Editor’s Note: In this series, the Good Food Movement explores composting—a climate-friendly, organic way to deal with waste. We answer questions about what you can compost, how to build composting bins and how this process can reshape our relationship with nature and our urban ecosystem.

Composting is one of the simplest and most impactful ways to cut down on household waste while giving back to the Earth. But contrary to popular belief, not all kitchen scraps belong in your composting bin. Understanding what goes in and what stays out is key to creating a healthy, smell-free compost system that works for your home and garden.

Greens vs browns

At the heart of composting is a balance between two kinds of waste: greens and browns. These categories signify not colour, but nutrient profile. Greens are nitrogen-rich materials like fruit and vegetable peels, coffee grounds and tea leaves. These are soft, moist, and decompose quickly—they feed the microbes that power your compost pile. Browns, on the other hand, are dry, carbon-rich materials that provide energy to those microbes and give structure to your pile. Think dry leaves, shredded newspaper pages, cardboard, coconut husk or even straw and hay.

The ideal carbon-to-nitrogen ratio is about 30:1, but it’s difficult to know the exact amount of nitrogen and carbon each ingredient constitutes to achieve this perfect balance. So, a good rule of thumb is to mix about 3-4 parts browns for every one part of greens. For example, if you add a bowl of fruit peels and coffee grounds, balance it with a few handfuls of dry leaves or torn cardboard. A pile that smells fresh and earthy is well-balanced. If your compost starts to stink, you’re probably adding too much green matter to your compost before it has a chance to break down and decompose. Adding more browns can fix this by restoring the balance in your bin. 

Also read: Why composting is good for your garden -- and the planet

There are, however, several things that should not go into a home compost bin. Avoid meat, bones, fish, dairy products, or any cooked food with oil, salt, or masalas. These items rot slowly, produce strong odours, and attract rodents or flies. Meat also runs the risk of passing along to the compost any pathogens it is infected with. Steer clear of pet waste for similar reasons—transferred pathogens could spread to the soil you add it to. Oily foods, on the other hand, coat other materials and block air circulation, risking turning your compost into a site of anaerobic decomposition. Avoid glossy paper, and paper cups, spoons, and plates—these often have a layer of plastic coating that make them non-biodegradable. You can, however, add eggshells to your compost! Make sure to properly dry them out and crush them beforehand.

To speed up the composting process, chop large items like watermelon rinds into smaller pieces. Tear cardboard and paper to improve airflow. Remember to aerate; keep stirring your compost pile weekly to let oxygen in. Once done, cover it up again. In a few months, you’ll have black gold: healthy, homemade compost.

Also read: Don't dump it, compost it: Why peels and scraps shouldn't be tossed into your garden

Composting is circular living. It’s a small act of care that reconnects us to the planet and helps us give back to it. And it starts in your kitchen, with knowing what to put in your composting bin.

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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 the 1950s, Gurugram was just one of many small villages scattered across the tabletop-flat landscape of the Ganga basin. Known as Gurgaon until 2016, the town was only 30 kilometres from New Delhi, but that hardly mattered until the new millennium, when India’s sudden urbanisation transformed Gurugram into a prime example of how reckless city planning can plunder groundwater so quickly that the land on which the city is built immediately begins to die. 

Groundwater is a mostly abstract resource to the millions of urban Indians who drink it every day. It seems like something that will last forever, so long as humans can dig deeper and deeper holes. There is little understanding of how the decline of water under our feet connects to life above ground. Real estate developers who were eyeing Gurgaon in the early 2000s didn’t understand these things better than anyone else, and so, in the absence of even a fledgling municipal corporation to guide them (Gurgaon’s wasn’t founded until 2008), they started throwing up apartment towers without thinking about how those towers would ruin the city’s drainage patterns or be supplied with water. They didn’t know–or care to find out–that they were paving over areas like the Badshahpur drain or the Nathupur drain, which are zones that could recharge groundwater. The residents, they figured, could buy groundwater from tanker trucks. It was cheap. People could use as much as they liked. 

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India relies on groundwater more than any other country–230 cubic kilometers per year, which is more than a quarter of all groundwater used globally. Piped water provided by city and state governments is often limited and unreliable, but even if that wasn’t the case, India just doesn’t have enough rivers and lakes to slake the thirst of the nation’s people and crops. Farms drink up most of the groundwater, but an increasing amount is being sucked down by satellite cities orbiting major metros, many of which have flared up around New Delhi over the past two decades in a frantic bid to unclog the planet’s second most populated city. None of them seem more infamous than Gurugram, which is now home to at least 20 lakh people who must rely on groundwater for drinking, showering, cooking, and everything else—a huge reason why the Ganga basin is the Earth’s most exploited groundwater supply, and is rapidly running dry. 

When groundwater levels plummet, the sudden absence of water forms a funnel, according to Abhijit Mukherjee, a groundwater sustainability expert at the Indian Institute of Technology Kharagpur (IIT-KGP). That funnel starts pulling groundwater from anywhere it can, which means that the surrounding area will also start losing groundwater even if nobody is extracting it. Eventually that funnel starts tugging on nearby rivers such as the Ganga, which relies on groundwater to flow well beyond the glacier where it begins. 

“If the water in your backyard is drying out, then your rivers are drying out,” Mukherjee says. 

Also read: Bengaluru is fated to run out of water. When will the crisis hit?

Sign of the times

In 1975, groundwater around New Delhi was 6-7 metres below the surface, but now it’s an average of nearly 40 metres down. Much of the region is pitted with borewells that drill more than 300 metres into the soil; in some areas, groundwater levels are plunging by about 2.5 metres per year. From the 1970s until 2016–according to a 2018 Scientific Reports study co-authored by Mukherjee–sections of the Ganga have lost roughly 59% of their groundwater supply, and the river has shrunk in kind. It’s not hard to imagine what would happen to India if its most vital river disappeared every time it got hot outside.

That problem may seem too theoretical to sound any alarms, but signs of Gurugram’s rampant groundwater extraction are already abundant if you know what to look for. Small local rivers such as the Thivi have vanished, some of which reappear only when torrential downpours flood roads that were paved over what used to be their channels. Shrubs and grasses are shriveling because the city’s soil struggles to hold any moisture. Rain sloughs useless dirt into the street. 

Small local rivers such as the Thivi have vanished, some of which reappear only when torrential downpours flood roads that were paved over what used to be their channels.

It’s easy to imagine groundwater replenishing with the next big storm, but that’s not how it works. Water seeps into the earth at a rate of only 2-3 metres per year, depending on the geology of the region; also, once an aquifer is sapped of its water, the ground that formed it contracts, meaning it probably won’t be able to hold that same amount ever again. Water extracted from the Ganga basin’s deepest borewells has likely been there since 2000-4000 BC. Last year, Gurugram withdrew double the amount of groundwater that it could naturally replenish, extracting over 200% of the permissible limit. 

“When this is exhausted,” says Venkatesh Dutta, a hydrology expert at Babasaheb Bhimrao Ambedkar University, “maybe this area will become like a desert.”

Also read: The intertwined fate of Navi Mumbai’s Kolis and the Kasardi river

An uncertain future

What’s happening in Gurugram and other satellite cities is a warning to the entire country. Nearly 65% of Indians still live in rural areas–compared to about 14% of the US–but India’s rate of urbanisation has soared in the 21st century. Far more is still to come, and if nothing changes, that means much more groundwater extraction.

Satbir Singh Kadian, the chief engineer of the Haryana Water Resources Authority, which oversees Gurugram’s water supply, has struggled for years to rein in the city’s use of groundwater. He insists, though, that Gurugram will soon break its dependency because of two recent developments. 

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Part of the problem has always been the city’s never-ending construction. Developers drilled borewells wherever they liked and used the extracted water to mix concrete. This went on until 10th February, 2022, when part of a building in the Chintels Paradiso apartment complex collapsed, killing two people and injuring several others. Haryana had banned using groundwater for construction in 2012, but it was the collapse’s legal ramifications that finally forced developers to listen to the government, which told them the groundwater used to build Chintels Paradiso was so full of pollutants like chloride, that the resulting concrete wasn’t sturdy enough. They convinced construction companies to use the government’s treated wastewater instead, free of cost. 

The government is also about to start building a canal to bring surface water to Gurugram, according to Kadian. It’s been a long time coming, and “of course” has been delayed, he says, but he believes the canal will be finished in two years. If he’s right, it has the potential to transform the city’s ecology. Then the challenge shifts to getting other cities in the Ganga basin to do the same. 

Produced by Nevin Thomas and Neerja Deodhar

Illustration by Prabhakaran S

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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.

What makes Darjeeling tea truly Darjeeling? How much of its fiery strength does the Guntur Sannam chilli owe to the growers who know just when to pluck and cure it? And without the Konkan’s laterite soil and salt-laden sea breeze, would the Alphonso still be hailed as the king of mangoes?

Geographical Indication tags (GI tags) seek to give a legal form to these entanglements, offering a framework to protect prized traditional products as well as the knowledge and geographic conditions that make them possible. In this column, I examine how GI tags for food and agricultural products operate in practice, exploring both–the promises they hold and the limitations producers face in translating those promises into meaningful gains. 

Whose place, whose gain? 

The idea of a GI tag gestures to the possibility that place-specific products can offer both distinctiveness in the marketplace—and recognition and prosperity to those who sustain them. Yet how this potential unfolds in practice is shaped by existing power structures and inequalities within each production system. 

Darjeeling tea, the country’s first GI tagged product, offers a compelling case. Grown on the slopes of the eastern Himalayas, the tea owes its delicate flavour not only to elevation and climate, but also to the labour of hill-dwelling communities who have cultivated and plucked its leaves for generations. The Tea Board of India, in fact, sought protection for the unique Darjeeling Tea back in the 1980s–long before the Geographical Indications of Goods Act was passed in 1999–by registering an official ‘Darjeeling Tea’ logo in other countries as a marker of authenticity; this protected, specifically, the exports of the tea from counterfeits.

Finally, the Board earned a GI tag for Darjeeling Tea in 2004, cementing a legal and structured relationship between the tea and its planters. GI protection reinforces the connection between terrain and taste, turning the plantation landscape into a site of heritage. At the same time, the legacy of colonial plantation economies remains evident in the structure of production, where estate ownership and export channels continue to shape who benefits most. While the GI helps guard the name ‘Darjeeling’ from misuse, its economic impact on workers—many of whom are landless and excluded from decision-making—remains limited. 

In the case of Goan Feni, a traditional spirit distilled from cashew apples, the GI tag similarly aims to preserve a culturally significant product, anchored in local knowledge and the distinct ecology of the region. Feni’s production depends on skilled artisanal labour: from selecting and crushing ripe fruit to managing natural fermentation and operating small-batch stills made of clay or copper. However, the economic value generated by the GI tag does not circulate evenly. 

Those involved in bottling, branding, and marketing capture a disproportionate share of profits, while cashew farm labourers and small-scale distillers receive far less. This is a newer, inverse development: historically, those involved in manufacturing and producing–not branding–held sway, because it is their skill and precision that impacts the quality of the feni. This disparity reflects broader patterns of access to education, capital, and regulatory literacy. Here, the GI tag solidifies the identity of Feni as uniquely Goan, but it does not, on its own, ensure equitable distribution of its benefits. Nor does it guarantee product integrity or visibility. Many major producers avoid using the GI label altogether, citing regulatory hurdles and the lack of standardisation or monitoring. 

Part of the problem lies in how GI tags are implemented in the country: they are often employed as legal instruments that privilege place as the primary source of value.

The land becomes the defining element of reputation, while the people whose labour, techniques, and histories give that land meaning often remain secondary. Even when human practices are acknowledged, they are absorbed into the language of terroir—romanticised but rarely politicised.  

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

Biodiversity conservation 

When designed with the purpose of biodiversity conservation, GI frameworks can support the continued cultivation of indigenous landraces, many of which are well adapted to local agro-climatic conditions and require fewer external inputs. In contrast, when GI specifications narrowly favour a single dominant variety or prioritise export-oriented branding, they can inadvertently narrow genetic diversity.  

As of 2024, 32 varieties of indigenous vegetable crops have been awarded GI tags in India. A notable example is the Udupi Mattu Gulla brinjal, cultivated in the coastal village of Mattu in Karnataka. This pale green, thin-skinned brinjal variety with immense cultural relevance to the local community owes its distinctive taste and appearance to the region’s clay loam soils, high humidity, and traditional cultivation practices passed down through generations. Concerned about the potential impact of genetically modified Bt brinjal on their local variety, farmers—supported by the Karnataka Department of Horticulture—mobilised to secure GI protection, which they obtained in 2011. The GI tag has helped preserve the seed and traditional cultivation methods and has prevented imitation by brinjal varieties grown elsewhere under the same name. 

While GI tags alone cannot safeguard biodiversity, they offer a promising entry point—especially when aligned with policies and market systems that reward ecological stewardship. 

Also read: The promises and perils of Indian aquaculture

The geopolitics of GI tags 

Next to being tools for protecting cultural heritage and biodiversity, GI tags are also instruments of geopolitical positioning. A long-standing divide exists between the European Union and the US on how GIs should be regulated. The EU promotes a sui generis model that offers strong, territory-based protection rooted in cultural specificity. The US, in contrast, treats GIs as part of its broader trademark system, allowing terms like ‘Parmesan’ or ‘Feta’ to be used generically for cheese. While often framed as a legal disagreement, this tension reflects broader questions of economic influence and cultural dominance in global markets. For many countries in the Global South, aligning with either model is rarely a neutral choice; it often occurs through trade negotiations and donor-driven policy reforms. 

The ripple effects of this divide are visible across Asia, where GI regimes have often been adopted in haphazard ways, without necessarily being adapted to local agrarian or regulatory contexts. In many cases, GI tags are treated more as branding opportunities or symbols of national pride than as governance tools embedded in functioning support systems for producers. This has led to confusion over ownership, vague definitions of producer groups, and little clarity about benefit-sharing, especially in contexts where supply chains are fragmented or informal. 

India and Pakistan’s dispute over international recognition of the provenance of Basmati rice illustrates the political stakes of GI claims. Both countries claim Basmati as their own, citing centuries of cultivation in the Indo-Gangetic plains. When India applied for exclusive GI protection for Basmati in the European Union in 2018, Pakistan contested the move, seeing it as an erasure of its co-heritage. The controversy highlights how GIs, rather than resolving issues of provenance, can entrench them within frameworks of geopolitical  rivalry.  

This phenomenon is not unique to cross-border conflicts. Similar contestations have emerged within countries, where the boundaries used to demarcate GI-covered regions can result in the exclusion of communities or businesses that produce the same product under comparable environmental and cultural conditions. In India, the dispute between West Bengal and Odisha over the origins of rasgulla exemplifies this dynamic. Both states claimed ownership over the sweet, citing distinct cultural histories and preparation methods. Eventually, they received separate GI tags, but the tussle exposed how questions of authenticity and entitlement are often shaped as much by regional pride and politics as by technical criteria.

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

More than a name 

GI protection is framed as a globally applicable system; until 2023, up to 58,600 protected GIs were in force across the word. But in practice, it privileges legal traditions and institutional logics that originate in Europe. Attempts to universalise these frameworks through instruments like the WTO’s Agreement on Trade-Related Aspects of Intellectual Property Rights (TRIPS) risk obscuring alternative ways of valuing food and agricultural heritage. In contexts like India, where farming is ecologically diverse and socially complex, the transplantation of these models often leads to mismatches between legal form and local realities. 

Currently, India has 530 GIs according to the World Intellectual Property Indicators Report, 2024. The number pales in comparison to China’s leading 9,785 GIs and even Bulgaria, Bosnia and Herzegovina, all of which have over 4000 GIs. The report attributes this to the lack of protection to Indian GIs through international agreements, but closer to home, aching gaps in the registration policies and processing times for acquiring a GI tag have no less impact.

For GIs to serve as instruments of biodiversity conservation and equitable development, they must be reimagined through frameworks that centre producers' knowledge, ecological stewardship, and collective rights. When coupled with efforts to strengthen market access, ensure fair pricing, and build producer-driven value chains, GI recognition can become a powerful tool for delivering meaningful economic returns to those who sustain these traditions. 

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Illustrated by Prabhakaran S

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Editor’s Note: In this series, the Good Food Movement explores composting—a climate-friendly, organic way to deal with waste. We answer questions about what you can compost, how to build composting bins and how this process can reshape our relationship with nature and our urban ecosystem.

Somewhere, in the back of your fridge, a half-cut lemon is quietly dying. On the kitchen counter, a banana peel is browning at the edges, oxidising in peace. It’s tempting, in moments like these, to believe that since these scraps come from the earth, the right thing to do is return them there—directly, with no fuss. Just dig a hole in your garden or potted plant, drop them in, pat the soil, and trust that nature will sort it all out.

But nature is not your tidy, obliging roommate. Left to its own devices, nature can be a little… feral.

A baneful byproduct

What seems like a simple return-to-the-soil moment actually triggers a complex process known as anaerobic decomposition—that is, rotting in the absence of oxygen. Your buried veggie scraps will begin to break down, sure, but not in the clean, cooperative way you imagined. Instead, thriving without oxygen, a set of anaerobic bacteria move in. They are smelly, slow, and disturbingly fond of producing methane, a potent greenhouse gas. The buried banana peel won’t become rich, healthy soil. It’ll ferment underground and maybe even poison your plants along the way.

Composting, on the other hand, is organised decomposition. It is aerobic, meaning it depends on oxygen and works on balance. Composting takes the chaos of rotting food and organises it into a microbial feast. When done right, a compost pile heats up to around 60°C, killing off pathogens and weed seeds while inviting an entire ecosystem of beneficial bacteria, fungi, and worms to get to work. Your kitchen waste doesn't just disappear; it transforms into a dark, earthy material that smells like a walk in the woods. 

Plus, composting shouldn't smell bad if managed well. A sharp, chemical smell often signals too much nitrogen, while musty or rotten egg odours usually mean there's too much moisture or not enough oxygen. You can fix this with dry carbon materials (dried leaves or coconut husk) and aeration. Most odours stem from anaerobic conditions and can be controlled with proper mixing, moisture balance, and ventilation.

Composting, on the other hand, is organised decomposition.

Methane-related concerns aside, what could go wrong with burying your veggie peels in the soil? The answer, besides the smell and potential for pest infestations (hello, rats), lies in chemistry. Raw kitchen waste, when dumped directly into the soil, devours a lion’s share of the nitrogen from the soil to decompose. This means microbes feast first—and your plants go hungry. In contrast, compost is pre-digested food. It offers nutrients that are stable, balanced, and readily absorbed by roots. 

Also read: Why composting is good for your garden—and the planet

Yes, composting takes some effort. You have to collect your scraps. You need a bin or a pile, some patience, and a willingness to stir what is essentially very slow, very warm, smelly garbage. But the return is generous: a substance Cleopatra once honoured by making its producers—worms—sacred. A fertiliser so alive it practically hums. And perhaps most satisfyingly, a deep, smug thrill that you’ve made something useful out of waste.

The next time you eye that mouldy bread or onion skin, resist the urge to bury it in your flowerpot like a secret. Compost it. Because even chaos needs structure. And your kitchen waste deserves better.

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The dawn of the 2025 mango season in Pune’s Agricultural Produce Market Committee (APMC) yard was nothing short of historic and dramatic. In a stunning twist that sent ripples through Maharashtra’s mango-loving community, the very first crate auctioned was not the legendary Hapus (Alphonso), but the vibrant Kesar. This prized 5.5 kg crate, sourced from the fertile lands of Devgad, commanded a jaw-dropping ₹31,000—an emphatic statement of the Kesar’s rising dominance and desirability. 

“This suggests a growing market preference for the variety, which may influence farmers’ decisions to cultivate it over Hapus due to consistent demand and competitive pricing,” says Dr. Bhagwanrao Kapse, an advocate for Kesar mango cultivation and the former Director of Pune-based National Institute of Post-Harvest Technology. He has mentored farmers, horticulturists, and agri-entrepreneurs in the Marathwada region about best practices in Kesar mango cultivation and marketing. 

For decades, the Hapus has been the undisputed king of mangoes, celebrated for its rich, buttery flavour, intoxicating aroma, and smooth, fibreless pulp. Grown primarily along the Konkan coast, it has enjoyed a cult-like following both in India and overseas, fetching premium prices and inspiring poetry, art, and fierce regional pride. But now that the "king of mangoes" has a rival, things appear to be shifting.

The proof: farmers in Maharashtra are displaying a stronger preference for Kesar.

The Gir Kesar mango–also called Kesar–was first grown in Gujarat in 1931, with grafts planted on the foothills of the Girnar Hill of Junagadh. It was the Nawab of Junagadh who, taken by the sweetness and bright orange pulp of this particular variety, named it after the saffron spice. Ever since, the Kesar has been cultivated across the Saurashtra and Kutch region of Gujarat; particularly well-loved are the honey-sweet mangoes that come from the districts of Gir, Talala and Mangrol.

While the Kesar eventually made its way to Maharashtra, the state has always dominated the cultivation of the iconic Hapus, traditionally in the Konkan region (Ratnagiri and Devgad are two leading districts in its production); it was, after all, planted right along the Konkan coast in the 1500s, grafted to be sweet, and pulpy, yet easy to cut into neat slices for the dining table.

But the Hapus was grafted for a climate that has turned drastically in over 500 years, while the young Kesar still stands resilient to these changes.

In the last decade, Kesar cultivation has also gained traction in areas like Marathwada and North Konkan. Farmers in these regions are increasingly switching to Kesar due to its regular fruit-bearing cycle (unlike Hapus, which often bears fruit in alternate years) and lower investment needs, among other reasons.

Also read: At this mango ‘museum’ in Gujarat, 300-plus varieties thrive

The Hapus is a diva among Mangoes, but growing it requires very specific conditions. It demands a delicate balance of temperature, humidity, and rainfall conditions found in the narrow coastal strip of Konkan. Here, the monsoon brings just enough rain, and the sea breeze tempers the heat, creating the perfect environment for the Hapus to thrive. Sadly, climate aberrations and the problems they bring have pushed up production costs because of extensive crop management. Ultimately, this has led to a fall in yield. This year, Maharashtra’s Hapus yield plummeted to a mere 35% of the previous year’s harvest, marking the lowest yield in the last 20 years. 

Sandesh Patil, who owns an orchard spread over 24 acres on the foothills of Kankeshwar in Alibaug, elaborates: “The Konkan rain pattern has shifted, indicating a longer monsoon return. The delay in the beginning of winter and unseasonable rains every day of the month cause crop infestations that are uncontrollable with pesticides, raising production costs. The fruit is scorched because the heat that usually occurs in April starts in February.”

Hapus trees are shallow-rooted and highly sensitive to drought, heat waves, and erratic weather. They are prone to diseases like “spongy tissue”–causing some parts of the flesh to turn pale and soft–and kapasi, which can devastate entire orchards. As climate change brings more unpredictable weather–seasonal rains, scorching summers, and dry spells– Hapus farmers are increasingly at the mercy of nature.

A study comparing costs found that cultivating Alphonso costs around ₹3,00,000 per hectare, while Kesar comes in at around ₹80,000 per acre. With higher yields and lower risk, Kesar offers a more reliable and profitable proposition for farmers.

Kesar vs Hapus on the plate

Is one variety tastier than the other? Can such a question even be asked?

Renowned food writer & consultant–as well as a mango lover–Madhulika Dash expands on the taste of Kesar versus Hapus mangoes, an ongoing debate. “Hapus, known for its rich, creamy texture and well-balanced sweet-tart flavour, remains the more favoured variety in terms of taste. Nevertheless, Kesar, a native variety, is equally enchanting. Kesar mangoes are distinctly sweet, with a delicate floral fragrance and a straightforward honey-like taste. Although their flavour is exceptional, their flesh tends to be firmer and occasionally slightly grainy.” She further notes, “Alphonso strikes a perfect balance, with a slight tang that complements its sweetness, resulting in a luscious experience cherished by mango enthusiasts. Ultimately, the choice between Kesar and Hapus depends on individual preference–whether one desires a pure, floral sweetness or a more complex, layered flavour profile.”

Consumers’ preference of Kesar over Alphonso could certainly inform cultivation patterns–and this is all the more evident in Indian exports, where Kesar has overtaken Hapus–but it is not the only factor. For farmers, the preference for Kesar is not merely a matter of taste but a response to a complex interplay of climate, economics, agronomy, and global market forces. The story of this transition is as layered and nuanced as the flavours of the fruits themselves: a tale of resilience, adaptation, and hope for the future of Indian agriculture.

Also read: No monkeying around on this kiwi farm

Climate and cultivation

What makes the Kesar mango so favourable to the elements?

Low humidity (35-50% for most of the year) reduces the risk of fungal diseases, and the well-drained soils allow Kesar trees to tap into groundwater reserves. These circumstances not only guarantee the trees' survival but also improve the fruit's quality, resulting in Marathwada Kesar mangoes having some of the highest sugar contents (up to 24° Brix) of any Indian variety.

In fact, the Marathwada Kesar earned a Geographical Indication (GI) tag in 2016–even before Maharashtra’s Alphonso. 

Kesar is a survivor. Its deep-rooted trees are well-adapted to the hot, dry, and often harsh conditions of inland Maharashtra. The Marathwada region, lying in the rain shadow of the Sahyadri hills, receives moderate and variable rainfall (about 90 cm annually), with long, dry summers and cool winters. The fruit has sugars and flavour compounds which are developed by the vast diurnal range of winter temperatures, which can reach 38–43°C during the day and drop to 20°C at night.

For farmers, the bottom line matters. Kesar mangoes offer several economic advantages. Thanks to modern planting techniques like ultra-high-density planting (UHDP), Kesar orchards can accommodate up to 400 trees per hectare, compared to 80-100 trees per acre for traditional Hapus orchards. This dramatically increases output per unit area. 

The proof is in the mango pudding

Curiously, Parmanand Gavane's farm in Belanki, which is 25 km from Sangli district’s Miraj town, has evolved into a mango grower's paradise; it remains the best illustration of UHDP. The number of visitors to his four-acre farm with 3,600 Kesar mango trees peaks in May and June, when the trees are laden with fruit. These tourists are primarily farmers from Maharashtra, Andhra Pradesh, and Karnataka. Gavane's plantation is a "super UHDP," with 900 plants per acre as opposed to the usual 674 plants per acre. Although he harvests about 8 tonnes per acre, he thinks that more can be accomplished with good orchard management.

Gavane stresses on the benefits of UHDP: particularly, its ability to increase productivity up to 2-3 times, reduce water used for irrigation up to 50 per cent and increase fertiliser intake by plants. He spends close to ₹1,00,000 per acre, which includes fertiliser and labour costs and ends up with a profit of  ₹6,00,000 per acre. Additionally, he sells around 40,000 saplings of Kesar every year.

Thriving orchard and nursery

By developing an orchard in his hamlet Antral in the Jat Taluka of the Sangli district in 2010, Kakasaheb Sawant challenged the farmers' belief that Hapus could only be produced in the Konkan.

Today, farmers in the Marathwada region and even certain areas of the Konkan belt buy Kesar mango saplings from his orchard-cum-nursery: named for the forest goddess Banashankari, it is situated on 25 acres in an area prone to drought. Sawant has installed two 4-km-long pipelines to supply water from the Krishna River's Mhaisal Lift Irrigation Scheme to irrigate his orchard and nursery. A farm pond, known as shet tal locally, has been constructed with funding from the State's Agriculture Department. “Since 2015, when I started the nursery, I have sold over seven lakh Kesar saplings,” says Sawant, who was honoured with the Udyan Pandit award by the Maharashtra government.

Kesar mango growers are abundant in Marathwada–primarily located in districts such as Aurangabad (Chhatrapati Sambhaji Nagar), Jalna, Beed, Latur, Osmanabad, Nanded, Parbhani, and Hingoli. Aurangabad leads with over 40,000 hectares under cultivation, supported by notable nurseries like Devendra Nursery, and exporters such as Sushil Agro Farms and JAY Agro Export. The Marathwada Mango Growers Association plays a key role in expanding cultivation and facilitating exports.

Latur accounts for about 15% of the region’s Kesar mango area, with government-backed facilities for pre-cooling and packaging to boost exports. Other districts also have significant growers adopting solid and UHDP methods. Large agribusinesses like Bikkad Agritech and Aurum Farms operate extensive estates promoting sustainable, high-quality production.

Dr Kapse further explains why: “The region’s hot, dry climate enhances the mango’s saffron-like colour, sweetness, and size, making Marathwada Kesar mangoes highly prized domestically and internationally. Collectively, individual farmers, associations, and agribusinesses have established Marathwada as a major Kesar mango production and export hub.”

Also read: Inside one of India's biggest mango markets

Export success

In exports, Kesar dominates Indian mango shipments, making up about 70% due to its longer shelf life, resilience to handling, and suitability for treatments like vapour heat and irradiation.

Major markets include the US, UK, Canada, and the Middle East, where demand is growing rapidly. This export growth has driven investments in cold storage, grading, packaging, and irradiation infrastructure, reducing post-harvest losses and increasing farmer returns.

India’s mango exports are rising, overall, with a 19% increase in volume in 2023, valued at nearly $48 billion, and Kesar mango pulp exports alone reached $19.35 million in 2023-24. The US is the largest importer of Kesar pulp, followed by the UK and Canada. This export success complements a strong domestic market where Alphonso remains highly prized but limited by seasonal and weather challenges, while Kesar’s steadier availability helps balance supply and farmer income.

Within India, Kesar mango benefits from favourable market timing, arriving just after the Alphonso season to fill a supply gap with a consistently available, more affordable premium mango that stabilises farmer incomes. Though priced lower than Alphonso, Kesar’s broader consumer appeal supports steady demand.

The story of Maharashtra’s mango farmers is one of adaptation and innovation. Faced with the twin challenges of climate change and market volatility, they are embracing Kesar as a way to secure their livelihoods and continue India’s long and revered relationship with mangoes. While Hapus will always hold a special place in the hearts of mango lovers, Kesar is rapidly carving out its legacy, testament to the resilience and ingenuity of India’s farmers.

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Ashok Khamkar sits at the galla [counter]; he keeps a steady eye on the spices being measured. He welcomes customers, gives supervisory commands, and deftly counts the currency notes, all while talking to this writer. At 78, he is the third-generation proprietor of Ashok Khamkar and Sons, the oldest spice store in Lalbaug, Mumbai. Customers engage in heated conversations with the store assistants, giving precise instructions about how they want their masalas made. Mirchis are sifted in cane soops [winnowing baskets], and the lighter chaff is flung into the air, briefly suspended in a haze of light. It’s a Tuesday morning, and the store seems as busy as ever. “It’s actually very slow-going today. You should come by on a weekend, or at the beginning of Shravan (the festival season) and see what the rush is like then,” Khamkar says with a chuckle.

Lalbaug may be synonymous with Lalbaugcha Raja, the majestic Ganpati idol which rides on the shoulders of the South Bombay neighbourhood every monsoon. But the area is also home to other cultural landmarks and lore beyond its iconic deity. One of them is Masala Galli, or Mirchi Galli. A cluster of arterial roads in the heart of Lalbaug, it houses over 25 shops that sell carefully sourced and locally ground spices. The narrow lanes are a smorgasbord of colour, smell and texture. Different varieties of chillies are piled high in gunny sacks, golden turmeric dries in the sun, and semicircles of dried coconut split open—all arresting the senses. 

One walk through the galli, and it's easy to identify who started it all. Ashok Khamkar and Sons (previously the original G.W. Khamkar and Sons) stands proudly at the very entrance to the lane. The shop, which started in 1933, initially sold only khada masalas or whole spices.

Lalbaug was once one of Mumbai’s industrial neighbourhoods. Mill workers, who were either native to the city or had migrated from the Satara or Konkan regions, lived in neighbouring chawls—small one- or two- room tenements with shared passageways and washrooms. “These workers loved eating rice and spice in all forms. Many shopkeepers started selling chiwda and masalas here to cater to the local population’s demand in their everyday cooking, as well as during events and ceremonies. Now, we sell whole spices, grind them to order, and also offer the same masalas as packaged goods under our own brand," Khamkar says.

 G.W. Khamkar and Sons later expanded and diversified. Today, one can find many Khamkar variants throughout the galli—each operated by a different member of the family. Over the decades, the galli has become, and continues to remain, a core part of Mumbai’s local spice economy. Customers come here once every few months, or annually, and take home freshly pounded spices. 

Also read: Mumbai’s Nagori dairies are a living archive of milk, migration—and memory

‍Committed to the ‘grind’

Each store in Mirchi Galli has their own special recipe blend for masalas, that have been meticulously chronicled in ledgers and passed down the family. "Customers tell us what kind of spice mixture they want and we immediately make it for them," an assistant at Ashok Khamkar and Sons says. On offer are innumerable mixes including, but not limited to ‘special Malvani masala’ (this masala, made with red chillies, coriander, nutmeg and other dry spices is crucial to Malvani cuisine, a fiery coastal style of cooking in Maharashtra), ‘special garam masala,’ ‘kanda-lasoon masala,’ [onion-garlic paste] ‘special chicken-mutton masala,’ ‘sambar masala,’ ‘tandoori masala’ and ‘pav bhaji masala.’

Customers come in and give their wholesale orders; nobody orders less than 5 kilograms at a time.

Assistants, in turn, know these recipes like the back of their hands—they write down the customer’s name, the masala and quantity to be made, along with a list of ingredients and their proportions on a long bill-like piece of paper. They look at the surname of the client placing the order, and that too becomes a factor for customising the masala. "Look here,” Khamkar gestures eagerly. "The surname is Parab, a 'kattar' Malvani. Us Khamkars are from the Konkan region and known for our Malvani masala in particular. We understand what kind of flavour profile it should have."

Rahul Kale, Sales and Operations Manager of G.W. Khamkar Masale—the new variant of the store just down the road—says that the process of making masalas has also evolved over time. “Back in the ‘70s and ‘80s, making a masala was a lengthy and arduous enterprise, taking nearly 5 days. People who used to work in the mills and live in nearby areas used to purchase spices from these stores, sun-dry them on the terraces of their own houses and then return to us to get them ground. Masalas used to be ground in chakkis, but this approach burnt the natural oils present in the spices, charring and turning them bitter. Now, we have mechanised, and use dankhis (large machines that look like gigantic mortar- and-pestles) for this process,” he says.

Kale points to the different kinds of whole spices on display, all of which are sourced from across the country. The galli sells five kinds of mirchis—Kashmiri, Byadagi, Reshampatti, Pandi and Lavangi. Most garam masalas like nutmeg, cardamom, cloves, and bay leaves are procured from the spice-rich state of Kerala. Others like coriander seeds, fennel seeds and cinnamon travel all the way from Indore, Rajasthan and Vietnam respectively to Mumbai. They undergo quality checks, are cleaned and then sold.

A dark alley serpentines around the store to open out into a roasting area. Different bags with an assortment of whole spices have been packed and labelled according to customer requests, and are placed in a corner. Men toil away at their massive kadhais—pouring ghee; roasting turmeric, bay leaves and cinnamon; and then gently adding the other spices. Their arms move back and forth, fanning out the masalas to evenly distribute heat, and then folding them gently into a fragrant mound. The roasting area has its own rhythm. The chimneys are blackened with soot, the air thick with the smoky sweetness of each spice.

Once these spices are roasted for about 30-45 minutes, they are taken to the dankhis—the machine’s multiple pillars moving up and down sequentially, pounding the spices into a coarse, aromatic mix. 

“Now, the whole process only takes about 3-4 hours, depending on how crowded we are,” Kale says. “Many who used to live in Lalbaug moved to the northern suburbs after the mills shut down. However, many families have been coming to us for generations to purchase their spices, and they still do—from Western suburbs like Jogeshwari and Borivali, and suburbs beyond Mumbai, like Vasai, Thane, and Dahanu. Our store and galli is so famous that people even come all the way from Pune and Kolhapur,” Khamkar says. Many women make a day out of this endeavour, travelling long distances, waiting till their masalas are pounded and then returning home. “We call it their masala day!” he jokes. 

The stores in Masala Galli also sell the same spice mixtures in packets of 100g and 200g like one would find at a grocery store. “This is just the sales front,” Kale says, of the G.W. Khamkar Masale store. “We have an entirely different office in Lalbaug where our spices are ground and packaged in bulk, which we then sell here. On average, we sell nearly 250-300 kilos of masalas everyday. This helps us cater to customers who want their spices freshly ground and customised, and also to families who want to purchase these masalas in smaller quantities.”

‍A culture of vigilance and care

India is the world’s largest spice producer, exporter, and consumer. Exporting more than 200 spices to over 150 countries, it accounts for one-fourth of the global spice trade. The domestic market alone was worth $10 billion in 2024, making it the world's largest consumer of spices. However, rampant adulteration has dampened the industry’s prospects over the past few decades. Spices of popular brands in India have been detected with colouring agents containing lead, and preservatives like ethylene oxide, which is classified as a Group 1 carcinogen. In fact, in May 2023, Food and Drug Control authorities in Gujarat seized over 3,000 kg of adulterated spices including chilli, turmeric, and coriander powder.

The country’s spice export industry has also come under heat from foreign regulatory boards in the U.S., Hong Kong and Singapore amongst others. In the wake of such incidents, the Indian Council of Medical Research has encouraged consumers to buy whole spices instead of powdered ones in its updated dietary guidelines issued in 2024. “The advisory comes in the wake of mounting evidence suggesting that powdered spices are more susceptible to adulteration, after popular Indian spice manufacturers came under scrutiny for using high levels of pesticides in their spices.”

Sunil Ganapat Kale, 62, the second-generation proprietor of Vishwas Masala Kendra (VMK), cites trust in small, local businesses and allegations of adulteration in commercially sold spices as one of the primary reasons why customers return to Masala Galli. “Here, people get to watch and supervise their spices being ground in-person. Adulteration can happen in a number of ways. Often, chillies that are lightweight, and hence differ in flavour, are used, or turmeric is substituted for besan [gram flour]. Mass-manufactured masalas claim to offer a specific quantity, but a closer look reveals that packaging makes up some of their weight. It’s difficult for lay consumers to identify this,” he says.

“Amhi graahakanna nehemi saangto: kahihi chuk zhaali asel tar amhala kalva” [We always tell our customers: if we have made any mistake then let us know]. Sheetal Rane, who is standing right next to us, and who has been a devoted VMK patron for the last 25 years smiles and says, “There has never come a time when we have had to do this. My mother-in-law used to come here earlier, and now I have taken up this duty. I come here annually and purchase 5 kilograms of Malvani masala and garam masala each. I immediately test them out and use them for my everyday cooking. I have always called to say that the masala tastes excellent, as always.”

Customers say that the stores in Masala Galli display a deep-seated responsibility towards them, and the fact that they can see their masalas being made from start to end are influential factors in drawing them back here.

Such is their loyalty that they queue up outside VMK, braving the sun and the loud noise of the dankhis and watch eagle-eyed to ensure that their masalas are in safe hands. Protective commands are constantly being flung across the store threshold: “Aaho, vyavasteet bhaaza haan” [Please roast the masalas properly] and ‘Mazha masala vegla theva haan, toh Agri masala mazha nahiye” [Make sure that you’re separating and packaging my masalas properly. Don’t confuse it with the other customer’s Agri masala].

Ashu D’Souza, who has travelled all the way from Virar with her son, tells me, “You can’t risk your children’s health. I would rather spend an extra day coming here and making sure that the products I use are healthy. The price is very fair for the amount of effort they put in and the quality of the masalas. Spending an extra few rupees here is better than doling out the same money at a doctor’s office later!”

Also read: The uncertain future of Aarey Forest’s tribal agriculture

Why old-school still sells

There are other reasons why Masala Galli has maintained a stronghold in Mumbai’s spice economy, even in the face of mass-produced, packaged and branded masalas. “What we specialise in is completely different from the spice categories of larger brands,” VMK’s Kale says. “Big-name brands have chilli powder, turmeric powder, tandoori masala, garam masala, Kitchen King masala and the like on offer. While these are fast sellers here as well, we have focused on traditional masalas—like Malvani masala, Agri-Koli masala, Ghati masala and Usal masala—a category largely untouched by bigger brands.”

Pradnya Sawant, who moved to Mumbai from Malvan nearly two decades ago after her marriage, says she eagerly experimented with spices from all of the city's local markets. “I bought spices from the smaller spice markets at Crawford, Masjid Bunder, Lalbaug, Mazgaon, Bhuleshwar and Dadar. But I found that Masala Galli’s spices are distinctive, and bring out the flavours of my curries and vegetables in an almost miraculous way. The quality of these spices is so good that you can store them for 2-2.5 years and they won’t spoil. Once I add a few spoonfuls of the Malvani masala, my job is done—the dish takes care of itself,” she says. "If you scale up what a conventional brand charges for small packets, buying in bulk in this street often costs the same, sometimes even lesser," customers say.

To its credit, Masala Galli has also adapted to technological change, the rise of quick-commerce apps, and the challenges posed by the pandemic. Nearly all the stores in the galli accept orders over phone call, and provide free home delivery services in Mumbai, and its extensions like Thane, Navi Mumbai and Palghar. Their masalas are in demand in hotels across Maharashtra and Karnataka. Some of them, like G.W. Khamkar Masale, have also made their products available on apps like Blinkit, JioMart and BigBasket, thus levelling their playing field with more established brands. “We first experimented with online deliveries in the pandemic, when business took a hit,” Kale says. “But soon, this change yielded results. Including online deliveries and in-person purchases, we now sell about 150-200 kg of masalas on average everyday.”

VMK’s Kale reminisces about a time when mill workers’ families used to throng the galli and everybody came together during festival time to celebrate. “Even now, on weekends, we often set up tables and makeshift counters outside the store so that we can cater to the rush of customers with more ease."

"But there was something about knowing each face by name and a different kind of stability in the business—a sort of telepathy and chemistry between customer and shopkeeper. I think some of that still persists, which is why we are still here,” he says. 

Business still feels personal in this corner of Mumbai. During the summers and monsoons, the stores offer customers tea, and set up umbrella shades and table fans for them. “They make sure that the elderly are prioritised,” Rane says. When asked what makes her come all the way to Lalbaug and not order online, she smiles and says, “You speak exactly like my daughter. Every time I go to even a regular grocery store, she is perplexed and asks me—‘Aai, just Blinkit na?’ But coming here reminds me of my childhood. I enjoy the sensory experience of touching the granular halad [turmeric], or taking in the sugandha [aroma] of the garam masalas. Ordering online is just not just the same.”

Also read: Bastar’s secret ingredient? The power of preservation

Ayush, Khamkar’s 22 year old grandson, heir to Ashok Khamkar and Sons and former Captain of India’s national gymnastics team, says, “None of us engage in any kind of fraudulent activities because we are not only conscious of our responsibility towards our customers, and but also of protecting Lalbaug’s reputation.” The socio-cultural homogeneity of Masala Galli’s tight-knit Marathi community is evident—both among the shop owners and their customers. Ayush stops to greet and talk to nearly every one of the shopkeepers during our conversation.

When asked whether he would genuinely like taking over the business, the younger Khamkar smiles. “Oh yes, of course, I do it voluntarily. I made a lot of mistakes in the early days; for example, one of my steepest learning curves was learning to differentiate between spices. For the first few weeks here, one of our oldest assistants kept correcting me when I gave normal coriander seeds to our customers, instead of the green variety they actually wanted,” he admits sheepishly. “I won’t lie—sports keeps calling back to me, also because it runs in my family. I don’t know what decision I will ultimately end up making.”

Ayush’s dilemma echoes across the next generation poised to continue the legacy of Masala Galli. Several proprietors confide that their children are unsure of taking over the business, and keep oscillating between trying their hand at running the store and pursuing further education and other employment opportunities. “Long-time patrons still value the owner’s presence during their visits—it’s become a quiet symbol of trust. While the younger generation is somewhat ambivalent, the strong demand and financial promise of the business is nudging them toward getting involved,” Khamkar says.

Lalbaug and its neighbouring Byculla have long housed different sections of the city’s populace—from mill workers to the mafia—both of which, Khamkar cheekily claims, once frequented the original G.W. Khamkar and Sons. The spatial and social architecture of the regions has changed: chawls have given way to high-rise towers. But in an age of urban anonymity, is a bastion of a personalised food economy tucked into a corner of South Bombay, inviting one to pause—to step out of Mumbai’s consumerist craze. Here, workers quietly pound time into tradition, memory into masala. They may be invisible, but their loyal clientele is proof that human connection is the beating heart of a business, even in the face of technological interventions. 

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Editor’s Note: In this series, the Good Food Movement explores composting—a climate-friendly, organic way to deal with waste. We answer questions about what you can compost, how to build composting bins and how this process can reshape our relationship with nature and our urban ecosystem.

It is easy to visualise the afterlife of some of our everyday trash. Paper, for example, gets recycled into notebooks, while plastic, on the other hand, is fashioned into bottles. But what happens to kitchen waste? 

Biodegradable waste—think fruit peels, veggie scraps and yellowing herbs—naturally decomposes over a period of time. What if you decide to compost it instead?

Composting creates conditions like aeration, moisture, and warm temperatures to speed up the breaking down of organic matter. At the end of the process, you get a dark, crumbly, soil-like material that smells earthy and works as an effective organic fertiliser.

The word ‘composting’ itself comes from the Latin word compositus, which means ‘to put together.’ That’s what composting is: putting together organic waste and some water to allow for aerobic decomposition using a mixture of water, to result in a nutrient-rich fertiliser, often called ‘black gold’. This organic waste can constitute a range of ingredients from your kitchen–including tea leaves, coffee grounds, and eggshells.

The climate change connection

Beyond its uses in gardening, composting also contributes to the fight against climate change. The world wastes over a billion tonnes of food annually—one-fifth of all food available to people living on our planet. In India alone, the annual food waste adds up to 78.2 million tonnes, which is about 26.5% of the total annual staple food requirement per Indian. This wasted food makes its way to landfills, where it rots in the lack of oxygen. A certain kind of bacteria, called a methanogen, survives particularly well in the absence of oxygen. Unfortunately, when methanogens break down food anaerobically, it creates methane, a gas that has approximately 28 times the global warming potential of carbon dioxide.

Composting brings the circular economy to your balcony, and helps you join in the fight against climate change.

Food waste contributes to 8-10% of all greenhouse gas emissions, having five times the impact of the aviation industry. Harriet Lamb, CEO of The Waste and Resources Action Programme, put it powerfully: “Were it a country, food waste would be the world’s third largest emitter after China and the USA.”

A disarmingly simple way to reduce greenhouse gas emissions is to compost our food waste. A Nature study showed that greenhouse gas emissions from composting were 38–84% lower than from the same volume of landfilling of food waste. Composting brings the circular economy to your balcony, and helps you join in the fight against climate change.

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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.

At 2 PM every afternoon, 53-year-old Gajanan Budhaji Kadke navigates a narrow, unpaved road in his autorickshaw. This hidden path, invisible from the Mumbai-Satara Highway unless one is specifically seeking the Roadpali fishermen at the Taloja and Kasardi river confluence, leads to his home. Past a handful of makeshift houses, standing at the very end is Kadke's dwelling; it bears a silent visual memory of his past–the fishing nets that were once essential to his livelihood, now hang idly like relics on his shed and the fence guarding it. What led this former fisherman to cast aside his nets and take up driving an auto-rickshaw?

The Kasardi or Kasadi river, spanning 20 km in Navi Mumbai, is more than just a water body—it’s a cultural and ecological cornerstone for Taloja’s (approx) 11,000 residents. Historically, the river was a fishing haven with nearly 45 fish varieties–including mackerel, shark, tilapia, bombay duck and other saltwater fish. The Koli community in areas such as Roadpali, Taloja, Kopara, and Navade have been traditionally dependent on the river and Panvel Creek for their livelihood.

However, steady contamination of the river has altered their very existence. Untreated industrial and domestic waste disposed in the Kasardi river has decimated fish populations, robbing the Koli community of their primary income source over the years.

“As children, we used to bathe and frolic in the river. Boats used to return full of fish, but now, you won’t be able to catch a single one.”

“A significant primary source of pollutants is the extensive old habitation directly discharging sewage into the Kasardi river. The Maharashtra Industrial Development Corporation (MIDC) has provided stormwater drainage outlets into the river. Beyond the MIDC area, new industries located on the banks of the river in nearby villages like Valap, Tondare, Pendhar and Diwale are also contributing to pollution,” says Dr Vikrant Hemant Bhalerao, Sub-regional Officer at the Maharashtra Pollution Control Board (MPCB), Taloja.

MIDC was established by Maharashtra state in 1962, leading to the quick acquisition of land in Navi Mumbai, which had been newly developed as a satellite town at the time, by the City and Industrial Development Corporation (CIDCO). CIDCO now reports 5,375 industrial plots and a total of 3,928 industries in the industrial belt along Navi Mumbai.  “In a few areas, there is a direct flow diversion of the Kasardi owing to illegal dumping and development by the industries located outside MIDC,” Dr Bhalerao explains.

The re-writing of a community livelihood

Dashrath Koli, now in his sixties, quit fishing 12 years ago after casting nets for three decades. “The arrival of the companies by the riverside led to chemicals leaching into the Kasardi. Over the years, it became increasingly difficult for us to catch fish, so I had to quit the profession. It completely ended our livelihood,” he says. Ever since, he’s spent his days at home in Kopara gaon, Kharghar. When asked if he considered pursuing other work, he rues, “Nobody is willing to hire a man above 60.” 

Koli’s story is resonant and familiar to many in the community. His household of six is reliant on his son's income from driving an auto rickshaw, as well as the earnings of his wife, Baby, who is a fishmonger. Baby buys catch from the Taloja fish market and sells it in Kopara gaon. She earns roughly Rs 500—and occasionally, Rs 800—per day. As she recalls childhood memories, Baby says, “I used to accompany my father to the riverside...it was possible to drink its water back then.”

Gajanan Kadke’s memories of the Kasardi are as clear as the river once was. “As children, we used to bathe and frolic in the river. Boats used to return full of fish, but now, you won’t be able to catch a single one.” A dip was observed in fishermen’s incomes over the past 15 years, when their monthly earnings amounted to only Rs 4,000–5,000—even when the city received heavy rainfall. Previously, they could easily earn Rs 10,000–Rs 15,000 per month. It was only the COVID-19 pandemic and subsequent shutting down of factories by the river that changed their fates: they were able to catch hundreds of kilos of fish in this period.

To combat the lack of fish in the Kasardi, Koli fishermen have constructed small, man-made ponds to breed and catch fish across the city. These ponds are part of a traditional fishing practice, offering a localised ecosystem where fish can thrive and the community can ensure a steady supply. The ponds also help filter out pollutants and allow fish to spawn. In this area, the fishermen’s traditional fish ponds are supported by the Kasardi creek–which in itself is surrounded by spongy mangroves and mudflats. As a consequence, during high tide, the polluted water from the creek flows over, killing the fish being bred in the small ponds. The pond next to Kadke’s dwelling sometimes faces a similar fate. When the monsoon starts, the chemically infused water flows further into the river, polluting these ponds with toxic effluents and ultimately poisoning the aquatic life–before the eggs even mature.

Ultimately, financial strain pushed Kadke to switch professions. Beyond its impact on fishing, the Kasardi also limited Kadke’s ability to work in sand quarries. Diving into its toxic waters affected his esophagus, for which he had to undergo surgery twice.

The stark difference in the cost of living across five decades is hard for him to ignore. “My earnings from driving [an auto] are not sufficient to run the family, pay bills and meet our daily and health expenditures. On the other hand, our parents were able to build a home and the foundation for our future as fisherfolk solely by fishing,” he says. For the Kadkes, a home of their own remains a faraway dream in a city that is only becoming more expensive.

Also read: Bengaluru is fated to run out of water. When will the crisis hit?

Wading through murky waters

Presently, a significant chunk of the river–called Ganesh Ghat–is choked by water hyacinth, which can cut off oxygen supply for aquatic life, block water flow and increase sedimentation, along with algae formation. This is not all: the river changes colour as it meanders through various locations. It turns a caustic orange from the visible chemical effluents, plastic wrappers and clothes choking behind the MIDC area in Taloja, to a grassy green from the algae formation and solid waste dumping near Ganesh Ghat; and then a murky brown colour in some parts. The river has also turned milky white at times–due to the formation of chemical foam on its surface.

In fact, in 2017, an unusual concern made the rounds in Taloja: suddenly, the residents spotted a group of ‘blue-coloured’ dogs. The sight was bizarre enough to spark concern internationally, as well. The unusual coloration was initially attributed to the dogs wading in the heavily polluted Kasardi, where untreated industrial waste–including blue dye from a nearby detergent factory–was being dumped. It was also considered possible that they were exposed to dye directly at the factory site.

This is not all: the river changes colour as it meanders through various locations.

Beyond just the visual discoloration and waste dump, the river also emits a foul odour and being in its proximity can sometimes lead to irritation in the eyes.

Community and legal interventions

Said to be Mumbai’s earliest inhabitants, the Kolis sensed that change was imminent when the plan for expanding Mumbai—then Bombay—into the Thane district was initiated in the 1970s. Industries that processed chemicals, fish, pharmaceuticals as well as machinery factories, started developing rapidly and haphazardly around this expanded belt. Newer townships mushroomed. The first to bear witness to this silent devastation were the fish. Species like rawas, prawns, and pomfret that were once plentiful in the rivers and creeks along suburban Mumbai began to disappear.

In 2010, the Kasardi River was already affected by toxic effluents from the Taloja Industrial Belt. Studies revealed alarming levels of heavy metals—chromium, cadmium, lead—far exceeding safe limits, threatening aquatic life and the Kolis’ work. By 2013, the river was declared “unsuitable for fishing” with fish varieties plummeting from 45 to nearly none.

“Machli hai toh hum hai,” says Kadke. If the fish are here, then we are here. He reiterates that fishing is not merely a profession, but a pact between the Koli community and a river that has sustained them for generations. 

In 2016, activist Yogesh Pagade and Koli fishermen protested the inaction of the Maharashtra Pollution Control Board in the face of the Kasardi’s rapid degeneration. Even the Taloja Industries Association joined the fishing community to protest the release of untreated waste from the Common Effluent Treatment Plant (CETP) in Taloja that was polluting the river. Their water tests confirmed Biochemical Oxygen Demand (BOD) levels at 80 milligram per litre (mg/L), 13 times above safe limits, killing fish and mangroves. BOD determines the concentration of oxygen required for aquatic life to survive in the water. According to the Central Pollution Control Board (CPCB), BOD levels beyond 3 mg/L and 6 mg/L are unsuitable for human consumption and fish species respectively. The test also concluded high levels of chloride that is toxic for aquatic life and the vegetation.

The MPCB responded in January 2017, ordering a 40% water supply cut to Taloja industries until online pollution monitoring was implemented. In fact, the Taloja CETP’s poor performance was rated the worst among Maharashtra’s 25 units—persisting due to overloaded capacity and unskilled labour. In November 2017, 10 CETP members were booked for releasing untreated waste, but the enforcement of norms faltered. Dr Bhalerao informs, "Since October 2024, the CETP has complied with the norms and guidelines set by the Ministry of Environment, Forest and Climate Change (MoEFCC) and MPCB.”

But the Koli community’s plight still prevailed–in fact, by 2018, it escalated. A 90% drop in fish catch forced many like Gajanan Kadke and Dashrath Koli to abandon fishing. This is when the National Green Tribunal (NGT) intervened, fining the CETP a collective Rs 15 crore for environmental damage and ordering for 371 polluting units to be closed. The case, challenged in the Supreme Court, remained sub-judice. In 2019, four factories shut down, but activist Arvind Mhatre–the complainant who brought the case to the NGT–criticised the MPCB’s lax oversight. Beyond just the chemical effluents, the river was also the victim of illegal debris dumping near the Taloja CETP in 2018.

In 2020, MIDC upgraded the CETP to treat 23 Million Litres per Day (MLD) of waste, yet untreated effluents persisted; locals reported health hazards from toxic fumes. Further, illegal tanker dumping worsened the crisis. In March 2023, IIT-Bombay submitted a report to MPCB regarding the restoration of the river, following the NGT’s 2019 orders. It highlighted the presence of chemicals in the river and warned of several health hazards if consumed. The report recommended construction of sewage and storm water drainage systems and diversion channels, asking industries by the river bank to treat their effluents, and coordination between agencies to prevent discharge of untreated waste. 

The effort continued into the next year. The NGT had given specific direction to the industry units on curbing pollution, but in vain. Their final recommendation to Mhatre was to approach the Supreme Court of India. In response, the apex court, on July 24, 2024, ordered the MPCB to submit a detailed affidavit within three weeks regarding the chemical pollution in the Kasardi caused by industrial effluents from approximately 900 factories in the Taloja MIDC industrial belt. 

According to the Water Quality Status Report of Maharashtra 2022-23, the BOD level of the Kasardi river stands at 30 mg/L, which is 10 times higher than the MPCB/CPCB's safer limit. In that year, samples of Kasardi river were not collected for seven months. 

Rejuvenation plans 

More recently, in May 2025, the Panvel Municipal Corporation (PMC) launched a rejuvenation project for the Kasardi river to combat severe pollution. Following the inspection on May 14, led by Additional Commissioner Ganesh Shete, authorities identified tankers illegally releasing chemicals at Ganesh Ghat in Navade and Tondare village, prompting immediate action. Shete has asked the CETP and MIDC to help process the chemical effluents already released into the river. 

With over Rs 17.4 crore in funding, the project includes constructing check dams and gabion walls, which are mesh baskets filled with stones or rocks; they prevent soil from being eroded away with flowing water. The project also aims at diverting contaminated water to the Common Effluent Treatment Plant, and installing solar-powered CCTV cameras for surveillance. 

“Machli hai toh hum hai,” says Kadke. If the fish are here, then we are here. He reiterates that fishing is not merely a profession, but a pact between the Koli community and a river that has sustained them for generations.

“After the rainy season, the water that flows into the Kasardi river is primarily sewage and water used to clean floors; it's not a continuous source of water as it is a rain-fed river. Removing pollutants is not the only answer; ensuring the continuous flow of water will help in the rejuvenation of the river,” says Dr Bhalerao.

Lately, there has been a lot of emphasis on the establishment of Sewage Treatment Plants (STPs) under several missions like Atal Mission for Rejuvenation and Urban Transformation or AMRUT, Swachh Bharat Mission, and Jal Jeevan Mission, because sewage water can be reutilised for other purposes if properly treated. “An important issue to be addressed beyond just industrial effluents is domestic sewage water, with dysfunctional or defunct STPs, or a few number of STPs; issues to be pondered upon by all authorities,” emphasises Dr Bhalerao.

He further adds, "We will be working on different aeration mechanisms along with building green bridges, which will actually increase the oxygen content in the water. It is also advised that apart from the rainy season, all the MIDC stormwater outlets to the Kasardi river will be completely blocked or diverted to the CETP. We are also planning to install CCTV cameras after every 250 metres. Few social miscreants are engaged in illegal discharge of industrial waste disposal in and around MIDC, for which local police and MIDC need to improve their vigilance.”

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Edited by Neerja Deodhar and Anushka Mukherjee

Illustration by: Khyati

Produced by Nevin Thomas and Neerja Deodhar

The last 50 to 70 years have been witness to a troubling trend: the number of farmers in many Western countries has diminished steadily, sometimes at an alarming rate. In Italy and Ireland, the share of the labour force in agriculture has reduced from 33% and 37%, respectively, in 1950 to less than 5% now. In Poland, this figure has plunged from 57% in 1950 to less than 10% now. (Data derived from Remembering Peasants: A Personal History of a Vanished World, a 2023 book on European farming by Patrick Joyce.)

In several countries, the exit of farmers from the agricultural economy peaked around the 1970s and ’80s. In the US, around the time of Ronald Reagan’s presidency (1981-89), it was estimated that American farmers were going out of business at the rate of one every eight minutes. According to the British environmental journal The Ecologist (1970-2009), most of these former cultivators who had to leave farming were small farmers. In the UK, the number of farms fell from 4,54,000 to 2,43,000 within less than three decades, from 1953 to 1981.

In most cases, this loss of farmers globally has been tied to factors such as over-mechanisation, increasing expenses resulting in growing debts, and a deliberate pursuit of policies by the authorities that favoured the concentration of land and capital while being unfavourable to small farmers. In the UK, pesticide costs alone had increased 10 times from the early 1970s to early 1991. A British farmer in the early 1970s needed 15 cows to make a living; in the 1980s, he needed 75 dairy cows to make the same amount of money. The situation became financially untenable, prompting the farmers to abandon farming entirely. Others continued to slip further into debt. According to data from The Ecologist, by 1991, 70% of the net farm income would be used to pay off debts.

While such farmers left farming rather sadly and with great reluctance, the situation has been interpreted differently by big business interests and corporations. Per them, food and farm produce availability for these countries were not impacted, despite the mass farmer exodus. This was construed as the farmers not being productively employed, which means their exit from farming has ultimately led to a gain for the economy.

This is a highly flawed argument, which ignores how the new model of vast monoculture farms that took root in the latter half of the 20th century employed—or rather mined—ecologically destructive ways by using heavy machinery, excessive fossil fuels and hazardous agrochemicals. It is incapable of sustainability and producing food that will boost health. The soil is mined to somehow yield maximum output in the short term, which means the organic content of the soil cannot be protected for sustainability.

Replicating the same trends could be particularly dangerous for economies in the global South, especially agrarian ones. These economies’ capacity to absorb displaced farmers is significantly less than in the global North.

Also read: It takes a village: Transforming the fate of unproductive land

Need for small farmers and family farms

For countries like India, the more beneficial model would be ​​for families to retain their farms in order to earn their primary livelihood. One or more members can then take up additional full-time or part-time work, especially during lean seasons. Government schemes, like the Mahatma Gandhi National Rural Employment Guarantee Act (NREGA), can help achieve this. Gandhi’s emphasis on village-level agro-processing and developing other cottage and village industries also fits this vision. Small-scale farmers and family farms are also indispensable to the protection of soil; only they can care for plants and crops in ways that assure optimum yield in sustainable ways.

In 2001, India had 127.3 million land-owning farmers, which dropped to 118.7 million in 2011 as per census data. The number of land-owning farmers dropped by 8.6 million within a decade. This means that about 100 farmers left farming behind every hour (or about 2,400 per day) through this decade or were rendered landless. Needless to say, most of them were small farmers.

This was unfortunate, as one of our foremost priorities should be strengthening small farmers and family farms. A large majority of Indian farmers are small farmers, mostly working on family farms with important contributions by women. Although data can differ depending on how small farmers are defined, broadly it can be said that although nearly three-fourths of our farmers are small farmers, they own only about half of the total land. And despite the difficulties and constraints faced by them in various contexts, they manage to contribute to almost half of the total food production in the country.

About 100 farmers left farming behind every hour (or about 2,400 per day) through this decade or were rendered landless. Needless to say, most of them were small farmers.

One of the most important ways to empower small farmers is to reduce their cash expenses, which will also bring down their debts and save their lands. This can be done by making the best possible use of local free resources—which can be taken forward in various variants of natural farming in tune with local conditions. Many small farmers have proved with their highly creative approaches and dedication that the availability of healthy and diverse food can be accomplished while reducing their expenses and simultaneously protecting the soil, and economising on water use.

This approach calls for constant learning, including practising mutually supportive and productive activities. Friendly insects and pollinators can also be protected—even when healthy food production is increased—through mixed cropping and proper rotations. None of this can be achieved with over-mechanised monocultures overfed with hazardous agrochemicals. It’s a job cut out for small farmers and family farms.

Also read: Why India needs to invest in natural farming

American writer and farmer Wendell Berry says in The Unsettling of America: Culture and Agriculture, “The farmer differs from the industrialist in that the farmer is necessarily a nurturer, a preserver of the health of creatures. The economy of the industry is typically extractive. It takes, makes, uses and discards, it progresses, from exhaustion to pollution. Agriculture, on the other hand, rightly belongs to a replenishing economy, which takes, makes, uses and returns—it involves the return to the source, not just of fertility or of so-called wastes but also of care and affection.”

This “care and affection” Berry mentions can only be provided by small farmers, and not big machines and corporations. Unfortunately, policies have not been encouraging towards these communities. Instead, as Berry says in the context of the US, “It is a work of monstrous ignorance and irresponsibility on the part of the experts and politicians, who have prescribed, encouraged and applauded the disintegration of farming communities all over the country.”

Further, Berry writes, “What we have called agricultural progress has, in fact, involved the forcible displacement of millions of people.”

He goes on to make critical concluding observations: “Food is a cultural product, it cannot be produced by technology alone…a healthy farm culture can be based only upon familiarity and can grow only among a people soundly established upon the land; it nourishes and safeguards a human intelligence of the earth that no amount of technology can satisfactorily replace.”

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This is a statement of global relevance—but is especially pertinent to India— as it succinctly explains why it is important to protect and strengthen communities of small farmers and family farms as the foundations of the food and farming system.

In times of more adverse weather and climate change, the government must play a much bigger supportive role for them. Further, experience in many parts of the country reveals that a combination of greater self-reliance, low expenditure on expensive external inputs and adoption of sustainable natural farming practices can contribute a lot to keeping these farmers out of crisis and debt traps.

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