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

Nestled in the lush green Gonasika hills of Odisha’s Kendujhar district, at an elevation of around 3,000 feet, lives the Juang community—one of the state’s 13 Particularly Vulnerable Tribal Groups (PVTGs). For generations, the Juangs relied on the nearby forest—for food, medicine, firewood, and shelter. Their forebears knew that there would always be food in the forest, from tubers, to mushrooms, and insects.

The community meticulously foraged these wild foods, ensuring that they don’t over-harvest. While a portion of the wild foods was used for household consumption, the surplus was sold in the local weekly market, to supplement household incomes. Tragically, colonisation brought this relationship with the forest to a halt. “During the engrej sashan (British rule), our forest was declared as a reserve. This restricted our access to the very source of our sustenance,” laments Rukmini Juang, 68, from the Budhighar village in Banspal block.

Last year, the Juang tribe was accorded Habitat Rights under the Forest Rights Act (FRA), 2006; this grants them the right to their own land and its resources. "However, the management plan for the habitat is yet to be developed by the Juang community, which needs to be passed in the Gram Sabha," says Birabar Naik, the founder of Banabasi Chetna Mandal that works for the land rights of tribal communities in Kendujhar. Determined to protect their habitat from the forest department–which may use it for commercial plantation–the Mandal is holding community meetings to arrive at a plan to govern their own land. 

Freedom from the coloniser did not come with much relief for the community. Post independence, mining-induced displacement in Odisha further impacted the Juangs. The Kendujhar district—rich in minerals like iron ore, manganese, bauxite, and gold—has seen 64 mining projects since the 1980s, diverting over 10,000 hectares of forest land, the highest in Odisha. “Our water bodies are polluted, and the soil has hardened. Crop yields have dropped,” says Hemant Juang, 43, from the Kalanda village. “The youth is losing interest in farming, turning instead to labour in mines or migrating to other states for backbreaking work,’’ he adds. 

Traditionally, the Juangs cultivated their native crops in mixed farming systems. But after 2010, resettlement as well as the introduction of hybrid seeds have led to the loss of heirloom varieties that are resilient, low-input, and nutritionally rich, eventually replacing them. Hybrid varieties of maize, paddy, potatoes and onions were planted. Monocropping of such varieties and the application of chemical inputs have reduced crop yield and jeopardised the community's traditional food diversity and culinary heritage. “The government once promoted Telangana Basmati here,” recalls Jema Juang, the sarpanch of Gonasika panchayat. This was the new rice variety, Telangana Sona, developed by Professor Jayashankar of the Telangana State Agricultural University (PJTSAU) in 2017. At around the same time, it was introduced to the Juang farmers—promoted as a healthy, extremely beneficial crop. It has the lowest glycemic index of all known varieties of paddy, a high protein, energy and carbohydrate content, and promising yields. 

“It was unsuitable for our land and needed costly chemical inputs. The resultant yield was less, too,” says Jema. 

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

Reviving native seeds

Since 2016, Talapada village in Banspal block has been charting a different path. Here, 30 Juang women have emerged as guardians of agrobiodiversity. They collect, preserve, and exchange over 70 varieties of native seeds—millets, cereals, pulses, tubers, and vegetables—reviving traditional mixed farming practices. “Our native seeds are a gift from our ancestors,” says Kusumi Juang, 47. “Unlike hybrids, they can be saved and replanted season after season.” Kusumi started farming around 2016, and she played an instrumental role in encouraging other women of her village to preserve native seeds. 

The women ensure genetic purity through seasonal propagation–the practice of growing a crop in its ideal seasons and climatic condition–which allows them to harvest the best, most “pure” crops for seeds. It also maintains uniformity of traditional varieties by cutting out the rogue “off-types.” They also exchange seeds to diversify what they grow. This practice, known as seed stewardship, preserves plant traits and improves resilience to environmental changes, explains Susanta Sekhar Choudhury, Programme Manager-Seed Systems at Watershed Support Support Services and Activities Network (WASSAN), Bhubaneswar.

“We harvest seeds from mature and healthy plants for the next cropping season, making sure not to include those which have been affected by wild animals,” says Kusumi as she showcases the varieties of finger millet, paddy and green gram that she harvested last year. “We are a seed-sufficient community. We don’t need to buy hybrid seeds from the market. Saving and exchanging native seeds is part of our culture. And over the years, this culture has fostered our community unity and bond,” she added.

Apart from the give and take of seed, the Juang women also share knowledge about different traditional methods. Maize, ridge gourd, and panicles of sorghum are often hung above the cooking area in the kitchen. The kitchen’s smoke and optimal temperature help protect the seed from pests and fungi. Ash is mixed with seed, and kept in earthen pots and bamboo baskets covered with straw and plastered with cow dung, to make the containers airtight. 

Dry leaves of different plants and trees are also used to preserve seeds. For instance, the leaves of begonia (Begoniaceae) and neem (Azadirachta indica) are mixed with pulses. This practice saves the pulses from beetle attacks. Similarly, turmeric and bael (Aegle marmelos) leaves are also used for preserving native seeds. 

Also read: Sasbani’s 'fruits' of labour: Reviving hope in rural Uttarakhand

The power of women’s labour

Juang women are central to the community’s agriculture, taking vital decisions about the crops to be grown, mixing seeds of different crops before sowing, and carrying manure to the field. They also take care of weeding, harvesting, threshing and storing. 

“We don’t create separate plots for different crops. We mix a variety of crops in different proportions according to our family needs and sow them in one plot,” says Krushna Juanga, an octogenarian—the oldest woman in Talapada. Elders like Krushna attest to women’s empowered involvement in the region’s agriculture, a reality that has been shaped over the last four to five generations. The Juangs follow tailo chasho, a traditional rainfed mixed and rotational cropping system wherein several types of crops are grown simultaneously in a specific area, mostly on the mountain slopes. They grow a range of millets, too, such as sorghum, ragi, barnyard, little and foxtail–all native varieties.

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Pulses like black gram, green gram, horse gram, red gram and cowpea are grown in the same patch of land. Native varieties of black gram such as kala biri, chikinie biri and badhie biri are grown. They also cultivate other crops like maize, and several oilseeds such as sesame (kala rashi, dhala rashi, native varieties), mustard (rie, lutunie, native varieties) and niger.

Juang women are central to the community’s agriculture, taking vital decisions about the crops to be grown, mixing seeds of different crops before sowing, and carrying manure to the field. They also take care of weeding, harvesting, threshing and storing. 

Before broadcasting (the scattering and spreading of seeds at random) and sowing, the women ensure that their preserved seeds dry in the sun, so that they have a better rate of germination. The male members of the community plough the even and flat portion of the plot with oxen before the onset of monsoon in May-June. The women use a hoe to dig up the soil around the rocky and steep spots where the plough cannot be used. They sow seed in the dug out holes. Generally, the central portion of the plot is used for local varieties of upland paddy like alitundi, bijapatia and kalaputia. In the periphery of the paddy plot, taller crops like ragi and sorghum are grown. They act as border crops, an effective barrier for the wild animals. In between the ragi and sorghum, other crops are also intercropped like pulses, maize and tubers.

Also read: Babulal Dahiya makes every grain of rice count

Bountiful harvests

Only farmyard manure is used, in an effort to increase soil fertility. Traditionally, each Juang household rears indigenous breeds of cattle, oxen, goats and poultry. Dry dung from the livestock is applied in the field before sowing. Organic waste like crop residues decomposes and boosts fertility further. “The forest plays an important role in our traditional agriculture,” says Krushna, “Nutrient washout from the hilltop flow brings dead soil back to life, enabling better crop growth.” 

During monsoon, says WASSAN programme manager Choudhury, “The rich humus from the nearby forest flows into the field, which improves water retention, enriches soil fertility, and promotes the growth of beneficial microorganisms. This mixed pattern of cropping prevents overexploitation of the water table and soil nutrients, because different crops have different nutrient requirements. Besides, it also prevents soil erosion.”

The harvesting of different crops takes place across different months, providing a continuous supply of diversified ingredients. The first phase starts in September, at the end of which maize and paddy are harvested. After this, mustard is sown in the plot. The second harvest phase begins in November, when pulses and millets are the crops in focus. Farmers harvest sesame in December, and Mustard—the last crop—is taken care of in January.

Sesame and mustard are mainly cultivated as cash crops, while millets, rice, pulses, vegetables and tubers are grown for sustenance. The surplus of these harvests are sold by the Juang women in the local weekly markets, known as haats.

Heirloom seeds have empowered the Juang community to become seed sovereign and maintain a sustainable food supply throughout the year.

Talapada resident Parvati Juang, 41–who has been farming for 20 years now–beams about the rich dividends of tailo chasho. Last year, she harvested around 5 quintals of ragi, 8 quintals of paddy, 500 kg of sorghum, 1 quintal of maize, 845 kg of mustard, 650 kg of chickpea and over 700 kg of sesame from her two-acre farm. Besides, she also harvested 50 bags of taro (a tuber variety) and over 500 kg of various vegetables. “After selling the surplus harvest, last year, I earned around Rs 92,000,” says Parvati, who is a mother to two sons and a daughter. With the income earned from agriculture, she is able to support her children’s education.

“We grow our own food, which is nutritious and chemical-free,” says Ratnabati Juanga, 37, another Talapada resident. “Our native crops have evolved over many generations. They are suitable for our landscape, and can withstand extreme temperatures and prolong dry spells. In the neighbouring villages, we have seen farmers have switched to hybrid varieties to get high yield. But these alien varieties often fail to cope with even minor climate change.” Alien varieties also require expensive and harmful chemicals, a reason that motivated many Juang women to conserve native varieties in Talapada.

Heirloom seeds have empowered the Juang community to become seed sovereign and maintain a sustainable food supply throughout the year. “Ironically, open-pollinated and heirloom seed varieties are rapidly disappearing from the agricultural landscape,” says Arabinda Kumar Padhee, Principal Secretary, Department of Agriculture and Farmers’ Empowerment, Government of Odisha. “Alongside this, the traditional knowledge and practices of seed saving are also fading. The growing dependence on a limited number of crops—primarily hybrids—has significantly reduced biodiversity in our food systems, making many crops increasingly vulnerable to the impacts of the climate crisis,” he highlighted.

The Juang women of Talapada are proving that traditional knowledge and biodiversity are not relics of the past, but essential tools for a sustainable future.

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Photos by Abhijit Mohanty

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The gift that keeps giving

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘This land is our land’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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(Edited by Neerja Deodhar and Anushka Mukherjee)