milk is sold, and whose calf gets only a measly 20%, the farmer is left with next to nothing.”

The problem, he says, goes beyond those who work in the fields. With the industrialisation of agriculture, the many professions that once directly supported farming—such as carpenters, blacksmiths, and weavers—have been disappearing, as have the tools they fashioned and used. Carpenters don’t make mogris (pestles) or dedhas (traditional ploughs) anymore. “This is why I began putting together and preserving over 300 farming objects and tools in my museum,” he says.

The process of collecting these objects has been long and slow. When people heard about Dahiya’s vision, some came forward with the tools and items now displayed in the museum. Other exhibits had to be specially made. Dahiya had to find workers who possessed the skills  to create replicas while knowledge about the tools was still available. “Only about 20 percent of what you see in the museum is still in use,” he says. “Most of the stone tools, especially, have gone out of use entirely.” The one that can still be found in homes is the pichkariya—a small, rounded stone used to lightly crush cooked dal. Dahiya also draws our attention to wooden implements like the khat-khata (tied around the neck of cattle), dhera (used to tie cattle ropes) and ghota (a cylindrical tool used to administer medicine to animals).

In one corner, an old kolhu stands upside down. Dahiya shows it to us with pride and explains how the traditional oil press worked—where the presser stood, where the bull was tied, where the oil dripped from, and how the whole system came together. He has been trying to get a palki made for a few years now. “But the workers who could make one are either too old now, or have passed away. Their children never learned the craft—not even enough to make a sample.”

The museum sees at least one visitor every day. Sometimes, a few school buses show up and suddenly, there are hundreds of children walking around, surprised by things they’ve never seen before. “Some have suggested that I should move the museum out of my house,” he says, “but that would require more space and more funds.”

Where literature and agricultural wisdom meet

Literature intrigued Dahiya as he grew up. Writing in the Bagheli dialect across fiction and non-fiction, he has documented traditional ballads and idioms tied to tribal festivals and farming. One saying he often quotes is about kargi, an endangered and traditional variety of rice. “Dhaan boye kargi, suar khaaye na samdhi.” Its black husk is covered in spines, making it unpalatable to wild boars (an ongoing problem in forested farming areas)—and unsuitable for serving to in-laws or guests, who are traditionally offered fine white rice varieties like Vishnu Bhog, as a mark of respect.

More age-old proverbs followed in our conversation. “Teen paak do paani, pak aayin kutuk rani,” he recites, referring to how little millet (kutki) ripens with just two spells of rain in three fortnights. “Sama jetha ann kahaye, sab anaaj se aage aaye,” describes sama (also little millet) as the eldest grain, ready to harvest in just 45 days. “Sagman, sarahi, dahiman, rana…assi baras na hoye purana,” compares kodo millet (rana, the ‘king of grains’) to sturdy timbers like sagwaan (teak), sarahi (Indian Kino) and dahiman (Indian laurel), all said to last 80 years without ageing.

Also watch: How women in this tiny Naga village are safeguarding local seeds

Building for the future

During a seed-saving drive in 2017, Dahiya travelled across 40 districts in Madhya Pradesh. “He would stay overnight with farmers to learn about their lives and problems,” says Suresh. This journey significantly expanded their seed bank. One friend, Ram Lotan Kushwaha, contributed over 32 varieties of lauki (bottle gourd), more than two dozen types of brinjal, and at least 15 tomato varieties from his farm.

Yet, a return to traditional practices remains a steep, uphill task. “We work on a small scale because we’re driven. There’s no policy support, no larger framework to connect these efforts. But it is urgent,” says Suresh. Sourcing and hunting for traditional grains is harder than ever, he adds. “Fifteen or twenty years ago, you could still get your hands on a few. Now, it’s nearly impossible.”

Dahiya finds this development extremely concerning. “India has a growing reliance on merely three grains—rice, wheat, and maize, of which high-yield varieties are preferred.” Not only has the disappearance of coarse grains (mote anaaj) narrowed the scope of people’s diets, but it has also contributed to a rise in lifestyle diseases such as diabetes and obesity. “Previously, people had ‘family doctors’. Now, in order to reclaim their health, they need ‘family farmers’—trusted cultivators who can grow organic, local grains for them,” he says with a chuckle. As Suresh takes forward the work he began, Dahiya remains hopeful—not all will be lost.

Produced by Nevin Thomas and Neerja Deodhar

Keshwari is a 32-year-old married woman who is employed as a sanitation worker. She was brought to Delhi from the Bhagalpur village in Bihar, to earn a living and support her family. While in Delhi, she was diagnosed with kidney stones by her family doctor and advised to get surgery.

In her neighbourhood’s Mohalla Clinic, Keshwari sits back after another spell of dizziness—a frequent sign of her weakness. Her surgery was extremely expensive, and treatment had been visibly delayed. But she is not in the clinic for herself—she needs to get her son vaccinated. She doesn’t trust the city’s doctors. “There’s no support here; who would help if something went wrong?” Keshwari doesn’t plan on returning to Bhagalpur in the near future. As for her health, it is another sacrifice she is willing to make. 

Haseena Begum, a 40-year-old married woman, has worked in a public hospital in Malviya Nagar all through the COVID-19 pandemic. Last year, after four months of excessive bleeding during her menstrual cycles, Begum knew something wasn’t right. She took the day off from work and travelled to a government hospital in South Delhi, still bleeding heavily. “ I didn’t want to go,” admits Begum. “I am shy and I don't like the way they touch me.”

When she did see the doctor, her experience didn’t quiet her anxieties. “She barely looked at me. I told her I was uncomfortable with getting a check-up, I had never had a doctor [gynaecologist] check me before. She started to scold me, saying that I was wasting her time.” Eventually, Begum went to a local pir (spiritual guide), who gave her ‘healing water’ to alleviate her symptoms; she hasn’t been to a doctor since. When this writer asks her why, she says, “Humein aur kuch nahi chahiye, sirf pyaar se baat karein. [I’m not asking for much, only to be addressed kindly].

These incidents are not isolated. 

For the first time in ten years, the rate of hospitalisation in India has fallen. Data from National Sample Surveys conducted in the last decade show that in 2014, India had 31.5 hospitalisations for every 1,000 people. By 2017-18, this number fell to 28. This may seem optimistic, but experts caution that it only points to a decline in the utilisation of public healthcare services. Fewer people are visiting public healthcare centres—a reality complicated by another gaping statistic: fewer women are seeking medical treatment from these centres.

More women are paying out-of-pocket at private healthcare centres, raking in debt. They are turning to alternative medicine, or simply avoiding diagnosis and treatment until it's too late.

The skewed sex ratio of patients in public hospital registers like AIIMS point to ‘missing women’. While these realities have played out in the foreground, cancer-related mortalities in India have increased specifically among women in the last decade.

So, where do the ailing women of this country go? More women are paying out-of-pocket at private healthcare centres, raking in debt. They are turning to alternative medicine, or simply avoiding diagnosis and treatment until it's too late. This is happening for myriad reasons, many of which culminate into one glaring truth: women are losing trust in Delhi’s public healthcare system. 

In a study conducted jointly by AIIMS—the largest tertiary care hospital in India—and the Harvard Medical Centre in 2016, the authors went through the outpatient records at AIIMS for the entire year of 2016, and found an eerie gap. Only 37% of the patients were women, against 63% men. This suggests a sex ratio of 1.69, whereas the average sex ratio of the populations that they served was 1.09. Ideally, both these numbers should be consistent. The data showed a whole chunk of ‘missing’ women, suggesting that there may be a significant percentage of women who just don’t visit the hospital at all—and don’t get access to healthcare in the process.  

Apart from systemic issues of financial dependence, community taboos, and a general lack of awareness about women’s bodies, there seems to be another reason why women remain inconsistent in accessing healthcare. A factor that persists even after these barriers are removed: a lack of trust grounded in disrespectful care. Much of this begins with the dents in the country’s health infrastructure. 

The disappearance of primary healthcare

For instance, an over-dependence on secondary and tertiary healthcare institutions have left urban populations bereft of local clinics, where they could build trust with the medical staff. 

In Delhi, schemes like the Mohalla Clinic programme—launched by the Aam Aadmi Party government in 2015—had helped bridge this gap to an extent. Studies show that these clinics did lead to increased annual patient visits and relief for larger public health institutions, especially with respect to patients from lower-income groups. But with news of recent closures of the clinics, the gaps in primary healthcare may widen once again.

Public health experts suggest that the issue is the paucity of public healthcare at the primary level, which leads to secondary and tertiary institutions like AIIMS and Delhi’s Safdarjung Hospital absorbing the pressure. “Primary Health Centres (PHCs) were part of the rural imagination, and when these areas became urbanised rapidly, such centers couldn’t cater to the high density of the population. The urban primary health care system requires some rethinking,” says Dr. Nandita Bhan, a professor at the OP Jindal’s School of Public Health in Sonipat.

Despite being the national capital, Delhi’s public healthcare system is a microcosm of the country’s medical framework—overwhelmed, stretched for resources, and unevenly distributed.

Primary healthcare in Delhi was envisaged with schemes like the Mahila Mohalla Clinic programme. They intended to ease access of patients, thus also increasing detectability of health issues—particularly women’s cancer and other gynaecological issues. 

However, as suggested by a 2017 report, only about 2.9% of the 1020 women studied had undergone cervical cancer screening in the capital. Mridu Gupta, CEO of CAPED India, a cancer awareness non-profit in Gurgaon, suggests that women’s lack of access to healthcare isn’t linear. “For women to have trust, they must have some autonomy over their bodies—dependence on male members of the family to even visit clinics or get tested and, a lack of awareness about their own bodies often pushes them to first try out household nuskas to manage symptoms before they even approach a doctor.” The situation worsens when hospitals are ill-equipped to care for women, lacking female doctors or adequate time and resources to effectively deal with these maladies. “Especially when women present with heavy bleeding or extreme pain, male doctors tend to dismiss them as simply period symptoms,” Gupta adds. 

Despite being the national capital, Delhi’s public healthcare system is a microcosm of the country’s medical framework—overwhelmed, stretched for resources, and unevenly distributed. Dr. Bhan adds, “With women’s health, we often see delays in testing and formal diagnoses since they choose to access informal or traditional care facilities which may not be fully medically adept at handling their conditions.”

Also read: How food inflation is squeezing Indian households

Trust and reproductive health 

Research on disrespectful care in India has only recently come to be explored, focusing on maternity care in the North-East and Uttar Pradesh. Sonam and Babita, two government sweepers in their late 30s, have been residents of Sardar Nagar in West Delhi all their lives. After the deliveries of their children at a public hospital in the city, the duo has not stepped foot in the institution again. “It was my first child and I was clueless—all I was told was that I should come to the hospital when I had labour pains. They didn’t even do an ultrasound to see that my baby was stuck in the umbilical cord; eventually I needed a cesarean delivery,” Babita claims. 

These experiences left them feeling disrespected and uncared for. The hours after their deliveries did not provide much relief either. Without stitches, in pain and covered in blood, they lay there for hours. Since then, both Sonam and Babita prefer to go to private clinics in their neighbourhood, when they can afford it. Their examples echo a larger trend: nearly 79% of outpatient visits, particularly in urban areas, are catered to by private facilities—leading to high out-of-pocket expenditures. For many women, the cost of being heard was a cost worth bearing. 

Dr. Jyoti Sharma of the Indian Institute of Public Health (IIPH) raised the issue of screening for cervical and breast cancer. “We see women being diagnosed in the second or third stage, after having heavy bleeding for months.” According to the National Health Profile 2019, there were approximately 60,078 deaths due to cervical cancer in India in 2018. Additionally, an estimated 87,000 women died from breast cancer in India in 2020, with Delhi accounting for the highest number of cases in North India. Dr. Bhan added, “This may be due to better screening at tertiary facilities, and more women coming to the capital city for diagnoses, but the taboo around cancer also surrounds the issue of delayed access.” 

For many women, the cost of being heard was a cost worth bearing.

If financial access and the lack of proximity aren’t enough, there’s also a fear of cancer. “There’s the attached social stigma which discourages women from going to the doctor. Women with cancer are made to avoid social gatherings or joyous occasions. Women’s health is already seen as expendable, often being seen as less valuable than the health of children or the man of the house,” says Dr. Bhan.

There’s also a false association with the hereditary nature of some kinds of cancer, pushing women to avoid diagnoses and save their children from social isolation. Another stigma that can be extremely dangerous links preventative care like the HPV vaccine to a woman’s sexual health—and this may cause many women to avoid the inoculation despite awareness, putting them at a higher risk of cervical cancer in the future. 

Mridu Gupta also says that detection for most women’s health issues is often delayed, from endometriosis to cancer. “The only solution to mistrust is communication, but doctors are so overworked that information to the patient is relayed on a need-to-know basis.”

The brewing distrust in the medical profession has deeper roots. Dependent on community experiences, traditional cultural cures, and social stigma, many people avoid seeking conventional medical care. But this is exacerbated when it comes to women in urban areas, who are also limited by a lack of financial confidence, proximity, limited independence, and awareness. Operating within these limitations, it becomes necessary for governments to not only develop means of access, but also make them easy. For women, effective care involves not just the removal of physical barriers to healthcare access, but also fostering relationships of care and respect between patients and doctors.

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Buying groceries is often an exercise in guilt management. Consider the shopping list for a day of modern diet-approved healthy eating: seasonal berries for a delicious, silky smoothie for breakfast; maybe a block of feta cheese to be crumbled into a refreshing salad to cut through the cool, crunchy vegetables; and some chicken for a protein-packed dinner. For snacking, a protein bar and some roasted makhanas have you covered. While this somewhat satisfies an average adult’s nutritional requirements for the day, a pressing issue lingers: the exorbitant bill, which will ring up to roughly Rs. 500, at the very least.

There seems to be an unspoken pact an individual must make if they desire to simply eat “clean”—a good chunk of their income will be spent acquiring the best ingredients. The average Indian can’t afford that. In fact, the average Indian spends only about Rs. 2,500 on groceries every month–and that includes fruits, vegetables, pulses, dairy, processed foods, meat and seafood. 

And so, between inflation, reduced disposable income, increased overall expenditure, and a mostly sedentary life, “healthy” food delivered to one’s doorstep can appear to be a cure-all. Eating a high-fibre quinoa and avocado salad from a leading restaurant chain at Rs. 465 appears cheaper and more convenient than preparing it yourself, for a one- or two-person household.

An understanding of affordable, value-for-money food options that fulfil nutritious requirements is a must when nearly half of per capita spending for an urban resident goes towards food.

But, there may be more nuance to this than appears at the surface. Nutritious, carefully prepared home-cooked meals beat convenience any day. Healthy takeout options can seem cheaper and worth spending money on because of common misconceptions around what we deem as “healthy.” But it’s not just that: when you end up buying large quantities of source ingredients (a lot of which might go to waste), spend time prepping for every meal, and spend money on expensive, healthful groceries, takeout food will easily seem like the more cost-efficient option. 

An understanding of affordable, value-for-money food options that fulfil nutritious requirements is a must when nearly half of per capita spending for an urban resident goes towards food. Unlike in the past, when raw cereals accounted for the majority of food expenditures, processed goods—which include packaged foods, beverages, and purchased cooked meals—now account for the majority of food expenditures in both rural and urban areas. It’s hard to immediately identify it, but you may be spending more on takeout, cumulatively, instead of saving money.

Switching to easy-to-prep, homemade meals may not just be healthier, but prove to lighten the monthly expenditure, too.

Also read: Whey to go: A complete guide to protein

Why is my food expensive? 

In October 2024, the year-on-year food inflation in India hit an all-time high, touching 10.87%. Particularly, it was the price of the vegetables, fruits, oils and fats that shot up. Since the beginning of this year, though, prices have stabilised–in fact, according to Trading Economics, food costs in the country have experienced a 3.75% increase year-on-year in February 2025, the least since May 2023, following a 6.02% rise in January. 

It’s the reasons for this sharp hike, here, that is most important: supply disruptions, weather and rain patterns, regulatory policies. The commodities that recorded the highest increase were oils and fats (16.4%) and fruits (14.8%). Since August of 2024, FMCG companies have been reporting price hikes for household essentials due to the rising costs of base items like palm oil and copra. This hike is owed not only to inflation, but rising geopolitical tensions and unexpected climate conditions. Furthermore, an increase in import duty on vegetable oil in October acted as a contributor. 

Another worrying factor is that fruit inflation in India increased from 8.6 cent in December to a decadal high of 12.2 cent in January. This inflation, along with the country’s demand for imported exotic fruits, is attributed to higher fruit prices. Coconut prices are at a seven-year high, and pineapples and water chestnuts follow suit. Indians are already short on fruit consumption: fruits and vegetables contribute to less than 3% energy levels against the required 8-10% energy levels in urban areas. Experts point to rising demand, higher imports and a weaker rupee.

And while food inflation will always bobble up and down–as it did earlier this year–the reasons will persist. It becomes all the more imperative to take out the time and effort to eat better, at home. 

Cheaper takeout might seem a better option at the time, but subsidised food means there’s a compromise on other factors: hygiene, quality of ingredients and unfair wages to the workers. To make sure you can really eat healthy and save money, here are two things to consider: your shopping habits and meal prepping.

Also read: Meal prep: How Indian kitchens can optimise time, taste

Shopping habits matter

What we consider as healthy is often expensive, imported food that costs us twice as much as local grocery items. Indians are buying more and more exotic fruits and vegetables. Mandarin orange imports went up to 33% in the first eight months of 2024. Cranberry, famous for its juice that helps with PMS symptoms and even UTIs for AFAB individuals, saw a drastic 159% demand; New Delhi is reported to have imported $6.68 million worth of the fruit. Avocado imports doubled in the last year! 

This inordinate demand is also contributing to extensive farming globally, making it hard for locals to access food items indigenous to them. One can, then, turn to local produce that provides us with the same benefits. Here’s a look at some cheaper alternatives to trending superfoods; keep in mind that balancing out the two helps you meet specific nutrition goals, too, aside from benefiting from a price difference. 

• Greek yogurt < Curd

Plain greek yogurt is protein rich and offers calcium, vitamin B12, and potassium. Homemade curd, though, is just as beneficial, even with a differing nutritional index. It acts as a great probiotic.

• Blueberry < Jamun (Indian blackberry)

Blueberry contains numerous antioxidants and phytochemicals, vitamin C and fiber. It improves gut health, reduces inflammation, and has cancer-fighting benefits. Alternatively, Jamun is not only grown locally, but also offers anti-inflammatory benefits and contains essential nutrients like vitamin C, iron and potassium.

• Avocado < Nuts and seeds

Avocado is full of vitamins and minerals, along with beneficial fats that give satiety. While it is difficult to find the perfect alternative, nutritionists turn to a range of options like a mix of nuts and seeds that would fulfil vitamin, fibre and fat requirements

• Chia seeds < Flax seeds

Chia offers antioxidants, fibre, omega-3 acids that allow for better gut health. On the other hand, flaxseeds offer very similar benefits, at a lower cost. 

What we consider as healthy is often expensive, imported food that costs us twice as much as local grocery items.

The idea is to buy seasonal and buy local: quick commerce apps, now a go-to grocer for the urban populace, propose an easy fix to needing groceries last-minute, but they also add to over-consumption. You often purchase more than you need, buying 1 kg of tomatoes instead of 500 g because there’s a combo offer on onions, tomatoes and potatoes–or to meet a minimum cart value and avoid delivery fees. The prices of the same vegetables at your local mandi are not that different–if anything, quick-commerce apps add various fees. Additionally, there’s no guarantee on quality. If spoiled produce is delivered, it’s a waste of money. Some quick commerce apps don’t offer redressal, just credit points. Hygiene is also a compromise. 

The luxurious unseasonal item also comes at a hidden cost: the produce is picked before the harvest season and then transported to reach the consumer’s nearest retailers. You’re compromising on taste, flavour and nutrient value while also paying extra for the long journey your food had to take. 

Alternatively, buying from local vegetable and fruit sellers not only allows you to manage the quantity, but also check the vegetables and fruits for ripeness or any defects.

Also read: The promises—and perils—of Indian aquaculture

Rethinking meal prep

A realistic goal is to optimise healthy food options by avoiding takeout and knowing what you can work with. That’s where meal-prep comes in: it improves our relationship with food, increases convenience and lends higher nutritional quality to the meal. It can seem like a bit of a hassle: meal prepping can lead you to buy groceries in bulk–and inevitably, wasting a chunk of it. But a few tips and tricks can make the process fun, efficient and effective. 

1. Prioritise: The best way forward is to look at what you have in your pantry. As blogger Polly Barks points out, meal prepping is like a game of building blocks. While planning, see how the available items fit into the nutrient category suitable for a well-balanced meal. Define your sources of protein, carbohydrates, vitamins and fibre. The next step is to see what you need to use up faster. Do you have a lot of rice or eggs lying around? Your next meal could be an egg curry paired with some steamed rice and an easy salad with a curd base. Consider the perishability of your food items to avoid good produce or even freshly cooked food going to waste. 

2. Plan it out: Once you have made sense of what you have at hand, you can figure out what you need to purchase. While plenty of health and fitness advice will tell you that it’s better to plan around a week, it might be easier and more beneficial to make three-day plans. Buy less, buy fresh, and use it up as soon as possible. Creating a list incorporating all the items you need to use up before a cycle of prepping ends is imperative to ensuring zero waste. You may have to freeze some vegetables after chopping them up and keep the cycle’s marinades in as well. 

3. Be flexible and creative: It is easy for meal prepping to become monotonous and unrealistic. The workaround is to be creative with the base you have at hand. Marinated herb chicken can turn into a pasta, a sandwich, a one-pot rice dish, and even a cool summer salad. Leftovers make for easy meals too. A chicken curry is often converted into a pulao in Indian households—all you have to do is put rice and the curry into a pressure cooker. Dry subzis make for great stuffed parathas. 

A well-organised, economical meal plan filled with simple, diverse dishes is a step towards eating healthy without putting a dent in your wallet. 

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(Illustration by: Khyati)

You line up for lunch with a plate in your hand, one among many in a lethargic queue. When it’s your turn, the staff behind the counter serves you in a familiar, mechanised motion, barely raising their impassive face in greeting. You walk away with two chapatis and a single piece of paneer swimming in an orange-ish gravy, and settle into a noisy, crowded, messy table.

We spend our early years being fed with love—being served with a smile, being cajoled into eating until satiated, sitting comfortably, and of course, being granted that extra piece of paneer. We develop our taste of what ‘ghar ka khaana’ feels like. Most university messes, in contrast, are run in a way that transforms the act of eating into something impersonal, restrictive, and dull.

Is it any wonder that no one likes mess food?  But lamenting about the meals available on campus is not merely about students yearning for 'ghar ka khaana’–there is a real nutritional lapse in the menus of most Indian university messes. 

It is estimated that up to 75% of all Indian university students live away from home–and a significant percentage of these students rely on their campuses for their meals. A 2020 study published in the International Journal of Medicine and Public Health confirms that out of the 3,046 Indian students surveyed, two-thirds had inadequate dietary diversity. Dietary diversity–a measure of the number of foods or food groups consumed over a period of time–is one of the key metrics used to measure an individual's nutritional status. A 2014 study comparing the nutritional status of hostelite and localite students in a medical undergraduate university showed that the hostel students consume significantly less fibre in their diets, and showed higher amounts of junk food consumption. The nutritional gap widens with each report of stale and rotten food being served to students in universities across the country. 

The reasons for poor nutrition among undergraduates are varied, and trickle down the system. There are lapses at the institutional level, but also enough evidence that college-going students have a weak knowledge of nutrition in food and display unhealthy eating habits.

A college often becomes one of the first places that students start eating outside parental supervision, and academic stress contributes to habits like skipping breakfast, and excessive snacking, ultimately leading to poor nutrition.

Also read: Whey to go: A complete guide to protein

Regulatory nudges

At a time when Non-Communicable Diseases (NCDs) are being termed  an 'epidemic', government bodies are beginning to take notice. Conditions like heart disease, cancer and diabetes are at the top of this chart–1 in 4 Indians faces the risk of dying from an NCD prematurely. Eating habits and the pervasive nature of ultra-processed foods have thus become all the more crucial to this conversation, especially among children and young adults.

The UGC in July 2024 issued a directive to all universities to prohibit the sale of unhealthy foods in educational institutions and promote healthy food options in canteens. The UGC had issued similar advisories in November 2016, and August 2018, but its newest directive has been reiterated at the request of the Nutrition Advocacy in Public Interest (NAPi), a national think tank on nutrition.

Datta Patel, Head of Department of Nutrition & Dietetics at the DY Patil School of Medicine Navi Mumbai, confirms that though these advisories come with a strong expectation of being enforced, there is no legal enforceability to these notifications. Nonetheless, she thinks the advisories are a step in the right direction. She adds: "But just banning junk food isn’t enough. Students also need access to tasty and affordable healthy options. There is a need for awareness programs or workshops to understand why healthy eating matters, engaging with nutritionists to design better menus and running workshops. So, the rule works best when combined with education and better choices, not just restrictions."

The notification specifically intends to reduce consumption of ultra-processed as well as HFSS foods, i.e., foods high in fat, salt, and sugar. This is often tricky, not only because these substances promote a habit-forming tendency, but also because they make for quickly-accessible and affordable food.

The National Institute of Fashion Technology (NIFT), Bengaluru, has tried to thwart this with its ‘Breakfast on the Go’ initiative. Susan Thomas, during her time as Campus Director of the institute, introduced stalls selling bananas and eggs at Rs. 5 to ensure students start their day with some protein rather than hurrying into class on an empty stomach. The initiative focused on affordable and quick food options—something the students can finish by the time they climb the stairs of their academic block.

In 2019, the FSSAI launched Eat Right Campus, under their Eat Right India initiative. Here, the definition of a campus includes universities, colleges, workplaces, hospitals, tea estates etc. Under this initiative, colleges conduct a self-evaluation based on the provided checklist, incorporate the changes needed, and then undergo an evaluation by an FSSAI-empanelled third-party agency.  If they secure more than three out of five stars (~65%), they obtain an Eat Right Campus certification for two years. In 2019, IIT-Gandhinagar became the first educational institute in the country to receive the award, securing a five-star rating which was subsequently renewed in 2022. Over the course of seven years, the number of certified campuses has now risen to 2677 as of May 2025, including IIM Indore, V. M. Salgaocar Institute of International Hospitality Education, and more recently, Central University of Kerala–all three of which have bagged a five-star rating.

Also read: Meal prep: How Indian kitchens can optimise time, taste

The power of student governance

One of the central conflicts in any college mess system lies between the student community which prioritises good food, and the administration, which focuses on the financial and logistical fallouts of these demands. An obvious solution arises: involving students in the process of securing food for themselves.

IIT-Gandhinagar is often considered to be one of the cleanest campuses, with a focus on safe, healthy food for students. Two clear themes emerge from a conversation with Gaurav Mahendra, Welfare Secretary at IIT-GN: a robust student body, and vigilant supervision. Deriving from its larger student culture, the university entrusts the handling of the mess, among other responsibilities, to student-run bodies. These student bodies are largely autonomous, with faculty acting as advisors rather than decision makers.

However, simply having a student body can be insufficient. Although it helps regularise processes like floor checks, it is pointless to collect feedback and prepare suggestions if they cannot be implemented.

Quality is assured by imposing such a vigilant system of checks that the staff seldom risks a misstep. Students of the Mess Council proactively visit the cooking areas approximately four times a week, and the milk delivery is supervised as frequently as once in two days. These inspections are independent of the monthly inspection conducted by the administration.

The use of a well-framed contract further cements this focus on quality. Mahendra shares, “While entering the agreement with vendors, we give them a list of approved brands for different ingredients. That ensures the quality; it completely eliminates any doubtful ingredients."

Atharva Keny, an IIT-Goa student who briefly stayed at the campus premises last summer for his internship, testifies to the quality and variety of IIT-Gandhinagar’s three messes. Atharva pointed out how giving contracts for each of the three messes to different suppliers helped each one gain a reputation for certain kinds of food, and collectively helped bring nutritional and regional diversity to the food provided.

It could be argued that robust, persistent student presence is one of the key factors in transforming kitchens in college campuses.

Proof of this belief lies in a more recent revolution: In February 2025, the students of Azim Premji University (APU), Bengaluru, submitted to the Registrar a survey report and food charter expressing dissatisfaction with the nutritional quality, portion sizes, and cost of mess food and demanded changes to the same. Collated from the responses of over 800 students, both postgraduate and undergraduate, one o­f their major demands has been student involvement in decision-making. The APU administration responded to this charter with several improvements in processes, audits, vendor relationships–as well as made sure that students will play a more important role in menu planning and food quality assessment. 

Patel echoes this sentiment, "When they help plan menus, give feedback, or run food awareness campaigns, they’re more likely to eat better and inspire others too. Ultimately, food is more than just fuel — it’s linked to how students learn, feel, and perform."

However, simply having a student body can be insufficient. Although it helps regularise processes like floor checks, it is pointless to collect feedback and prepare suggestions if they cannot be implemented. For instance: according to a Mess Committee member from one of the colleges this writer spoke to, none of their suggestions for healthier food alternatives, or even increased portion sizes have materialised due to budgetary restrictions. While some compromises between recommendations and budgetary constraints are inevitable, the Committee member claims that the college’s food budget has remained stagnant since 2021. In the same period of time, the average monthly retail food inflation has increased from 3.1% in 2021 to 8.4% in 2024. Evidently, this is restrictive towards any changes that students require. This is where it becomes important to discuss an institution’s role in campus nutrition.

Also read: Mindful eating: A wellness tool, or trendy byte?

Institutional change

When Mariam Begg was invited by NLSIU Bengaluru to be their campus' nutrition and health coach, she was delighted, for she was among the first of her kind in India. Begg is part of a larger system of food administration—including the food management firm Quess Food Services, a Mess Committee, and the college administration. However, hers is a unique role: someone who brought balance to the mess’s meal plans, and provided one-to-one consultation to any student who sought it.

In her three years with the institution so far, Begg's main strategy has been to incorporate healthier ingredients into familiar dishes—sneaking in millets into bisibele baath and herbs and seeds into rajma; making the tadka less oily; incorporating the local variety of red (rajamudi) rice. She also prides her inclusion of salad and seed bowls, a nutritious addition that is not an imposition on either the budget, or the workload of the kitchen staff.

The issue with health on student campuses is not just that nutritious food is not available, but also that even when it is, the mess is not able to win the students’ confidence.

Her role as a consultant helped her get a better pulse on student issues and feedback. These consultations also become a forum for developing knowledge on the basics of nutrition, and suggesting easy-to-implement changes to student dietary habits. “For example,” she shares, “not many people know that rajma and rice together have the 9 amino acids in them, it is not just in chicken and eggs, you know? And rajma and rice are very easily available in India."

This approach worked. Begg was able to redirect students to the mess by promoting the new measures that had been undertaken for their health. 

Begg’s role goes beyond securing nutrition–and this may explain something crucial about how to approach students’ health holistically. She aims to improve exercise, sleep and stress management. This macroscopic perspective helps her address any underlying emotional obstructions to healthy eating habits.

The issue with health on student campuses is not just that nutritious food is not available, but also that even when it is, the mess is not able to win the students’ confidence. 

Common measures taken by colleges, such as including dishes from all parts of India, are a step in the right direction. However, involving students and nutritionists in the process is going to be key. This approach brings students on the same team as the administration, and helps create novel, more realistic solutions. Over and above these interventions, the presence of a nutritionist is important to recognise the gaps in the students’ existing eating patterns, and to reframe the general understanding around how to be well fed. 

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(Illustration by: Vasini Varadan)

The district of Yavatmal in Maharashtra’s Vidarbha region bears a terrible reputation: for several decades now, it has been branded the ‘farmer suicide capital of India.’ In 15 years–from 2001 to 2016–over 3500 suicides were recorded in the district.

This seemingly small chain of events ended devastatingly when, at the end of 2017, over 800 farmers and agricultural workers were hospitalised in Yavatmal–and over 20 farmers died. All of them were detected with pesticide poisoning. Spraying pesticide on towering crops so close to their nose and mouth proved extremely dangerous, and in some cases, fatal. While spraying, the farmers often tied a cloth across their face and nothing more, barely cognizant of just how toxic their crops’ medicine was.  

Hanuman Kawale, now 48 years old, was one of these farmers of Yavatmal. He suffered a severe case of vomiting, and was resultantly hospitalised for two days. “He did not know that he had to use a mask, goggles and socks while spraying pesticides on the farm. We thought the cause of his illness was consuming contaminated food and water,” says Sunita, Kawale’s wife. 

The toxic incident brought to the fore this harsh reality—pesticides meant to protect the farmers’ cotton crops are actually a silent killer. Six years after the incident, Sunita has abandoned using these chemicals in their two-acre cotton crop. "With pesticides, we harvested seven quintals of cotton per acre. Organic farming yields only two, but our cultivation costs have dropped by half,” Sunita says. Confident, she adds, “Our income may be less today, but it will definitely increase in a few years.” 

Farmers and agricultural workers across the country shoulder similar fates. 

Also read: On the deadly cost of farmer debts

Out of breath

Every farmer’s account of worsening health due to the inadvertent inhalation of pesticides helps piece together the visceral and long-term effects of these chemicals on the body. Their experiences are explained by scientific studies and health experts, who link pesticide exposure to the increased risk of serious health issues, including chronic conditions like diabetes and cancer. In extreme cases, long-term exposure to these pesticides also increases the risk of neurodegenerative disorders such as Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s.

A study from Punjab found that over 93% of the state’s agricultural workers exposed to pesticides showed genotoxic damage, including chromosomal abnormalities. Most of them reported never using protective equipment. A study in Telangana found residues of 28 different pesticides in farmers' blood samples, 11 of which are classified as highly hazardous by WHO guidelines. 

Extremely high temperatures in the summer make this even worse: due to increased volatilisation, these pesticides turn into gas after spraying–resulting in a high risk of inhalation.

These risks are all the more pervasive in India because of the abject lack of strict protocols for farmers, unlike in countries such as the US. “In India, farmers do not even wear gloves,” says Dr Sudha Chepyala, an integrative internal medicine physician, practising in the US and India. She explains why this is crucial for protection against chemicals. “Pesticides enter the human body through skin—the largest organ—and mucous membranes (the nose, mouth and eyes). The toxins enter the bloodstream and damage tissues, resulting in various health conditions. I have seen young people with chronic kidney damage (CKD).” 

Extremely high temperatures in the summer make this even worse: due to increased volatilisation, these pesticides turn into gas after spraying–resulting in a high risk of inhalation. But it’s not just inhalation that puts farmers at risk. Like Dr. Chepyala explains, dermal exposure–basically, absorption of the pesticide through skin–is extremely concerning. Pesticides are designed to penetrate plant surfaces, so they can similarly penetrate human skin. Within hours, you can develop rashes, chemical burning, dermatitis–and then, the chemicals circulate throughout the body via the bloodstream. So, protective gear that shields only against inhalation of pesticide sprays is never enough. 

“After two decades of chemical farming, my family switched to organic because my father developed frequent irritation in his eyes and indigestion from spraying chemicals,” says Vaibhav Ganesh Hemane, a 29-year-old resident of Rajurwadi village in Maharashtra’s Amravati district. Hemane’s family cultivates organic cotton and toor dal on five acres of land. As organic farmers, they now spend only Rs 10,000 per acre–half of their past expenses before switching from conventional farming and chemical usage.

“We harvest about 8-9 quintals of cotton per acre now. Chemical farming would lead to 11 quintals,” he says. Under organic farming, Hemane’s family uses natural inputs such as cow dung, cow urine, Dashparni Ark and Jeevamrutha to nourish the soil and enhance plant health. Earlier, they used insecticides like Coragen and Lancer Gold.

Also read: This farmer collective is fighting for a fairer organic future

Ground reality

Pesticide manufacturers recommend using specialised safety equipment while spraying the chemicals, but for various reasons—including the inability to afford it—this practice is often overlooked by farmers. A 2022 cross section study that assessed 387 North Indian farmers found that 55% of farmers did not read or follow pesticide label instructions, and 80.2% were altogether unaware of banned or restricted pesticides. Factors such as low education levels, advanced age, and label-related issues, like technical language as well as small fonts, contribute to this low engagement with safety information, research indicates. 

India's pesticide regulation is currently governed by the Insecticides Act of 1968, which has faced criticism for being outdated and insufficient in addressing modern agricultural challenges. To strengthen the regulatory framework, the Pesticide Management Bill, 2020 was introduced in the Rajya Sabha on 23 March, 2020. The bill aims to promote biological pesticides, proposes the establishment of a Central Pesticides Board to advise on scientific and technical matters, and most important of all, bestows the powers to issue licenses for the manufacture, storage and sale of pesticides to respective states. 

But this bill, too, has its own criticisms. For instance, the representation of decision-making bodies is said to be inadequate. Critics are also concerned that it does not sufficiently promote Integrated Pest Management (IPM) practices. The bill remains pending in the Parliament, with stakeholders advocating for amendments to address these critical issues.

In 2021, approximately 61,000 metric tons of pesticides were used in India for agricultural purposes, a study said.

As of March 31, 2024, the Indian government has prohibited the manufacture, import, and use of 49 pesticides such as Alachlor, Aldicarb, Aldrin, Benzene Hexachloride and several others due to their potential risks to human health and the environment. ​However, farmers and experts we spoke to said that many of them are widely available. “Even red coded pesticides such as Monophyl are openly sold in India,” says Sangeetha Pradeep, Senior Project Coordinator at Pesticide Action Network, India. 

In fact, India recently opposed the global elimination of Chlorpyrifos, an insecticide toxic to humans and wildlife under the Stockholm Convention on Persistent Organic Pollutants. Instead of a complete shutdown, India requested exceptions to certain crucial crops, citing the lack of alternatives and the threat to overall food security in the country. 

The Indian government promotes chemical-free agriculture through initiatives like the National Centre for Organic and Natural Farming (NCONF), which oversees organic and natural farming nationwide, and Bharatiya Prakritik Krishi Paddhati (BPKP) that provides financial aid and training for natural farming. Both campaigns, though, have relatively limited reach. 

In 2021, approximately 61,000 metric tons of pesticides were used in India for agricultural purposes, a study said. “Their numbers and toxicity are also increasing, posing an enormous threat,” explains D. Narasimha Reddy, public policy expert. “The Indian government, however, is ignoring the deadly impact of pesticide use on humans and the environment. Instead of tightening regulations, it is focusing on liberalising and subsidising pesticide products while incentivising profits.” 

Also read: How Shree Padre built journalism for farmers, by farmers

Working at the grassroots

The small district of Idukki in Kerala is famous for its spice plantations–especially cardamom–and infamous for the excessive use of pesticides in these plantations. This is not a light accusation: in 2023, so much pesticide residue was found in Kerala’s cardamoms (much of which come from Idukki) that the state’s High Court ordered the revered Sabarimala temple to make its holy offering of Aravana without its signature cardamom, for the first time. Tonnes of already prepared Aravana went to waste. The temple and Kerala’s state authorities had to put into place firm regulatory mandates to make sure they can source organic cardamom for their offering next year. 

Local residents as well as farmers of Idukki live with a serious threat to their health, only because of the extraordinary amount of pesticide used. And so, the work of a small movement that has taken root in this district comes as a relief. Pesticide Action Network (PAN) India, a not-for-profit organisation focusing on sustainable agriculture and reducing pesticide use, has begun to educate farmers and campaign for cultivating chemical-free cardamom in collaboration with the Savitri Trust. This project, named the Cardamom Agroecology project, aims to promote a paradigm shift from conventional farming to a more robust, sustainable way to look at the cardamom. More than 300 farmers have switched to organic farming in Idukki, thanks to their extensive educational classes. 

30-year-old Anoop Thankachan from the Konnathady village owns four acres of land, and has begun his switch to organic farming by stripping one acre of it of all chemicals and pesticides. “After spraying pesticides, I used to get skin rashes, a burning sensation in my eyes, dandruff and breathing difficulties,” Anoop says. Across the remaining three acres, too, he has reduced pesticide usage, confining it to mildly toxic potassium. 

The switch has also been economically beneficial. “I used to spend Rs 5,000 a month on pesticides; now, it is just Rs 2,000 on organic sprays. Organic solutions such as pineapple tonic (made with fermented pineapple, neem, jaggery and other ingredients) boosts flowering in cardamom. From the blooms, I can tell this season’s yield will be better," Thankachan says. 

Like PAN India, not-for-profit organisations such as Jaivik Kheti and the MS Swaminathan Research Foundation are working towards promoting chemical-free agriculture in several pockets. PAN India itself is working at the ground level in Yavatmal and Thrissur. In these villages, there are 39 pesticide poisoning monitoring committees, consisting of women farmers and workers. The organisation’s back-to-back training programmes in Yavatmal resulted in 264 farmers (across 300 acres of cultivated land) giving up pesticides altogether. “This victory wouldn’t have been possible without the women volunteers who spearheaded the movement. Few women workers no longer work in the fields that practice chemical farming—such extreme steps are the need of the hour,” Sangeetha Pradeep says.

In December 2024, India’s first protective suit—the Kisan Kavach—was introduced to safeguard farmers from pesticide exposure. In 2020, Bengaluru researchers introduced a skin gel called poly-Oxime which, when applied on the skin, deactivates toxic pesticides. These are useful preventive measures, but their impact remains negligible on the ground: the Kisan Kavach costs Rs. 4,000, rendering it unaffordable for small and marginalised farmers; many others just remain unaware of the gel. 

The transition to organic farming after facing the brutal effects of pesticide usage is often rocky. The change in cultivation techniques leads to an initial decrease in crop yield, as the soil undergoes a period of detoxification and adjustment. The productivity of the crop will suffer, too. But with a consistent routine of using organic materials and practices, experts assert that the yield gap can be reduced.

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Editing and additional inputs by Neerja Deodhar and Anushka Mukherjee

Yangmiso Humao emerges from the bustling crowd at the village ground in Manipur’s Kachai with his usual sense of urgency. Every step he takes is premeditated, and there is little time to waste. “All the formalities and interactions that are part of organising the lemon festival aren’t something I’m cut out for. I’d rather be working hard at my lemon groves,” he quips, as we break away from the crowd that has gathered to celebrate the 21^st Kachai Lemon Festival. A short drive takes us to his grove, which lies on the western side of the village ground. Away from the cacophony of the festival, the mountains echo with the distant calls of great barbets and the cheeping of black bulbuls, who peer down at us from the wild walnut trees. 

Yangmiso eases up now; the deliberateness in his gait is gone. He walks between the trees—touching their barks, feeling their leaves, and plucking a few lemons from stray branches. His bond with the trees is unmistakable—rooted in care, instinct, and two decades of quiet devotion. It’s little surprise he’s counted among the finest lemon farmers in the village, and was awarded the ICAR Best Farmer from Manipur in 2023. The mountainside he has patiently transformed into a thriving grove unfolds along a gentle slope, dappled with thousands of sunlit lemons. From a distance, it feels as if autumn has arrived early in the village, a golden hush settling over this corner of the hill.

Yangmiso is just one among hundreds of farmers who cultivate lemons in Kachai, a small village in Manipur’s Ukhrul District. These lemons are believed to be among India’s finest—renowned for their exceptionally high ascorbic acid content and antioxidant-rich nature. Known locally as Kachai Champra, this variety of lemon also holds the distinction of being the first in the country to receive a Geographical Indication (GI) tag. 

The village’s unique microclimate and terrain has turned the fruit into the lifeblood of the local economy. Kachai experiences humid temperatures during the day, and fog and mist at nights and in the early mornings. Locals believe that the precipitation from the mist acts as drip irrigation for the lemons, enhancing their quality. The 500 household-strong village grows over 2,00,000 lemon trees, producing approximately 400 tonnes of lemon each year.

Also read: How the 'makrei' sticky rice fosters love, labour in Manipur

The Shillong connection

Though they are grown and cultivated industriously in this small, unassuming village on NH 102, these lemons have roots in Shillong, the capital city of Meghalaya. In 1947, S. Paisho, an early Christian pioneer from Thikhor Kachai encountered an accident that nearly blinded him in one eye. With his condition worsening and no immediate medical treatment available, Naga revolutionary leader and fellow missionary Suisa Rungsung offered to take him to Jorhat, Assam for surgery. But when the duo arrived, the doctors on duty refused their request, insisting that Paisho’s eye was beyond repair.

The 500 household-strong village grows over 2,00,000 lemon trees, producing approximately 400 tonnes of lemon each year.

Suisa, who was cognizant of the shifting political currents in North-East India on the eve of Independence—including debates on autonomy in the hill regions—decided to proceed to Shillong. Shillong was the administrative capital of then undivided Assam, which included the Naga Hills. Paisho followed Suisa, banking his hopes on a local healer.

To everyone’s astonishment, Paisho made a miraculous recovery. A local healer treated his eye with an indigenous herb. And when he returned to Kachai, he came back with more than just his sight.

Though they are grown and cultivated industriously in this small, unassuming village on NH 102, these lemons have roots in Shillong, the capital city of Meghalaya.

Among the things he brought from Shillong were five lemon seeds, a gift from Suisa. These were seeds of the Khasi lemon—larger, juicier, and far more balanced in flavour than the wild Lam Champra (Citrus indica) that grew in Kachai. It was these seeds that quietly altered the course of the village’s future.

Also read: The tell-tale apple trees of Thanamir

When life gives you lemons—grow them!

Of the five seeds, two grew into fruiting trees. By the 1950s, the first fruits were harvested. Recognising the fruit’s potential, the villagers began planting lemon trees in their backyards. In 1976, the Kachai Fruit Farming and Processing Co-operative Society was formed by the villagers to unify and expand this endeavour. Every household in the village became a member of the society and was required to grow at least 50 lemon trees.

This spirit of community transformed Kachai into a lemon powerhouse, and demand for its lemons began to surge. Over time, support from the Manipur branch of the Indian Council of Agricultural Research (ICAR), through the Krishi Vigyan Kendra, empowered local Self Help Groups to explore value addition—enhancing income opportunities while also reducing fruit wastage.

“The great thing about the Kachai lemon is that there is zero waste. Every part of the lemon can be used for something, be it making pickles, candies, or extracting zest,” says Dr. Solei Luiram, a scientist at KVK (Krishi Vigyan Kendra), Ukhrul. 

Inheriting—and—building a legacy

Yangmiso also comes from a family of lemon farmers; his grandfather was among the village’s first lemon cultivators, and the family’s old grove is now maintained by him. In 2014, he started a new grove on the other side of the village which now had over 500 fruiting trees.

“Our grandfathers didn’t have these terraces in their groves,” he explains, sitting down at the edge of one of the terraces. “"Adding terraces to our lemon groves has helped in nutrient retention. The compost from a higher terrace is deposited onto the next, creating natural organic manure. It also makes it easier for us to harvest the lemons systematically,” he adds.

Also read: No monkeying around on this kiwi farm

This evolution in farming practices is just one of many techniques the farmers of Kachai have developed over generations to boost yields. In recent years, pest attacks and environmental changes have taken a toll on production. Subtle changes in the flowering and fruiting season of the lemons have made it harder for farmers to predict what’s to come. Yet, they remain undeterred—constantly adapting, whether through traditional knowledge or with scientific support and interventions provided by the State government and the Horticulture Department.

“Lemons are our livelihood and we will continue to do everything we can to ensure they continue to grow and prosper in our village,” Humao says with conviction. For him and many others, lemon farming is not just tradition—it is sustenance, pride, and the promise of a better future.

A return to the village and a glass of refreshing lemonade later, we met RK Mayasang, Chairman of the Kachai Fruit Farming and Processing Co-operative Society. Standing under the shade of a fruiting lemon tree, Mayasang reflects on the transformative power of the humble lemon. “There is so much optimism,” he beams, envisioning a future where Kachai, thanks to its citrus wealth, might one day boast the highest per capita income in Manipur.

As the sun sets over the western slopes of Kachai, bathing the village in a soft golden glow, one is drawn back to another moment in time—when, at the dawn of India’s independence in 1947, a man named Paisho quietly planted the seeds of Kachai’s economic freedom. With nothing but faith, hope, and five lemon seeds in hand, a future was sown that continues to bear fruit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The beginning of a dream

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ground realities

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

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

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

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

First steps

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Also read: How the 'makrei' sticky rice fosters love, labour in Manipur

Employment back home

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

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

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

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

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