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

At approximately 14,000 feet above sea level, surrounded by jagged peaks, gorges carved by rivers, and steep valleys, lies a village etched into the dramatic canvas of Ladakh’s wilderness. Named Gya, its landscape is both stark and sublime. It is located in the Kharu block of Leh district, around 74 km southeast of Leh town along the Leh-Manali highway. With roughly 80 households, it is one of the oldest Ladakhi villages.

This seemingly inhospitable terrain holds a deep geological significance dating back to the collision of continents, offering rare insight into the Earth’s tectonic history. And though its soil is coarse and sandy, it is coaxed to life by the hands of resilient farmers and their indigenous knowledge. The people of Gya have transformed rugged land into a cradle of sustainable, high-altitude agriculture. Once a thriving pastoralist community, this thousand-year-old village gradually began embracing agriculture a few centuries ago. 

Among its farmers is Urgain Phuntsog, a 53-year-old whose work has defied the conventional understanding that agriculture is not viable in extreme cold arid zones. Working the fields ever since he was a teenager, he cultivates a mix of traditional and unconventional crops. Even as he battles a short growing season (less than five months), frequent frost events and a dependence on glacial water, Phuntsog demonstrates that food security can be achieved, even in a harsh climate and remote geography—in a manner that is not only possible, but economically viable.

The ancient ways of mountain life

Phuntsog’s relationship to the soil is so profound that the villagers lovingly call him ‘Mitti Ka Aadmi’ (man of the earth). It was his friends who first came up with the name, and soon enough, it caught on with even the researchers from the nearby Krishi Vigyan Kendra (KVK). It’s a well-deserved moniker given how much time Phuntsog spends studying soil and experimenting with it.

He owns 75 karnals of land, including his younger brother's share, and grows more than 35 varieties of crops. Half of his land is sown with barely, a traditional Ladakhi staple. The rest of his fields yield a vibrant mosaic of produce: four types of local spinach, mustard, turnips, radishes, carrots, cucumbers, cabbages, beans, quinoa, broccoli, chamomile, mint, tomatoes, onions, strawberries, potatoes and more.  

The only food items he purchases are rice and spices. Everything else comes from his farm. “I can feed my family for the next 10 years with what I grow,” Phuntsog says with quiet pride. “We don’t have to depend on anyone.” Even during punishing winters when temperatures plummet to -20°C and supplies often run dry, his family continues to have access to fresh vegetables.

Phuntsog’s journey could have taken a very different path. He completed his early schooling in Gya’s government school and graduated from Class 10 in Leh. He even earned spots in both, the Indian Navy and the Indo-Tibetan Border Police. For many in the region, these opportunities would have meant a ticket to a different life—one that would have promised stability and a reliable salary—but Phuntsog chose differently. 

He returned to his roots in Gya, picking the land, soil, and seasons over uniformed service. In doing so, he has honoured not just his family’s legacy, but also a way of life that has sustained communities in this landscape for centuries—farming and livestock rearing. Phuntsog is not alone in this commitment; his sister Tsering Palmo, too, shares this deep bond with the land. She tends the family’s livestock, including their pashmina goats and sheep across different pasturelands, leading a nomadic life amid glaciers. She spends most of the brutal Ladakhi winter moving through the wilderness with her herds, keeping alive an ancient rhythm of life.

Phuntsog’s early years were defined by struggles and uncertainty. Having lost his father as a boy, the responsibility of feeding the family rested on his young shoulders. “I didn’t even know where to begin,” he recalls. “Some days, we had nothing to eat.” It was the villagers who stepped in with lessons on sowing and harvesting barley as well as the traditional dzo-driven (yak-cow hybrid) method of ploughing. In 2010, a 10-day exposure tour organised by the state agriculture and horticulture departments presented an opportunity to learn from experts. 

Also read: Babulal Dahiya makes every grain of rice count

Organic past, present, and future

Phuntsog has a meditative, almost spiritual perspective to farming. He considers it one of the most noble professions, working the land not out of necessity, but out of choice and joy. “I take great pride in being a farmer,” he says. “When I am in the barley fields, I feel alive. I feel more human.” It’s no surprise then that agriculture represents more than a livelihood to him; it’s a philosophy of balance. He believes in following what he calls “the middle way”—a principle of moderation and respect for nature. “We must revere nature,” he says, “Respect its rhythms, and maintain balance in every part of life.”

His faith in balance also extends to policy and governance around agriculture. Phuntsog has worked closely with government agencies for years, but speaks candidly about the gaps that still exist. “Most government projects don’t align with what farmers actually need. There’s no proper assessment before or after a project is implemented. It amounts to a sheer waste of funds.” 

Worse, he adds, is the lack of coordination between concerned departments. “Stakeholders work in silos. Without collaboration, Ladakh’s goal of becoming fully organic in the near future may remain a distant dream.”

Organic farming is not a trendy buzzword in the union territory; it is how Ladakhi ancestors have always farmed. A sense of regenerative circularity involving outputs like manure always existed on their farms. This changed in the 1990s, with the opening up of roads, a surge in tourism and growing demand for grain from the army. Chemical fertilisers, available at subsidised prices, now had greater acceptance as farmers aspired to quicker harvests and bigger incomes. Ladakh-wide goals to transition fully to chemical-free methods belie the reality in the fields, where people still think being organic merely means cutting down on fertiliser use. 

Another looming challenge in Ladakh’s organic agriculture journey is the increasing use of hybrid seeds. Until not too long ago, seeds were a major concern for farmers who would be forced to borrow grains at very high rates of interest, thus getting trapped in debt, Phuntsog recalls. Then hybrid seeds became accessible—available for free from government sources—at the cost of “colonising” farms and displacing indigenous seeds. While hybrid vegetables grow fast and are favoured in markets, they are fragile and have short shelf lives. Their seeds cannot be reused season after season. Indigenous seeds, on the other hand, are more resilient and better suited to Ladakh’s realities.

Phuntsog currently maintains his own personal seed bank with 10–12 native varieties of barley, leafy greens, radish, turnip, and sowa (dill). “For farmers, seeds are life itself,” he says, “Preserving indigenous seeds is not optional, it is essential. Without them, we lose not just crops but our identity.” 

At its very foundation, farming in Gya is changing; it was once a communal activity—a village-wide affair where households would help each other plant, harvest and celebrate the cycle of life. Today, it is looked down upon as fewer young people are interested in tiling the soil, especially against the backdrop of climate change-induced precarity. Careers in tourism and the army, government jobs, gigs as contractors in construction—livelihoods that don’t involve the backbreaking, time-intensive labour of farming are all considered more viable. As opportunities in Leh call out to them, there remains little incentive to stay back in Gya. 

Given that local traders aren’t offering a fair price for organic produce, organic farming isn’t yet lucrative or remunerative, which is only shrinking the farming populace further. “Traders buy at low rates and keep most of the profit for themselves. For farmers, these rates barely cover the cost of growing organically… Unfortunately, local traders and many locals, too, don’t see the difference between organic and non-organic produce,” Phuntsog rues. An innovative tactic he has employed to deal with this apathy is offering organic produce to visitors and homestay guests—patrons who he feels value the farm-to-table food chain. 

Phuntsog is admirable because he remains undeterred. In agriculture, he sees indispensability as the future turns uncertain. “The importance of farming grows every year… If there are no farmers, food security won’t just be a concern—it will be a crisis.” 

Integrated farming at 14,000 feet  

What sets Phunstog’s approach to farming apart from that of his peers is not just the variety of crops he grows, but rather the harmony he maintains across the many elements of his farm. Nothing must go to waste; the output from one part of his farm becomes the input for another, creating a self-sustaining loop that reduces costs, enriches the soil and strengthens his yields. 

The family's livestock (a herd of 370 goats and sheep, apart from 12 cows and 9 horses) are a vital source of wool: Pashmina from their goats, and fleece from their sheep, which Phuntsog’s wife, Chamba Yangdol, spins into traditional rugs, stoles, and other handcrafted items. Their home in Gya is perhaps the most sought-after homestay in the region, attracting guests from around the world who come not just for the scenic views, but to experience living traditions. 

But livestock is not merely a source of wool or dairy. Manure, along with farm waste, is carefully recycled into rich vermicompost. It was the Krishi Vigyan Kendra–Leh that introduced Phuntsog to the idea of vermicomposting around a decade ago. Since then, he has become something of an innovator. Through years of experimentation, he discovered the perfect blend for his compost: 60% horse manure, 30% cow dung, and 10% general livestock waste. This balance, he says, brings out the best in the earthworms, and in turn, the soil. “There isn’t a village in Leh where my vermicompost is not being used to some degree. That’s why I say farming and livestock are not separate—they are indispensable to each other,” he explains. 

Greenhouses in the snow  

Phuntsog has constructed two greenhouses on his farm: one is a traditional triangular structure fashioned from mud bricks, while the other is more modern—a half-cylindrical polycarbonate model with a concrete base. While both serve their purposes, the one built using traditional wisdom remains effective even in inclement weather. “In places like Gya, where the extreme impact of climate change is palpably felt, the traditional greenhouse is more adaptable,” he explains, “This spring, we had untimely snowfall. It was easier to redesign or modify the mud-brick structure to suit the changing weather. We could partially open it or wrap it up, depending on the climate.” 

Though sturdy, the polycarbonate greenhouse lacks this flexibility. “It’s harder to move, redesign or repair. But the traditional one can be easily relocated and adjusted. It is simple, smart, and sustainable,” Phuntsog adds. This experience, and others across his farming career, have taught him that the way forward lies in blending ancient knowledge with modern techniques rather than setting one framework aside in favour of the other. “We need to align our indigenous practices with today’s innovations. That’s how we will preserve our culture and progress at the same time” says Phuntsog.  

Greenhouse farming is also a constant exercise in trial and error—of learning that water from streams is more effective than groundwater or springwater; of letting in just the right amount of wind during wintry afternoons so that the crops don’t freeze over. “That bit of circulation is important as it keeps the greenhouse balanced and prevents pests. It’s all about timing and patience,” Phuntsog explains.

Also watch: How These Women Grow Vegetables in the Cold Deserts of Ladakh

Barley’s vanishing act

Over the last decade, the warming summers in Ladakh have enabled farmers to grow a wider variety of vegetables, some of which were once impossible to cultivate in the region’s soil, such as watermelon, zucchini, capsicum, and brinjal. These crops were embraced as cash crops which are easy to grow and harvest during the region’s short growing season. But this supposed convenience has come at a cost. 

“They are less laborious, yes, but they are also displacing our native crops,” he laments. Chief among them is nas or barley, a crop deeply rooted in Ladakhi culture and the heart of the local diet. It forms the backbone of breakfasts like tsampa or ngamphe—roasted flour eaten daily with butter tea—as well as celebratory beverages like chhaang (beer). It symbolises abundance and well-being, making it a vital motif in festivals and rituals.

Traditionally, owning a Dhu-kang (a storeroom for barley) was a symbol of prosperity. Phuntsog still owns one and proudly sells his barley across the union territory. “To think that one day barley will no longer be grown in Ladakh, and that we will be forced to buy it from elsewhere, breaks my heart,” he says. 

Of the total 22,436 ha area under cultivation in Ladakh, 5,388 ha remains dedicated to barley as per data from a government-affiliated committee in the region. But it is feared that this acreage will reduce over the years owing to climate change. Untimely rain during harvests has compromised yields and seed quality both. Damaged seeds mean weaker crops in the future, putting in place a vicious cycle.

Also read: Barley barely hanging on in Spiti

A legacy worth protecting  

In recognition of his profound impact, Phunstog has received numerous accolades at both the regional and national levels. In 2022, he was recognised as one of India’s 75 entrepreneurs in the Animal Husbandry and Dairying sectors by the Government of India. He received the State Award in 2020 from the Union Territory of Ladakh for his outstanding contribution to Progressive Farming.

Phuntsog also trains students and young people across India, providing hands-on learning in integrated organic farming. His lessons are comprehensive, covering everything from livestock rearing and compost making to traditional barley processing.

His accolades are a testament not just to his achievements, but to an existence in harmony with the land, driven forward by purpose and devoted to preserving a way of life that continues to nourish soil and soul.

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Produced by Nevin Thomas and Neerja Deodhar

Illustration by Tarique Aziz

When most of us picture a forest, we usually imagine looking upward at the grand, green treescape. But under it lies another presence: fungi, those invisible architects of decay and renewal, who make up the forest’s quiet infrastructure, and without whom a part of the ecology would collapse.

Fungi are their own kingdom—neither plant nor animal, though long mistaken for both. They lack chlorophyll, and so they do not absorb sunlight as plants do; instead, they secrete enzymes into the world and reabsorb the results. In this way, fungi dismantle leaves, wood, and the accumulated litter of centuries, returning carbon, nitrogen, and phosphorus to the soil. What we casually call a mushroom is only the tip of the proverbial iceberg—a fruiting body, comparable to an apple on a tree. The mushroom’s role is reproductive: to scatter spores into the air.

Mushrooms spring up with the arrival of the monsoons, when the moisture and humidity of the rains push the mycelium—the underground fungal network—into reproductive mode. Beyond fruiting, these networks act as a connecting framework for forests, often called the “wood wide web.” Through this brilliant and complex system, fungi create channels for roots of trees and plants, allowing them to exchange nutrients, warn each other of pests or disease, and even support weaker neighbours by channelling resources their way.

Their designs, however, are anything but utilitarian. Mushrooms appear as parasols and trumpets, honeycombs and coral, ashen frills and scarlet totems. Their colour palette ranges from the austere white to the dramatic red, gold, and black.

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Also read: India’s mushroom moment: Rural and urban farmers are betting on fungiculture

A kingdom of varieties 

In many cultures, mushroom-picking is a ritual. They form an essential part of the diet in several regions, especially where access to other protein sources is limited. They are particularly significant in the northeastern states of Nagaland, Manipur, and Assam, in the central state of Jharkhand, in the southern region of Kodagu (Karnataka), and in the northern states of Jammu & Kashmir and Himachal Pradesh.

Species like shiitake and enoki have been cultivated for thousands of years, their place in gourmet cuisine and medicinal cures recorded in a host of cookbooks, medical documents and apothecary records. Some varieties are beloved staples, like the white button mushroom that recurs in salads and pizzas. It is, humbly enough, the same species as the robust portobello, which takes its name from the Italian region of the same name, reflecting its origins. Others, like chanterelles, porcinis and morels are luxuries, available only to those with the patience to forage or the money to indulge.

Yet, fungi refuse to be reduced to a binary of edible and poisonous.

And then there are the sinister cousins. The fly agaric—bright red with polka dots, as if designed by a children’s illustrator—is both a fairytale icon and a biochemical hazard that can be found in the Nilgris. More treacherous still is the death cap, a pale green deceiver responsible for most fatal mushroom poisonings worldwide, its toxins so efficient they can reduce a healthy liver to ruin in days.

Yet, fungi refuse to be reduced to a binary of edible and poisonous. The lion’s mane that dangles from tree trunks in shaggy white tassels has also found its way into stores as coffee, medicinal capsules, powders and even in its dried form, used in cooking for its rich umami flavour and hailed for its effects on memory and nerves. The turkey tail, a fan of coloured rings clinging to fallen logs, is steeped into capsules as an immunity-booster.

Animals, too, partake in their mysteries. Rodents gnaw at them, insects burrow into them, and deer nibble on them from the forest floor. In Africa and Asia, termites perfected agriculture long before humans, cultivating Termitomyces fungi in vast underground gardens. They gather and chew plant matter that would otherwise be indigestible, feeding it to the fungi, which in turn break down cellulose and lignin—a glue-like substance in plant cell walls that makes them rigid and woody—into nutrients the colony can eat.

In exchange, the termites carefully regulate temperature, humidity, and airflow inside their mounds—conditions that function like a natural greenhouse. It is an ancient form of farming, built on the same principles of domestication, environmental control, and nutrient cycling that humans would adopt millions of years later.

We, too, have embraced fungi as crops. Mushroom farming has grown into a multi-billion-dollar industry, with homegrown ventures springing up across cities and exotic varieties increasingly finding their way into markets and kitchens.

Also read: Why bajra, the ‘pearl’ of India’s millets, remains underutilised

More than a feast 

Across regions in India where mushrooms are commonly found, foraging is more than just filling the pot. The Deori tribe in Assam and the Khonds of Odisha view foraging as a means to safeguard both biodiversity and cultural heritage, passing down ecological knowledge through the generations. For the Baiga tribe of Madhya Pradesh and Chhattisgarh, forest produce shapes ritual and medicine; they also inspire community fairs where uncultivated foods are celebrated. In Sikkim, the Rong tribe gathers plants with restraint, leaving enough for animals, spirits, and the future, while in Arunachal Pradesh, the Nyishi, Adi, and Monpa tribes have communally-maintained fragments of forests and knowledge gardens which protect local crops and traditional know-hows.

Fungi enjoy a continued relevance in science and culture. Penicillin, that great modern saviour, emerged from a mould. Researchers continue to mine fungi for new medicine every day. Designers imagine mushrooms not only on the plate, but as packaging material, textiles, even bricks. And yet, biologists estimate that more than 90% of fungal species remain undiscovered. Fungi are the dark matter of biology—present everywhere, but scarcely understood.

Also read: Why kokum, a beloved souring agent, hasn’t evolved into a commercial success

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Editor’s Note: From grocery lists, to fitness priorities, and even healthy snacking, protein is everywhere—but do we truly understand it? In this series, the Good Food Movement breaks down the science behind this vital macronutrient and its value to the human body. It examines how we absorb protein from the food we consume, how this complex molecule has a role to play in processes like immunity, and the price the Earth pays for our growing protein needs.

It is a strange kind of uncertainty—and vulnerability—that every morning, many Indians pour milk into their tea without knowing where exactly that milk came from, regardless of whether it is sourced from a cooperative farm or a local vendor. The same tends to be true of other food sources, too, from everyday vegetables, to the whole spices that form the bedrock of many dishes. Unless you purchase your produce from a small business or one that lists the details of the farmer that grew it, chances are you don’t know the origins of the ingredients in your kitchen and on your plate.

The lack of awareness about milk in particular is part of a larger invisible web. The supply chains through which our protein travels are often hidden from view. Attempts to trace that web throw up urgent ethical, environmental, and health questions that merit public attention.

With weak traceability, demand guarantees supply, no matter the risk.

Protein traceability is the ability to track a protein food’s journey across the supply chain, from its source (farm, animal, manufacturer), through processing, packaging, and distribution, all the way to the consumer. It’s about knowing where your protein comes from, how it was produced, and what happened to it along the way. When that chain is opaque, the costs and impacts become invisible too.

The invisible protein economy

In India, protein largely reaches us through three major streams, each with its own supply chain and vulnerabilities: dairy, meat, and plant-based sources.

Globally, regulators mark certain foods as high-risk because of their susceptibility to contamination. The US Food and Drug Administration, for instance, highlights dairy, eggs, and seafood. In India too, milk and milk products are part of state food adulteration tests conducted alongside the Food Safety and Standards Authority of India (FSSAI), making dairy essential to the discussion on protein traceability.

India is the world’s largest milk producer. More than half of India’s milk sales are handled by the unorganised sector—local milkmen, smallholder farms, roadside vendors—outside the organised cooperatives or private dairy companies. Within this informal network, traceability is severely limited. What feed was used, whether hygiene standards were maintained, whether any adulterants were added, all become unknowns. The risk is borne entirely by the consumer.

Across southern India, between 2021 and 2024, a significant percentage of food samples tested have failed safety standards. In Tamil Nadu, roughly 22% of samples in recent years were found adulterated; in Telangana, 15%; in Kerala, 13%. These figures include protein-rich staples like milk, paneer, yoghurt, and even some processed plant-based alternatives. On average, that is one in seven food items failing safety norms, meaning the risk is not marginal—it is systemic.

This is prevalent across the country. In early April 2025, the Food Safety and Standards Authority of India (FSSAI) found 47 contaminated paneer and khoya products across eateries in Noida. Reports like these are part of the larger worrying trend of ‘fake paneer’ being stocked on departmental shelves. In Maharashtra, over 30,000 litres of milk were destroyed in a single operation after routine testing showed high levels of salt, which is usually added to mask dilution or increase volume. In Punjab, authorities destroyed more than 4,200 kg of paneer and 4,000 kg of milk, all declared unfit for human consumption. These raids highlight a deeper reality: the market keeps running even when food is adulterated and its source unclear. With weak traceability, demand guarantees supply, no matter the risk.

By documenting where food comes from and under what conditions it was produced, traceability systems create leverage for fairer pricing, safer work environments, and more just recognition of smallholder contributions.

Beyond dairy, the invisibility of protein supply chains runs deep. India is the world’s second-largest exporter of beef, yet much of the domestic trade still runs through unlicensed slaughterhouses and municipal slaughterhouses—informal hubs where live animals are sold and slaughtered on site, and where traceability is virtually absent. Consumers rarely know what feed the animal consumed, whether it was administered antibiotics, or how it was slaughtered. This opacity is not just about animal welfare; it is also about antimicrobial resistance. Studies show that rampant, undocumented antibiotic use in poultry and livestock in India contributes to the country’s growing AMR burden, with residues often finding their way into meat and milk. The overuse of antibiotics to promote cattle growth or prevent disease in crowded, unhygienic conditions accelerates the spread of resistant bacteria—making common infections harder to treat and posing risks far beyond the dinner table.

Plant-based proteins, meanwhile, are no less affected. Pulses, soy, millets, and oilseeds are cornerstones of Indian diets, but their origins are often impossible to trace unless they are tied to organic certifications or GI-tagged value chains. Was the soybean in your protein bar grown organically, in a farm in a neighbouring state using chemical fertilisers, or imported from Brazil, where deforestation-linked soy is common? Without traceability, the consumer cannot know. This invisibility matters because it blurs the environmental costs. India’s pulse crops, for instance, are water-efficient compared to rice or sugarcane, but large-scale soybean cultivation elsewhere may carry deforestation risks that get hidden once processed into flour, bars, or powders.

Supplements and protein powders complicate the picture further. Whey protein usually comes from industrial dairy waste streams (byproducts of large-scale industrial processing of milk like leftover liquids from making cheese); soy isolates could be imported from half a dozen countries before reaching Indian markets. Cases of adulteration are well documented. Melamine, for example, has been used globally to falsely inflate protein content in powders. In India, the FSSAI has flagged multiple supplements for mislabelling or containing undeclared ingredients. Yet, consumers picking up a jar from a gym shop or ordering online have little way to verify sourcing.

Also read: Is there an ‘ideal’ amount of protein that must be consumed?

The hidden costs

The absence of traceability magnifies risks across categories. First, health: adulterants like detergents, starch, and even formalin have been detected in protein foods in India. For instance, in 2020, a Consumer Guidance Society of India study claimed that over 79% of milk samples in Maharashtra may be contaminated. Second, environmental: untracked supply chains mean the water use, land degradation, and greenhouse gas emissions tied to protein production remain invisible. In dairy, government surveys suggest about 3% of milk—roughly 5 million tonnes—gets wasted due to poor cold chain infrastructure, electricity shortfalls, or lack of transport. In livestock, undocumented feed and antibiotic use drive environmental and health externalities that no consumer can detect.

And finally, the ethical dimension: farmers and workers at the lowest rungs of these supply chains often operate without bargaining power. In the unorganised dairy segment, producers are vulnerable to middlemen who can depress prices. In meat, lack of regulation means poor labour conditions and inhumane treatment of animals often escape scrutiny. In plant-protein supply chains, smallholders cultivating millets or pulses rarely benefit from premium pricing because their crops are not marketed as traceable or sustainable. Greater traceability cannot, on its own, solve these inequities, but it can make them visible. By documenting where food comes from and under what conditions it was produced, traceability systems create leverage for fairer pricing, safer work environments, and more just recognition of smallholder contributions. Traceability, in this sense, is not just about consumer safety—it is also about producer justice. 

Also read: More isn’t always better: Are you overdosing on protein?

Towards greater transparency

There are some signs of progress. Internationally, organisations are piloting blockchain or QR code tracking systems, particularly in dairy and organic foods, that allow consumers to scan and see farm-to-store data. A single scan of a QR code might tell you which farm the milk was collected from, whether antibiotics were detected, when it was processed, and how it was transported. For meat, it could include details on the feed given and the slaughterhouse where it was processed; for plant proteins, the district of cultivation and whether chemical inputs were used. This could also enable customers to imagine what conditions the people responsible for the produce may be working under. Globally, similar systems already allow buyers of coffee or chocolate to trace not just the origin, but the farmer collective that produced it.

To build safe, fair, and sustainable protein markets, India needs systemic transparency: regulators must strengthen audits and infrastructure; producers must adopt traceability as a value proposition; and consumers must demand more than marketing claims.

Yet these remain exceptions, not the norm. Without wider infrastructure—cold chains, independent labs, farmer training—traceability cannot scale beyond pilot projects. Cold chains are not just about reducing spoilage—they ensure that batches remain intact and unmixed, so their origin can be reliably traced. Independent labs provide the verification points that give credibility to traceability claims, checking for contaminants or confirming source data without relying solely on company-run facilities. And farmer training is crucial: producers need to know how to tag, separate, and document their outputs, otherwise traceable systems break down at the very first step of the chain. These infrastructural requirements come with costs—and stakeholders aren’t always capable of or willing to invest in traceability. 

India also already has some regulatory provisions in place. The FSSAI requires food businesses to maintain records of their suppliers and distributors to enable product recalls in case of adulteration, mislabelling, or disease outbreak, and mandates batch coding and labelling for packaged foods. But enforcement is uneven, and most of the unorganised sector, from local dairies to wet markets, operates outside this framework.

Traceability, then, is not a luxury but a necessity. To build safe, fair, and sustainable protein markets, India needs systemic transparency: regulators must strengthen audits and infrastructure; producers must adopt traceability as a value proposition; and consumers must demand more than marketing claims. When you pour milk into your tea, cook dal for lunch, or mix a scoop of whey into your post-gym shake, you deserve to know more than its price. You deserve a protein you can trust: where it came from, how it was produced, and what is hidden along its path. Until the supply chain ceases to be invisible, these ethical, environmental, and health costs remain embedded in what we eat—and too often, paid by those least able to see them.

Also read: Why your body may not be optimising the protein you eat

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It starts the way it often does in Indian cities now: a work night before a big day, a meeting on the calendar, and an app on your phone’s home screen. A cough that has lingered for a week, the worry it might get worse, and the desire to be functional tomorrow. You open a quick‑commerce app that promises groceries in ten minutes and medicines in under an hour. A search bar, a suggestion chip for “cough & cold,” and then the thing you are not supposed to be able to buy without due process: an antibiotic.

You add it to the cart. The funnel is clean: pay now, and then choose between ‘upload prescription’ or ‘free teleconsult’. The order clock starts ticking only after payment. The clinical check is somewhere in the future.

This inversion—commerce first, medicine later—isn’t a glitch. It’s how some of India’s fastest‑growing platforms have decided to sell regulated drugs. And it lands in a country primed to say yes. For decades, the neighbourhood pharmacist has doubled as nurse, counsellor and sometimes, general physician. WhatsApp forwards pass for medical advice. Leftover tablets live in kitchen drawers. Antibiotics, especially, have become reflex—a strip for a cold, a child’s fever, “something viral.” We have learned to treat them like household tools. Apps now make that reflex kick in faster.

Also read: How drug-resistant tuberculosis is bringing life to a halt in India

Inside the apps

To see how quickly that reflex turns into a delivery at the door, I ran a simple test over three days in Bengaluru on six leading platforms: four quick‑commerce marketplaces that fulfill orders through partner pharmacies, and two inventory‑led e‑pharmacies that ship from their own licensed stores. I attempted to buy three common Schedule H antibiotics, including Augmentin. By law, these drugs require a doctor’s prescription and pharmacist oversight because inappropriate use can drive resistance, trigger serious side effects or lead to dependence. I also tried one Schedule H1 drug—Levoflox (levofloxacin)—which calls for stricter rules: pharmacies must record the buyer’s details, the prescriber’s name and the quantity sold, and preserve those records for three years.

This inversion—commerce first, medicine later—isn’t a glitch.

Each attempt succeeded. Most deliveries arrived within minutes; some in six, most under fifty. One took a day and a half, but the ordering experience was the same.

The architecture of the checkout explains why. The apps present a fork: upload a prescription or get a “free” teleconsult. In practice, both paths flip the sequence that any responsible pharmacist or physician would expect. The user must pay for the medication before any meaningful verification—be it a prescription check or a teleconsultation—is initiated. This design makes the medical justification a reversible afterthought, while the sale is a locked-in certainty.

When I uploaded prescriptions, some platforms accepted documents that were outdated, mismatched in dosage, or obviously not for the drug in the cart. By law, under the Drugs & Cosmetics Act and the Pharmacy Act—reinforced by a 2015 circular that extended these rules to online sales—every prescription is supposed to be reviewed by a pharmacist, the same as when you hand one over at a physical counter. But most approvals happened silently, and it remained unclear whether a pharmacist actually looked at my prescriptions. In one case only, a pharmacist did review my prescription, caught the discrepancy, called me to reject it, and then set up a teleconsult with a doctor who approved the order within minutes.

This design makes the medical justification a reversible afterthought, while the sale is a locked-in certainty.

The teleconsults themselves were brief. Audio calls, often under a minute, with three to four questions, sometimes leading. “Is your throat hurting?” when the order was for Azithromycin. “Any allergies?” “Name and age?” Vague complaints—“ear pain,” “ran out of medicines,” “my doctor gave this months ago”—were enough for both Schedule H and H1 drugs. The digital prescriptions produced after these calls were inconsistent: different diagnoses for identical symptoms, different dosage schedules for the same medicine, and patient names that didn’t match the account holder. All doctors were located in cities and small towns far away. The antibiotics shipped anyway.

On August 11, the All India Organisation of Chemists and Druggists (AIOCD), representing 1.24 million chemists nationwide, sounded the alarm for its own reasons and some of the public’s. They wrote to Union Home Minister Amit Shah, naming big quick‑commerce brands and accusing them of delivering Schedule H, H1 and X drugs within minutes while “skipping mandatory prescription verification”. The group flagged “ghost prescriptions”—medicines approved without genuine verification, including late-night approvals for distant patients—and warned that easy access to controlled substances could fuel drug abuse among the youth.

The business model 

These failures are embedded in three business models that are now vying for the pharmacy market.

Inventory-led companies sell from their own licensed pharmacies and manage inventory, emphasising—at least on paper—pharmacist-verified supply over speed. Marketplace e-pharmacies don’t hold their own retail licences. They connect customers to a network of licensed pharmacies that dispense the drugs. Finally, quick-commerce platforms plug into this system as logistics/tech intermediaries, often tying up with marketplace players or licensed pharmacies to deliver in minutes. 

Speed is loyalty and friction is the enemy. A pharmacist who calls back to ask a hard question becomes a drop‑off point in a funnel.

This distinction is not determinative for the safety of the consumer. All three models delivered antibiotics with equal ease and equal lack of meaningful checks. None of this is surprising if you’ve watched Indian e‑commerce and quick commerce over the last five years; the race is to become the app you open daily. Average order values for medicines are higher than those for groceries, with repeat rates often hitting 50% monthly, creating the sticky customer relationships that platforms desperately seek to make investors happy.

Speed is loyalty and friction is the enemy. A pharmacist who calls back to ask a hard question becomes a drop‑off point in a funnel.

The radius of harm

This would be just another story about tech breaking things if antibiotics were ordinary goods. They aren’t. Misusing antibiotics—taking them when not needed, stopping early, or taking the wrong one—kills off the easy-to-kill bacteria and strengthens the survivors, who multiply and share resistance traits.

The result shows up in labs: about 37% E. coli isolates (the most common bacterial pathogen) tested by the Indian Council of Medical Research no longer responded to imipenem, a class of medication doctors try to save for severe infections. Routine infections now drag on for longer, cost more, and force doctors to burn through classes of drugs they would rather hold back. As reliability fades, risks are mounting across the system since surgeries, chemotherapy, and intensive care all depend on antibiotics working.

What makes this risk sharper is the mix of drugs that online pharmacies keep in stock. The World Health Organisation classifies antibiotics into three groups: Access (broad-spectrum, lower resistance potential), Watch (higher resistance risk, should be restricted), and Reserve (last-resort drugs). Its stewardship goal is that at least 60% of global antibiotic use come from the Access group. But a study of Indian e-pharmacies found over 70% of the antibiotics available online fell in the Watch category, with Reserve drugs also on offer—widening the scope for misuse.

Of the four antibiotics I tested, three fall in WHO’s ‘Watch’ category, with only Augmentin in the safer ‘Access’ group.

Dr Sharad Khorwal, a general physician in Noida, has watched this change at the bedside. “Diseases we once handled with oral antibiotics now often need intravenous therapy, sometimes third‑ or fourth‑generation antibiotics. When I started my medical career forty years ago, typhoid was infrequent and responded to antibiotic pills. Today, most cases need 10–15 days of IV treatment. The tablets that worked then are just out of action.”

When I shared what medicines I was able to order via the apps, he’s blunt: “Azithromycin, Augmentin, Levofloxacin are very potent antibiotics. But today people are using Azithromycin like Vitamin C, not knowing that it’s one of the medicines required to treat drug-resistant typhoid. Look at the harm being done.”

Also read: The looming crisis of post-antibiotic era

A country primed for speed

The deeper problem is cultural muscle memory. For many families, time and money are tight. The clinic is far, but the pharmacist is near. For many, self‑medication is not a corner case; it’s a starting point. Instant delivery apps didn’t create that habit, but they are scaling it. 

And the state hasn’t kept up. The Drugs & Cosmetics Act, 1940, and its Rules, 1945, are the bedrock. They created Schedules H and H1, mandating a prescription for sale. The Pharmacy Act, 1948, regulates the profession. These laws were written for a world of physical counters and paper trails. But a 2015 circular by the Drugs Controller General of India did clearly state that all online and offline sellers must meet the same licence/pharmacist/prescription obligations. 

In 2018, the health ministry drafted e-pharmacy rules as an amendment to the Drugs and Cosmetics Rules, 1945, to address online sales, requiring central registration and mandating pharmacist verification. Seven years later, those rules have still not been notified. Besides, they failed to cover marketplace players, focussing only on e-pharmacies. In late 2022, the government introduced the Drugs, Medical Devices and Cosmetics Bill, a law intended to replace the 1940 Act. It explicitly brings e-pharmacies under its regulatory ambit by requiring mandatory licensing. This, too, remains in draft form.

This regulatory inertia has forced courts to intervene: the Delhi High Court has repeatedly directed the government to formulate rules, while the Madras High Court has clarified, in 2024, that existing pharmacy laws apply equally online, but has allowed online sales to continue pending final notification.

The newly enacted Digital Personal Data Protection (DPDP) Act, 2023 further complicates matters with few specific safeguards for health data, leaving prescription images and medical histories vulnerable on corporate servers. “When you come to my shop,” notes Rajiv Singal, General Secretary of AIOCD, “I don’t store your private health data. I don’t tell anyone what you have. Why should an app have a database that stores a record that you have tuberculosis or diabetes? That’s your secret, that’s your private matter.”

The 2020 Telemedicine Practice Guidelines updated during COVID-19 already provide a framework for remote consultations. They require a proper patient history and documentation, and video calls as the doctors deem necessary. But, as my testing showed, the perfunctory, sub-one-minute audio chats used to approve antibiotics on demand violate this spirit.

These regulatory gaps and delays have been good for the apps. They have enabled the surge of the marketplace model, particularly attractive to quick-commerce platforms backed by foreign direct investment (which faces restrictions in inventory-based pharmacy models). By acting as intermediaries rather than licensed dispensers, these platforms keep liability and capital needs lower, while scaling fast.

The way forward

Like many physicians, Dr Khorwal believes instant delivery of prescription medicines, especially antibiotics, is fundamentally incompatible with responsible use. “A 1:1 physical examination of the patient is compulsory.” When asked about the way forward if we assume digital access to medicines is here to stay, he stands his ground. “For OTC medicines and supplements, online delivery is okay. For the elderly, for the immobile, teleconsultation is also fine for the first line of treatment. But nothing can replace an in-person examination by a doctor.”

Younger doctors are more open to the need and inevitability of digital innovation, but also draw the line when it comes to the nature of 1:1 consultations. “Teleconsultations for prescription medicines need to be via a video call at the very least, otherwise it’s impossible to diagnose acute or chronic conditions that actually require antibiotics,” according to Dr Rahul Arora, a general physician based in Delhi.

Given the government’s unwavering focus on the National Digital Health Mission, it’s safe to assume online delivery of medicines is here to stay. And it undeniably solves real access problems. The goal then is to innovate towards safety, and the technical fixes aren't that hard to imagine.

For OTC medicines and supplements, online delivery is okay. For the elderly, for the immobile, teleconsultation is also fine for the first line of treatment. But nothing can replace an in-person examination by a doctor.

Two Bengaluru-based product managers (PMs) in quick commerce described how they would design this safeguard, if speed wasn’t the only factor.

• Antibiotic checkout could be hard-gated: payment blocked until a valid, verified, signed prescription is uploaded or issued after a teleconsult. Less like buying noodles, more like authenticating a bank transfer 
• If the cart mixes groceries and an antibiotic, the app could auto-split the order, sending the groceries right away and holding the antibiotic until approval. With cards, the charge could be delayed until approval; with UPI or cash, you’d pay for the groceries first and a new order is created for the antibiotic once cleared
• Automated name matching between prescription and account holder, with pharmacist callbacks when they don’t align
• Teleconsults could be standardised: compulsory video, structured questions, and clear display of the doctor’s name, qualifications, and registration number, logged with consult notes
• Within a single platform, prescriptions could be digitally hashed to prevent re-use and repeat orders could be slowed with cooldowns unless a fresh script is uploaded

These safeguards could be coded directly into checkout flows. But some problems like preventing the same prescription being reused across multiple platforms need regulation and enforcement. That is where product fixes end and the law must step in.

For instance, the UK requires online and distance-selling pharmacies to check the patient’s identity using photo IDs, facilitate robust two-way clinical exchanges between the patient and prescriber (particularly if antimicrobials are in play) and almost everyone uses the same central digital rail–the NHS Electronic Prescription Service. Prescribers (GPs and other authorised clinicians) and pharmacy teams sign in with smartcards. Each prescription is created, signed, dispensed and logged in one system, tied to named professionals. This combination of strict checks and shared infrastructure blocks anonymous approvals, makes re-use across outlets hard and gives regulators a clean audit trail.

A good place to start for India, as Kazim Rizvi–founder of The Dialogue, a Delhi-based think tank at the intersection of tech, public policy and society–writes, is finalising the 2018 e-pharmacy rules and explicitly covering marketplace/intermediary platforms. And then, operationalising them: make apps verify every seller by having pharmacies upload their licence to their backend; mandate audit trails linking each order, prescription, verifying pharmacist and dispensing pharmacy; and, require platforms to retain those trails and teleconsult notes for audits.

But some problems like preventing the same prescription being reused across multiple platforms need regulation and enforcement. That is where product fixes end and the law must step in.

Finally, ensure every order is billed by the licensed pharmacy (not the app) with a traceable cash/credit memo listing the patient, drug/strength, quantity, prescriber and Rx date, pharmacist registration, timestamp, order ID, and the pharmacy’s licence number.

The nuance here is that none of this kills speed for most orders. The number of people who order antibiotics on any given day is a tiny slice of the total volume. Platforms can dial up safeguards only for those products and only at the point of risk. Delivery times might increase by a few minutes or hours for antibiotic orders, but that seems like a fair trade for public health.

Also read: Meet the minds investigating bugs lurking in poultry

The doorbell

The bell rings. The last order in my three-day test arrives. A paper bag with a strip of tablets inside, no invoice, no prescription. 

I don’t take the pills. The strip sits unopened because this was a test of the pathway, not a cure. But the ease with which I could have taken them—the way the apps made it feel normal—is the point.

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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.

“We’re flushing money down the commode!”

When Professor R. Rajagopalan exclaims this, he neatly captures both the value of water, as well as what we lose by simply flushing it away and draining it into lakes. Recycling water, treating it via Sewage Treatment Plants (STPs), and re-using it in our daily lives is not merely a question of water sustainability anymore. When run and used properly, STPs can enable climate resilience, recharge groundwater tables and blue, full lakes, as well as save a lot of money. 

Rajagopalan, a former professor at the Institute of Rural Management (IRMA), believes this fact—and lives it. He has been the Chairman of the massive L&T South City Apartment complex in Bengaluru—a residential space comprising 1998 flats with over 7,000 residents—for over a decade. “We get our water supply from three main sources,” he explains. “Our onsite borewells, public water supply delivered by the Bengaluru Water Supply and Sewerage Board (BWSSB), and water tankers. At one point, we had 60 tankers coming every day to fulfill our needs. Who wants to hunt for so many tankers? Forget Bengaluru, it's too much for me to manage.” Tankers also don’t come cheap; Rajagoapan reveals that his apartment complex was spending as much as Rs 12 lakhs a month on them. 

A city in crisis

2023 was declared a drought year by the Karnataka government. Rainfall in this year was inadequate in meeting the city’s water needs, so in the summer of 2024, Bengaluru made the national news for imposing restrictions on water usage for citizens. This led to loud protests across social media from residents of apartment complexes. More invisibly, it had steep consequences for the most vulnerable in the city. 

In January 2025, the BWSSB and Indian Institute of Sciences (IISc) identified 80 wards that they understood to be most at risk to face a severe water crisis and scarcity in the summer. They recommended switching to Cauvery connections, with groundwater depleting at a faster rate.

They also note one crucial point in the face of this crisis: even as consumption of water has increased in the last few years, the amount of wastewater that is recycled in the city still remains low.

According to Water, Environment, Land and Livelihoods (WELL) Labs, a Bengaluru-based non-profit and research organisation, the factors that cause Bengaluru’s water crisis are interconnected. In their 2023 report, How Water Flows Through Bengaluru: Urban Water Balance Report, co-authors Rashmi Kulranjan, Shashank Palur and Muhil Nesi write: "With abundant rainfall and little room for recharge, wells run dry as drains overflow. Despite being allocated water from the Cauvery river, the expanding city, particularly the newer suburbs, has become increasingly dependent on a fast-depleting resource—groundwater.” 

They also note one crucial point in the face of this crisis: even as consumption of water has increased in the last few years, the amount of wastewater that is recycled in the city still remains low.

Also read: In Gurugram’s rise, a cautionary tale about satellite cities and groundwater

A first-of-its-kind intervention

It was during this crisis, in April 2024, that Rajagopalan made his case to the residents of South City. He explained that investing in a retrofit project for reusing treated wastewater (TWW) from an installed STP for flushing toilets would benefit them financially and environmentally, of course—but more importantly, this would make them more water-resilient. Stronger in the face of future crises.

“The timing of our project was important. If water is not available in a high-rise building, it will cause hell. When the Bengaluru water crisis came in 2024, the only way we could ration water in South City was to stop water supply in one bathroom in each flat. Sheer irritation was introduced,” he says, with a touch of humour. “People are willing to throw away money to buy more tankers, but you can not over-consume water when the city is suffering. What we found was that out of 12 lakh litres that we used every day, between 3-4 lakh litres was for flushing. With the BWSSB water supply never being sufficient, we had to buy tankers just for flushing. It was too expensive. So people were eager to get the retrofit for treated water use implemented.”

South City made a commitment to BWSSB: they will execute the treated water project expeditiously, if their sanitary charges can be reduced in proportion to their extent of treated water reuse. Currently, houses in a domestic highrise pay a minimum of Rs 100 or 25% of their water bill per month as sanitary charge if they get their water from BWSSB, or a flat amount of Rs 100 if they get it from borewells. 

“We retrofitted 1630 apartments in 18 high-rise towers. Within a matter of 6 months, between March and September of 2024, we started saving 3.5 lakh litres of fresh water a day, and Rs 9 lakh per month on freshwater purchase through tankers,” Rajagopalan says. “People realised that they were literally flushing money down the toilet, because each house was using one tanker a month—just to flush! After installing the STP, tankers have been reduced by about 10%. In fact, after accounting for the usage of this treated water in our housing complex, we still have enough to let out into a neighbourhood lake.” 

This makes South City a pioneer—the first apartment in Bengaluru to strike an MOU with the State Pollution Control Board and Bruhat Bengaluru Mahanagara Palike (BBMP) to let treated water revive a lake. “We also supply our treated water to a large public park. Our retrofit project is living proof that policy support could trigger an environment-friendly private effort to conserve water,” Rajagopalan adds.

A problem of abundance

In 2016, the BWSSB passed a mandate that required every apartment complex larger than 20 units to have their own STP and reuse all their treated water, but was met with resistance. In 2023, the mandate was amended; it stipulated that residential and commercial buildings above a certain area should install on-site decentralised sewage treatment plants (STPs). 

WELL Labs reports that Bengaluru generates enough wastewater a day to fill over 750 Olympic-size swimming pools. This is more than the amount of water it draws from the ground or the Cauvery river. Critically, the city’s water supply and sewage system does not cover the rapidly growing suburbs with higher population densities.

The city now has the largest number of decentralised STPs globally—about 2,700, which can treat over 615 million litres of sewage every day. Beijing has 2000 such STPs, San Francisco has 50, and New York only has 30 plants. But many of Bengaluru’s plants are being under-utilised: many are defective, don’t meet specifications, and the apartments may remain unaware of the problems with the plant. 

But there is one more problem with treating wastewater in apartments. About 30 kms across South City, an STP was installed for the residents in Century Saras in Yelahanka right when the complex was being constructed. However, even with 128 flats and over 350 residents, this society never had BWSSB connections, still doesn’t, and does not want them in the future.

According to Suresh Pai, Vice President of the Century Saras’ Owners Association, “We don’t have any BWSSB water pipes here and we are not connected to the sewage lines. The government is always 10 years behind development, but between rainwater harvesting, water saving measures, and our STP, we meet our demands internally.” 

He explains the hesitation in getting a connection now, which will only increase costs. “We save about 20,000 liters of water per day because of the STP. We use most of the treated water in our common areas, and have also given it away to a nearby construction site, but now we have to let some go into the stormwater drains because no one is ready to take our excess water—even though we’re ready to give it for free!”

Pai points out a well known challenge in the STP ecosystem: he mentions the quality control that the building does once a month on its treated water, assuring that it meets every criteria. Yet, in the absence of without support from the BWSSB, there is no market for treated water. “Tanker operators were not ready to take the water, because they can’t use the same tanker for fresh water and treated water. And there were not enough buyers for treated water.”

Local authorities, too, are cognizant of how much treated wastewater is going to waste. Of the wastewater treated by both decentralised and BWSSB-held STPs every day, nearly 720 million litres remain unused. Treated wastewater can replace freshwater in many non-potable uses. In fact, a 2023 report from the Council on Energy, Environment and Water (CEEW), states that 80% of wastewater generated by urban India has the potential to be treated and reused for non-potable purposes like irrigation.

Local authorities, too, are cognizant of how much treated wastewater is going to waste. Of the wastewater treated by both decentralised and BWSSB-held STPs every day, nearly 720 million litres remain unused.

That’s not all. Treated wastewater can even recharge lakes and aquifers, or groundwater levels. Efforts of this nature and scale are regional, and each state actually sets its own policies and standards on mandated usage of treated wastewater, where it can be used, and so on. The Karnataka government lists wetland restoration, river augmentation, and environmental recreation as potential areas for TWW reuse. As of today, the BWSSB is looking to recharge about 40 lakes within Bengaluru with treated water. 

As detailed in a Mongabay India report, the state experimented with this in 2018, when it filled 137 water tanks in Kolar, a drought-prone region, with TWW from Bengaluru. In a recent assessment, it was found that the groundwater levels in the Kolar tank have now increased by 73% and the number of water bodies increased by 5 times. The number of trees shot up and even cropping land increased. It was an immensely successful endeavour. 

Yet, having too much treated wastewater on one’s hands remains an ongoing issue.

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

Moving away from the individual to the community

Apartments couldn’t always sell their treated wastewater. In fact, it was only last year that the Karnataka government allowed apartment complexes to sell a maximum of 50% of their treated water. This one move created an entire wastewater market that could potentially meet 26% of the city’s needs. According to WELLS Lab, treated wastewater is being sold at around Rs 10-80/kL–compare this to the price of tankwater, which can go as high as Rs 200/kL. 

Shashank Palur, Senior Hydrologist at WELL Labs says, “The wastewater ecosystem hasn’t scaled. While apartment complexes comply with the 2023 mandate, challenges with the quality of treated wastewater remain, and more importantly, the lack of places to send the excess water to. Most apartments can use portions of their treated water for green or common areas, and some can use them for flushing, but the remainder is let out into the drains. The BWSSB has set up a website where organisations can buy treated water from their STPs, but it has not caught on.”

According to WELLS Lab, treated wastewater is being sold at around Rs 10-80/kL–compare this to the price of tankwater, which can go as high as Rs 200/kL. 

The private sector has invested in setting up treatment plants, too. Sachin S.V., Senior Engineer Environment at Bharat Electronics Limited (BEL), shares that BEL put in place a 10 million litre STP along the Doddabommasandra Lake in 2018; since then, the state government has recharged and replenished the 300-year-old lake with the treated water from the STP. “Through our CSR initiatives, BEL is also in charge of maintaining this STP for the next 20 years. With the rising population, STPs are the best option to reclaim 80% of water that is going to waste.”

As Bengaluru moves forward, Palur thinks all these learnings and success stories can demonstrate a more efficient approach to the city’s water with the right mix and scale of STPs, in a more sustainable fashion.

He says, “The BWSSB is building more STPs with better treatment capacities; however, these are towards the outskirts of the city, due to a lack of space. Topographically, (being) at a lower elevation, this makes sense for treatment–but not reuse within the city,” 

When it comes to apartment STPs, Palur argues that the approach should shift away from individual apartments to being community-oriented. “Piped network for supplying treated water can be explored, as it makes better economical sense in the long term. The larger city-wide trunk line for treated water supply needs to be owned by BWSSB, but the initial efforts can be taken up by the community, and (helped by) incentives by the BWSSB. We are working on that right now, coming up with models and vetting solutions to see how this can work out.”

Edited by Neerja Deodhar and Anushka Mukherjee

Produced by Nevin Thomas and Neerja Deodhar

Also read: Recycled water helps meet India’s cleaning needs. But can it quench our thirst?

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What defines a great meal? The portion size, flavour, colour, aesthetic, or price? To each their own. For me, it is memory—a meal’s ability to forge itself into my mind.

The one memory of food that makes me salivate instantly revolves around kokum. Just the sight of the sour, violaceous fruit can roll time backwards, taking me back to my nani’s chawl, barefoot on a sun-warmed terrace. The dish itself was simple—boiled potatoes, cubed and steeped in a kokum-laal mirchi paste which was ladled out every evening by Ayesha aunty, who ran a brisk, informal business. Children lined up for the potatoes, priced at Rs 2 for 4–5 pieces, but the real demand was always, “Thoda extra masala, please.” The fiery paste clung to our fingers and lit up our tongues. The dish, typically made by Mumbai’s Bohra community, was tempered with mustard seeds and curry leaves, but its highlight remained the kokum.

Years later, a sudden craving for the dish struck me while I was living in Bengaluru. I wandered through markets, only to be met with confusion. “Kokum?” one shopkeeper asked, as if I had made up the word. The lack of excitement about the fruit in the city led me to trace why a souring agent so central to my childhood—and to many regional Indian kitchens—remains unknown elsewhere.

The kokum tree (Garcinia indica) grows wild like a dome of green capped by ruby-red fruit. Across India, it goes by many names—ratamba in Marathi, punarpuli in Kannada, kaattampi kokkam in Malayalam, and even brindao in Portuguese. In Sanskrit, it’s poetically called amlasaka and vrikshamia. Kokum is considered a Non Timber Forest Product, signifying its role in the lives and livelihoods of local communities who carefully collect and sell the product, holding up a very robust ecosystem.

When dried, the fruit resembles a shrunken plum. Its rind, once soaked and simmered, has a mauve hue and lends a sweet-sour aftertaste to food and drink alike. The fruit’s pulp is blended, combined with sugar syrup, and then mixed with water to make sharbat, the beverage of choice for many Indians on the western coast during the sweltering summers. Its refreshing tartness is even served at Mantralaya, the Maharashtra state secretariat in Mumbai. Along the highways of the Western Ghats, roadside eateries offer kokum soda to travellers. And then there’s solkadhi, a beloved drink made of coconut milk and kokum. The creamy pink appetiser is flavoured with aromatics like grushed garlic and ginger, coriander leaves and green chili; it pairs beautifully with the spice-laden fish curries of the coast.

Kokum was awarded a Geographical Indication (GI) tag in 2016.

For me, kokum will always be a flavour that tastes like childhood. But when I began speaking to people who have written and talked passionately about the fruit for years, different viewpoints emerged. Veteran agriculture journalist Shree Padre, who has tracked the crop for decades, says, “It’s a fruit of the future.”

Also read: Why bajra, the ‘pearl’ of India’s millets, remains underutilised

Mapping the kokum’s trail

According to journalist-cum-farmer Padre, kokum remains untapped in India due to two major reasons. “First, there is a lack of awareness outside the Konkan region, Maharashtra, and parts of Karnataka. And secondly, the difficult post-harvest operations, which are labour-intensive,” he says. Padre is referring to the manual process of soaking, draining and drying the fruit’s pulp and rind carefully–and importantly–within precise windows over a cycle of a few days.

For context, Maharashtra’s Ratnagiri district is the de facto kokum capital of India. “If Konkan is the body of kokum,” explains Padre, “then Ankola and beyond are its tails.” Further south, in Kerala, kokum is virtually unknown; here, the region's native fruit Garcinia gummi-gutta–a botanical cousin–has been traditional to the native cuisine for generations. The dried rind of the fruit is used in fish curries and exported as a diet supplement.

Kokum can be cultivated either through grafting or by planting a seedling–the choice determines the fruit-bearing period. When grafted, fruits begin to appear within 3-4 years of cultivation, and with a seedling, it can take anywhere from 6-8 years. Kokum fruits flower over the winter and are ready to be harvested about 120 days from the fruit bearing. A strong, 15-year old seedling plant can bear 30-50 kgs of fruit.  If there had been better awareness about kokum and its counterparts, producers may have experimented with farming practices to suit the ecological conditions of other regions beyond its native range. They could have studied soil requirements, rainfall patterns, and shade preferences that can support the plant’s growth. However, since its knowledge has largely remained within local communities, such attempts have rarely been made.

Its short shelf life means it is seldom consumed fresh, leading people to adapt by drying it, blending it, or turning it into a value-added product.

Kokum was awarded a Geographical Indication (GI) tag in 2016. This made the name ‘Sindhudurg & Ratnagiri Kokum’ exclusive to the kokum grown in these regions. It thus became the first kokum variety from India and the 13^th product from Maharashtra to earn the label. According to a survey by the Chief Conservator of Forests, Maharashtra is home to nearly 46,600 kokum trees, the vast majority of which are found in the Ratnagiri and Sindhudurg districts. But this data remains outdated, with no clear estimates about the extent of the crop’s cultivation in the past 15 years or so.

The issue of post-harvest processing that Padre raises is particularly prominent during the rainy season. “Since most kokum comes from wild collection rather than commercial cultivation, drying is a challenge. Many collectors dry kokum on roadsides in unhygienic conditions, reducing product quality. A social worker from the US once attempted to import kokum but faced difficulties in securing a reliable, high-quality supply. Although some training efforts were made, large-scale exports never materialised,” explains Padre.

Part of the fruit’s obscurity comes down to timing and toil. It ripens at the peak of summer just before the monsoons and is highly perishable. “Once harvested, fruit flies attack it immediately,” says Savita Uday, a researcher and educator who has worked deep in the forests of the Western Ghats for over 12 years. “Because of this, many people who drink kokum juice have never actually seen the fruit.”

From forest produce to commercial crop?

Secluded in India’s Western Ghats, the kokum tree produces fruit that is processed into dark, sticky orbs with curled edges. But it is more than just the dried chunks found in glass jars at spice stores. Across the Konkan belt, it is a staple, a source of refreshment, and a marker of tradition. For the people of Maharashtra, Goa, and parts of Karnataka, kokum is omnipresent in dals, bhaajis, and kadhis. Yet it is rarely spoken about outside culinary contexts, perhaps because kokum isn’t a typical table fruit or commercial staple. Its short shelf life means it is seldom consumed fresh, leading people to adapt by drying it, blending it, or turning it into a value-added product.

For over two decades, the Western Ghats Kokum Foundation, established by Ajit Shirodkar in Goa, has worked to reposition kokum as a commercial crop. Formed in 2000, its mission has been to raise the fruit’s profile. To do so, the team has conducted national seminars and worked to raixse awareness about kokum. “During one such seminar, it was noted that there are 48 patents related to kokum across India. Despite this, research remains limited, as kokum is not considered a commercial crop but a minor forest fruit. Only the Konkan Krishi Vidyapeeth in Dapoli has conducted significant research, including experiments on pruning to facilitate harvesting,” Padre says.

The foundation published a Resource Book on Kokum, one of the few comprehensive documents available on the crop. Miguel de Braganza, a horticulturist and kokum enthusiast from Goa, and the editor of the book, was also the first to exhibit kokum in a full-fledged festival. The impact of the Konkan Fruit Fest (KFF), he says, was such that “people began planting grafts of the variety in Vengurla.” 

Priya Devi, Principal Scientist at the ICAR–Indian Institute of Horticultural Research, who has studied the fruit for over a decade and who wrote her doctoral thesis, too, on kokum, points to the efforts being made by multiple institutions across the country to bureaucratically popularise the fruit. “Different organisations are taking efforts to promote commercialisation of the crop,” she notes. The ICAR–National Bureau of Plant Genetic Resources has a mandate for Garcinia indica. The Protection of Plant Varieties and Farmers’ Rights Authority also provides guidelines for registering kokum varieties. As part of their research, Devi and her team attempted to grow kokum across several Indian states, but found that it only performs well in Peninsular India, especially in the Western Ghats.

Adding value to a beloved ingredient

In 2012, an American celebrity doctor claimed that Garcinia extracts were a weight-loss “holy grail” on national television. The trend saw Google searches for ‘Garcinia’ skyrocket, and a multinational market was created almost overnight, which branded the plant as the ‘newest, fastest fat-buster’. The claims, though, had little scientific basis, as Oxford’s Centre for Evidence-Based Medicine found no evidence that hydroxycitric acid, garcinia cambogia’s active ingredient, encouraged weight loss, but that has not stopped sales.

Debates about weight loss aside, the leathery fruit has long been a trusted natural remedy—to ease digestion, cool the body, and treat inflammation. The Indian Ministry of AYUSH has even listed it among 140 important medicinal plants that receive support for cultivation, a recognition of its value in traditional healing. Moreover, the smooth, stable and rich butter made from its seeds has a demand in the cosmetics world as an alternative to cocoa butter. In places like Italy, kokum butter has found a small but growing export market.

If you visit the Konkan region and throw a stone, it will likely hit someone involved in kokum value addition at the domestic level.

“Value addition is necessary,” states Devi, encouraging people to experiment with the many properties of the kokum fruit. For instance, she points out that kokum butter, which is also used as a base in chocolates, is superior because of its ability to hold form without instantly melting in the hand. She also explains how this makes the butter valuable in both the pharmaceutical and cosmetic industries.

Padre adds, “Value-added kokum products have significant demand due to their numerous benefits. Kokum butter and kokum aamsul (salted rinds of the kokum fruit) are already well-known, but there are many unexplored possibilities. If you visit the Konkan region and throw a stone, it will likely hit someone involved in kokum value addition at the domestic level.”

One such stakeholder is Ganapathi Bhat from Honnavar, Karnataka, who has 10–12 kokum trees on his 1.5-acre farm. Around 2006, when Bhat’s father fell ill, he had to take over family responsibilities. At the time, he was working as a clerk in a cooperative society, earning a modest salary of just Rs 1,000–Rs 3,000 per month. A local entrepreneur, who was producing various fruit squashes, came to source kokum from the area. Aware of Bhat’s financial difficulties, he suggested that the then-clerk try making kokum products at home. With his guidance and training, Bhat began producing agal or kokum squash (fruit syrup, meant to be diluted with water for a drink).

“My mother took the lead in the beginning,” he recalls. Kokum fruit is harvested in April and May, and the Bhats followed a traditional method of preparing the squash:

1. Remove the seeds from the kokum fruit
2. Add sugar
3. Leave it in direct sunlight for three days to allow the squash to form

That first year, they produced 100 bottles, which sold out within a month. Encouraged by the demand, they increased production the following year. Eventually, Bhat decided to resign from his job and fully dedicate himself to the squash business.

Over time, they developed five types of kokum-based products:

• Fresh fruit squash – Made directly during the harvest season
• Kokum rind squash – Made from dried kokum rind, boiled and mixed with sugar, cardamom, and pepper for added aroma
• Sugar-free kokum extract – Made with ginger and pepper, used in cooking as a tamarind substitute
• Hot kokum or kokum tea – A spicy drink made with a rare local chili, native to the region
• Garlic-infused hot kokum tea – A savory, tea-like drink served hot

“Every year, we process about 5–6 tons of kokum and sell approximately 25,000 kilograms of raw kokum,” Bhatt says with pride.

Still, the fruit’s full potential remains largely untapped. Padre has more ideas, like kokum jam, which are yet to be explored. He mentions kokum dispensers at railway stations—once built, now abandoned. Kokum candy was developed by the Central Food Technological Research Institute, but it is not widely available. “The colour is the USP,” he insists, referring to the fruit’s deep, jewel-toned hue that paints every dish it touches.

Also read: The fall of the Mathania Mirch in a thirsty desert

Quality concerns

Despite the praises sung by kokum’s advocates, the fruit struggles to carve out a market for itself. The main reason: widespread adulteration.

Many manufacturers dilute genuine kokum with artificial citric acid and synthetic food colouring to cut costs. “This affects the demand for authentic kokum. I often receive bulk orders from cities like Bengaluru and Mangaluru, but due to adulteration, only about 50% of the kokum available in the market is pure. The rest is mixed with artificial additives,” explains Bhat.

For the average consumer, kokum remains a mystery. Even if they’ve tasted it in sharbat or curries, they’ve rarely seen or touched the fruit itself. Savita Uday, who works to introduce urban dwellers to kokum in an intimate and experiential way, emphasises that the fruit’s perishability is a major issue. 

“When I began living in the forest, I wondered how to bridge this gap,” Uday recalls. She started organising one-week programs where people could visit, harvest kokum, process it, and take ownership of the experience. Alongside local communities, she compiled kokum recipes and created a book. Initially, they were harvesting from just 2–3 trees, but she encouraged locals to participate in harvesting more. Eventually, they began producing and selling kokum fruit preserves, which became especially popular with school groups.

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

Echoing Padre’s concerns about hygiene in kokum processing, Uday adds, “In villages, people often dry kokum in their courtyards, but when it rains, they don’t always bring it in on time. We began drying it on white sheets, carefully selecting only the best fruits. That one change significantly improved quality, and demand for both dried kokum and kokum preserves increased.”

She further highlights the importance of timing: the fruit ripens at the peak of summer, but if the monsoon arrives early, the crop gets infested with worms and becomes unusable. “Timing is everything. Sometimes I announce a harvest date, only to find that the fruit isn’t fully ripe yet. Then I have to rush to another village, where the fruit might ripen a week earlier or later,” she explains.

For the average consumer, kokum remains a mystery. Even if they’ve tasted it in sharbat or curries, they’ve rarely seen or touched the fruit itself.

The fruit is threatened by decreased rainfall and hot temperatures; one study suggests that kokum may go extinct by 2050 as a result of climate change. But experts are in disagreement about the study and the fears it raises. 

Kokum’s distinct and yet humble nature allows it to blend into countless dishes. In tracing this fruit I discovered as a child, I uncovered not only its deep-rooted cultural archive, but also the many recipes, virtues and initiatives that have kept it alive across generations. 

Kokum aloo recipe: 

Boil 8-10 baby potatoes until just done (don’t overcook), then peel and halve them. Meanwhile, grind 4 soaked pieces of kokum with red chili powder, fennel seeds, and a little water into a thick paste. Heat some oil in a pan, add sliced green chilies and curry leaves, sauté briefly, and mix in the kokum paste. Adjust spice by adding more red chili powder if desired, then season with salt and a bit of sugar. Toss in the halved potatoes and stir well so the flavors coat them evenly. Finish by garnishing with pomegranate seeds before serving.

Edited by Neerja Deodhar and Anushka Mukherjee

Additional edits by Durga Sreenivasan

Nuapada district in western Odisha is home to several tribal communities, including the Gond, Paharia, Kondh, and the Chuktia Bhunjia—one of India’s Particularly Vulnerable Tribal Groups (PVTGs). For generations, these communities have sustained their food systems through rain-fed agriculture, cultivating native varieties of millets, paddy, pulses, and vegetables using mixed and rotational cropping methods. Among these crops, little millet (Panicum sumatrense), locally known as ‘gurji’, has been a major staple. It grows well in less fertile soils under rain-fed conditions, and can withstand drought, prolonged dry spells, and even waterlogging, making it an exceptionally resilient crop suited to diverse and challenging environments.

Tribal communities in Nuapada have traditionally cultivated several native varieties of little millet, including bad gurji, jhar gurji, jhati gurji, jhumki gurji, and san gurji. Each variety is distinct, differing in crop duration, grain size, colour, and taste. Among them, jhati gurji is the most preferred. It is a short-duration crop, typically harvested within 70 days. Known for its arched panicles and small, shiny grey grains, jhati gurji is valued both for its agronomic advantages and cultural significance.

“Jhati gurji is sown early in June and harvested before paddy, by early August. It’s the first crop of the season. We harvest jhati gurji when no other standing crop is available—it’s like our survival food,” says Rama Majhi, a 42-year-old farmer from the Dholamunda village in Nuapada. The harvest period of jhati gurji coincides with Nuakhai, a popular harvest festival celebrated across West Odisha. Majhi adds, “If we harvest around 2–3 quintals of jhati gurji, we store one quintal for household consumption and sell the rest.”

Since there is no Minimum Support Price (MSP) for little millet in Odisha, many farmers are shifting to other crops like paddy and maize.

Jhati gurji holds deep cultural significance among tribal communities. “Our Nuakhai celebration is incomplete without jhati gurji,” says 37-year-old Padma Jhankar from Jamgarh village in Komna. When freshly harvested, it has a milky flavour, while grains stored for over six months develop a taste similar to fish eggs. During Nuakhai, it is prepared in a variety of traditional recipes, including rice, gruel, puffed rice, and sweets, she says. Its importance is also reflected in local oral traditions, with jhati gurji frequently mentioned in tribal songs as a testament to its integral role in cultural heritage (one such song can be found at the end of this article!). “Despite its rich heritage, jhati gurji is under threat due to the spread of hybrid crops and the growing practice of monocropping,” says Pritesh Sundar Roy, programme officer of seed systems at the Watershed Support Services and Activities Network (WASSAN), Bhubaneswar. It is an NGO that works with the rain-fed farmers in Odisha.

Under the Shree Anna Abhiyan, a flagship initiative by the Odisha government launched in 2017 to revive millets in the state, WASSAN has undertaken the scientific documentation of the history, cultural significance, and unique agronomic traits of jhati gurji to secure a Geographical Indication (GI) tag. Since there is no Minimum Support Price (MSP) for little millet in Odisha, many farmers are shifting to other crops like paddy and maize. “The lack of proper documentation and research on heirloom varieties further threatens their survival,” explains Roy.

Kuber Pradhan, a farmer who has been cultivating jhati gurji for over 15 years and serves as a community resource person with the Maa Suradei Farmer Producer Organisation in Komna block, is proud to support the GI tag application process. “A GI tag will validate the crop’s authenticity, promote tribal cultural heritage, and boost the market value of jhati gurji,” he says.

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A heritage grain

“Little millet has a long-standing history in Odisha and is an integral part of the state’s cultural heritage,” says Arabinda Kumar Padhee, Principal Secretary, Department of Agriculture and Farmers’ Empowerment, Government of Odisha. He highlighted that western Odisha—encompassing the hilly regions of the Eastern Ghats and the Chota Nagpur Plateau—is believed to be one of the earliest centres of little millet domestication in the world, dating back to around 4000 BC.

The grain was domesticated in the Eastern Ghats of India and spread to Sri Lanka, Nepal, and Myanmar. Evidence of little millet cultivation was found in the Indus Valley Civilisation of Harappa around 2600 BC. Millets, therefore, were a staple in the diet of one of the world’s earliest urban civilisations. In the excavations of Oriyo Timbo in the Bhavnagar district of Gujarat, 77% of the seeds were found to be of millets, including little millet, dating to 2000-1500 BC. Similarly, evidence of little millet was also found at the Hallur archaeological site, located in the Haveri district of Karnataka, dating back to approximately 1800 BC. This place is also known as South India’s earliest Iron Age site.

A climate-resilient crop

Little millet thrives in both tropical and temperate climates and can be cultivated at altitudes of up to 2,000 metres above sea level in India. It requires moderate rainfall, growing well in regions that receive between 250 and 600 mm annually, and can also adapt to areas receiving rainfall as high as 1,500 mm. Additionally, little millet can tolerate moderate levels of soil salinity and alkalinity.

Several studies have highlighted the strong climate resilience of little millet. For example, under drought conditions, the crop exhibits increased root length and reduced shoot length—an adaptive trait that enhances its ability to access water and survive dry spells.

Also read: For Odisha’s Chuktia Bhunjias, preservation by drying is tradition—and sustenance

The big player states

Little millet is known by various names across India—sama in Bengali, suan in Odia, kutki in Hindi, gajro in Gujarati and Kannada, sava in Marathi, swank in Punjabi, samai in Tamil, and samalu in Telugu. The states majorly producing little millet include Odisha, Madhya Pradesh, Andhra Pradesh, Karnataka, Maharashtra, and Gujarat. Though more recent data about the grain remains scant, the total area under cultivation as of 2015-16 was 2.34 lakh ha with production of 1.27 lakh tonnes.

In Odisha, little millet is primarily grown in the hilly areas of tribal-populated districts, such as Koraput, Malkangiri, Nuapada, Rayagada, Kalahandi, and Kandhamal. In 2023, the Odisha government announced plans to launch a benchmark price for little millet and other millets outside the ambit of MSP, terming the price as being “the equivalent of MSP”. Two years since, the fate of the little millet has not changed. Despite the government promoting millets as climate-smart and nutritious crops, most varieties—besides ragi, sorghum and pearl millet—are still not included in the Minimum Support Price (MSP).

In both Mandla and Dindori districts, little millet has been included in the meals served to preschool children at Anganwadi centres, as part of the state’s initiative to promote millets for improved nutrition.

Chhattisgarh is the only state that offers MSP for little millet. The Chhattisgarh Millet Mission—launched by the Government of Chhattisgarh in September 2021, with the vision of making the state the millet hub of India—is an initiative that primarily focuses on promoting the cultivation of kodo millet, little millet, and finger millet across 85 blocks in 20 districts of the state,  with a budget outlay of ₹170 crore from 2021 to 2026. In 2021, the state declared ₹33.77 per kilogram of little millet as MSP. 

In Madhya Pradesh, little millet is predominantly cultivated by the Gond and Baiga tribes across several districts, including Dindori, Mandla, Umaria, Chhindwara, Anuppur, Shahdol, and Sidhi. Among these, Mandla has emerged as a major production hub for both kutki and kodo millet. The district has also been designated as the ‘One District One Product’ for millets under the Pradhan Mantri Formalisation of Micro Food Processing Enterprises scheme of the Government of India. In both Mandla and Dindori districts, little millet has been included in the meals served to preschool children at Anganwadi centres, as part of the state’s initiative to promote millets for improved nutrition.

In northern India, the grain is commonly consumed as ‘vrat ka chawal’—or food consumed when observing a fast. It is known to sustain energy and reduce hunger over time, as it releases glucose gradually. In Odisha, little millet is often referred to as a “cooling grain” because of its ability to regulate body temperature and help prevent heat-related illnesses during the hot summer months.

Small size, big health benefits

Tiny and round in shape, little millet is one of the smallest grains among the different millet varieties, but it packs a powerful nutritional punch. According to the Indian Institute of Millet Research, 100 grams of little millet contain 7.7 grams of protein, 7.6 grams of dietary fibre, 1.5 grams of minerals, 9.3 mg of iron, and 17 mg of calcium.

Little millet is rich in antioxidants such as tannins and flavonoids, which help protect against lifestyle-related diseases like diabetes and cardiovascular conditions. It has a low glycemic index and is high in dietary fibre, which means it releases glucose slowly into the bloodstream, helping maintain stable blood sugar levels. The grain also contains phytochemicals known for their anti-inflammatory and anti-cancer properties. It is a good source of magnesium, which supports heart health, and niacin (Vitamin B3), which helps lower cholesterol levels. Its phosphorus content aids in tissue repair, energy production, and weight management, particularly after physical exertion.

“Little millet helps detoxify the body,” says Dr. Srikanta Dhar, a medicine specialist at the All India Institute of Medical Sciences (AIIMS), Bhubaneswar. Its high water-soluble fibre content promotes satiety, delays gastric emptying, and supports weight loss. Naturally gluten-free, it is also an ideal grain for people with celiac disease or those seeking gluten-free alternatives.

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

Policy concerns 

The little millet has been “a neglected crop despite its climate resilience, nutritional value, and genetic diversity,” says Uday Kumar Nagubandi, Program Manager, Sustainable Seed Systems at the Centre for Sustainable Agriculture, a Hyderabad-based NGO working in Andhra Pradesh, Maharashtra, Sikkim, Telangana, Tripura, and Punjab towards establishing economically and ecologically sustainable agriculture. From the 1980s to 2020, over 150 varieties of little millet—distinct seed samples representing specific cultivars—have been documented by the Indian Council of Agricultural Research (ICAR) and the National Bureau of Plant Genetic Resources (NBPGR). However, much of this diversity has gradually disappeared from the agricultural landscape, especially over the last two decades, according to Nagubandi, owing to shifting cropping patterns, market preferences, and policy support favouring rice and wheat. Traditional varieties of millets disappeared from farmers’ fields, especially in central and eastern India, due to a lack of incentives and seed system support.

Processing of little millet is also challenging. The grain has an outer husk that needs to be removed, making it a tedious post-harvesting process.

“We need to recognise little millet as a Neglected and Underutilised Crop Species (NUS) and bring it under the ambit of programmes like the All India Coordinated Research Project,” Nagubandi suggests. The All India Coordinated Research Projects (AICRP) are flagship initiatives of ICAR, launched in the 1960s, to conduct multi-location, multidisciplinary research on specific crops and agricultural challenges. Each AICRP focuses on a crop (like rice, wheat, maize, millets) or theme (like dryland farming, agroforestry), and operates through a network of research centres across agro-climatic zones. In the past, AICRP has significantly contributed to the development of 4,365 varieties of field crops. “There is also a need for region-specific research, farmer-led seed conservation efforts, MSP provisions, and integration into agroforestry systems to bring little millet back into mainstream farming,” Nagubandi adds.

“Crop diversity is key,” emphasises Naresh Biswas, founder of Nirman, an NGO working with the Baiga tribe on ecological farming through the revival of indigenous seeds in the Mandla district of Madhya Pradesh. Instead of monocropping, little millet should be grown as part of intercropping systems along with other millets, pulses, and cereals—a sustainable practice followed by tribal communities for generations, he emphasises. Nirman has promoted the same in Mandla.

Processing of little millet is also challenging. The grain has an outer husk that needs to be removed, making it a tedious post-harvesting process. “Since the grain size is small, isolating little millet from stones, pebbles, and other dust particles is a labour-intensive task for women. Traditionally, they spend hours segregating grain through winnowing in a bamboo tray,” says Biranchi Narayan Mahaptra, Executive Secretary, CPSW, an NGO promoting millets with the support of Shree Anna Abhiyan in Nuapada and Komna blocks. There is an urgent need to develop efficient processing machinery for little millet that is women-friendly, he highlights.

While millets are widely promoted as climate-resilient crops, farmers are increasingly reporting reduced yields in the face of changing climatic conditions. “Rising temperatures and erratic rainfall patterns are affecting millet productivity,” says Jitendra Kumar Kar, Senior Programme Officer at WASSAN, Bhubaneswar. He emphasises the need for focused, participatory research to understand the impacts of climate change on millets. “Such studies must engage tribal farmers, local civil society organisations, and academic institutions,” says Kar, who coordinates the Coalition for Food Systems Transformation in India (CoFTI), a multi-stakeholder panel advocating for indigenous and tribal food cultures, forest knowledge, and agroecology.

An example of a traditional local tribal song on jhati gurji from Odisha’s Nuapada district:

Kisan bhai ho (Oh brother farmers)

Jhati gurji karmu chash (Let us cultivate jhati gurji)

Jhati gurji karmu chash (Let us cultivate jhati gurji)

Khaimu boli karichu aash (We are hoping to eat it)

Khaimu boli karichu aash. (We are hoping to eat it)

Gurji bhitre, gurji bhitre (Among the little millet, among the little millet)

Jhati gurji sabuthanu far (Jhati gurji is the best)

Jhati gurji sabuthanu far (Jhati gurji is the best)

Kisan bhai ho (Oh brother farmers)

Jhati gurji karmu chash (We will cultivate jhati gurji)

Jhati gurji karmu chash. (We will cultivate jhati gurji)

Amar pitrupita khaichan jhati gurji (Our forefathers have eaten jhati gurji)

Amar pitrupita khaichan jhati gurji (Our forefathers have eaten jhati gurji)

Ame bisa khaimu jhati gurji (We will also eat jhati gurji)

Ame bisa khaimu jhati gurji. (We will also eat jhati gurji)

Kisan bhai ho (Oh brother farmers)

Jhati gurji karmu chash (We will cultivate jhati gurji)

Jhati gurji karmu chash. (We will cultivate jhati gurji)

‍

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

Images by Abhijit Mohanty

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“This is mani-muni (Indian pennywort),” says 16-year-old Anju, plucking a ground cover plant with small, round leaflets. “We crush its leaves and drink the juice; it’s good for digestion.” On Assam’s river island of Majuli, in the Chilakela village, Anju and five of her friends, aged 10 to 18, helped us forage ten different edible plants growing within a few feet of their homes.

Together, we cooked these foraged greens and fried fish caught from the pond behind Anju’s house, and ate it all with farm-grown rice and vegetables, homemade ber achar (jujube pickle), and masoor dal—the only item sourced from the market.

As part of an Agroecology course, I’d chosen Majuli for my field immersion (agroecology takes an ecology approach to farming, promoting sustainable use of resources and the empowerment of farmers). My classmates and I centred our fieldwork on two of Majuli’s 243 villages: Chilakela (pronounced ‘Seelakola’), a primarily Assamese village, and Malapindha, a Mising tribal village where our host organisation, Ayang Trust, works. What we found were gracious teachers of agroecology in the very homes we visited—everyday farmers living the principles we’d only studied in the coursework thus far.

After our meal at Anju’s home, the leftovers were devoured by ducks, chickens, cows, goats—even pigs—moving about freely around the homes. Each family reared at least two to three types of livestock. Their dung naturally fertilised the soil, completing a nutrient loop that would make any permaculture designer proud. Such cycles of transformation were unfolding around us all the time. In March, when we visited, the broad pathars (fields) were open grazing grounds, dotted with cattle and goats. By April, they would transform into lush, green paddy fields.

Agroecology in action

Majuli, located on the mighty Brahmaputra, is the largest river island in the world. It remains in a state of constant flux as the Brahmaputra and its tributaries (Subansiri) dance around it, eroding and depositing sediment as they flow.

As climate change makes weather on the island intense and less predictable, it leads to changing relationships with farming, even as native varieties lend a great deal of resilience against seasonal floods. Chilakela and Malapindha, in particular, are less erosion prone. Still, villagers can feel the shift; for example, mustard is no longer grown where it used to, as the soil is more wet now.

This is agroecology in action: systems built on biodiversity, requiring little external inputs, and resilient to changing conditions.

Government data suggests that roughly 90% of the island’s population is dependent on agriculture, much of which remains sustenance-oriented. Farms are typically small or marginal, with paddy being the preferred crop of choice alongside other major crops like black gram. 

“Our ancestors used to say ‘Kheti karo kaal bam’—farm the land, through ups and downs,” says Madhav, a community leader in his 30s with an entrepreneurial streak, “If all paddy was cultivated only in low-lying regions, then we could lose yield in the event of an intense flood. That’s why we plant many varieties on different types of land,” he adds. “Hali dhan like basmati, jangia, and joha are cultivated upland, while in the low-lying areas, we sow Bau dhan like negheri, kolio, and amona. Bau dhan can grow up to 8–10 feet tall, so even in deep floods, we are still able to achieve a harvest.”

This is agroecology in action: systems built on biodiversity, requiring little external inputs, and resilient to changing conditions. This resilience also shapes the community's nutrient-dense diets. Most families consume a wide diversity of foods daily: cereals and tubers, pulses, leafy greens, vegetables, and meat. Fruits like ber and seeds like pumpkin featured often in the meals we tracked. Nearly everything was grown or foraged locally. Every home was surrounded by 30–40 plant species—trees, shrubs, herbs—some cultivated, many wild, all useful: edible, medicinal, timber, aesthetic. This is true food sovereignty, the kind most consumers can only dream of.

Also read: Let there be light where the grid cannot go

An embrace—and skepticism of—hybridity

Poroshmita, a 20-year-old Assamese woman from the Chilakela village, has decided to delay her marriage by 2–3 years. “I’ve prioritised saving money first,” she says, as she shows us the pickles, embroidered sarees, crochet work and stitched clothes she sells to earn a living, “At least Rs 1–2 lakh is needed to cover wedding expenses.” Weddings, funerals, and festivals—once modest occasions—now come with heavy financial burdens. The price of everyday living, too, has risen. Traditional bamboo-and-mud houses are being replaced with pakka cement structures. “To build a decent house, you need Rs 10–20 lakh,” says Madhav. “In 70% of households, at least one son is working in Coimbatore, Hyderabad, or Chennai.”

Though villages like Malapindha and Chilakela have remained self-sufficient in terms of food production, the rising costs of gadgets like phones, vehicles, and private education in particular are pressing. “My sons attend a private school,” says Rezu, a diligent farmer in his 40s. “The annual fees alone are 1.5 lakh. Then the costs of books, hostel stays, transport… I sell my goats, cows, and fish whenever I need cash.”

Despite easy marketing, hybrid varieties lacked taste and resilience, and have earned limited favour in Majuli.

In the nearby flood-prone village of Bhakat Chapori, government-backed commercial farming has taken hold over the past five years. “These crops need a lot of care,” says 40-year-old Anil, as he stands in a field gleaming with black plastic mulch (to retain moisture and prevent weeds from growing). On one side, a thousand bhut jolokias (ghost pepper chillies). On the other, watermelons. “See this discoloration?” he says, pointing to a leaf, “This deficiency can only be fixed by chemical fertilisers.”

Under a brand-new solar pump on Anil’s farm, sat rows of plastic bottles—one of them containing Roundup, a herbicide restricted or banned in many countries for its carcinogenic effects. When asked about his earnings, Anil says, “Sometimes a lot, sometimes nothing. Last year, I put in Rs 5 lakh and earned Rs 12 lakh.” 

Despite easy marketing, hybrid varieties lacked taste and resilience, and have earned limited favour in Majuli. As he points to a hybrid variety of guava, Madhav underscores how trees like it have been ‘created’. “They won’t grow without chemicals.” As it is true across the world, high yield crops cultivated on this island, too, require a high degree of inputs. “If a goat eats a leaf, the plant dies. Our local guava? It survives and keeps growing.”

Rajib, a middle-aged farmer based in Malapindha, shows us two brinjal patches growing side-by-side—one local, one hybrid. “I sowed them at the same time,” he says. The hybrid plants had barely germinated while the local ones flourished. Hybrids also needed more water in Majuli’s relatively dry winter—a major constraint.

“I grow hybrid varieties to sell in the market and earn an income,” says Sumonto Boruah, a seasoned, middle-aged farmer, “But at home, we prefer to eat our local variety of bitter gourd—it’s tastier!” In a small market survey we conducted in Garmur, a district town in Majuli, with inputs from 60 respondents, customers unanimously preferred local produce. “I don’t buy off-season vegetables,” one buyer told us, “They’re not good for us. Local, fresh vegetables and greens are like medicine.”

To enable better incomes and earning potential, our host NGO Ayang Trust supports Lekope, a farmer-producer organisation which works with 3000 farmers to market local crops like black rice, joha rice and foxtail millet. This millet has nearly vanished due to its laborious processing, despite its high nutritional value. Now, thanks to Lakope’s orders, a handful of farmers have started reintroducing it. Ayang also trains women to make pickles, cakes, and chips, helping them start small enterprises.

Also read: In the battle of Alphonso versus Kesar, climate change plays dirty

The real threat: systemic change, not local choice

Madhav is of the opinion that Majuli’s socio-economic backwardness stems from the failure to market what is local and abundant. “We’ve failed to market our own products,” he rues. To test whether local vegetables could find buyers, our student group sourced surplus pumpkins, gourds, and a rainbow of greens from the homes we visited and set up a small stall in Garmur.   

Many customers we encountered had their own backyard gardens, but there was a significant minority that did not have space or time, who purchased most of our produce. “I’m happy to pay Rs 500 weekly for hygienically produced, organic groceries,” says Bipen, a middle-aged white-collar professional. Our investment of Rs 1800 resulted in a Rs 500 profit—a modest but meaningful sign of potential.

The reality unfolding in Majuli can be explained against the larger context of trends observed across India. Farming itself has become economically unviable for many farmers. “Primary productivity is declining [due to loss of soil fertility and ground water]. Meanwhile, farmers face rising costs due to privatised education and healthcare, making cash incomes a necessity. Yet, agriculture receives only 2.7% of the national budget, largely as Direct Benefit Transfers. These do little to build shared assets like watershed systems that could support long-term climate resilience,” says Dr Dinesh Abrol, a policy expert who held forth on the subject during one of our course lectures. The result is a system where farmers bear the burden, but decisions—about factors like seeds and subsidies—are shaped by a government-corporate nexus far removed from the field. 

Also read: GFM's photostory on ancient Pokkali fields in decline

The push to commercialise agriculture has also come at a cost to nutritional self-sufficiency. “We’ve become dependent on imports for oilseeds and pulses,” notes Dr Richa Kumar, an associate professor at IIT Delhi who researches agriculture and nutrition. “Today, over half of our pulses and oilseeds are imported. This is because the government procures rice and wheat at scale but doesn’t prioritise other crops,” she shares. Ironically, even these staples are declining in quality. A 2023 study by Debnath et al. says that the, “nutrients profile [of modern rice and wheat] shows a downward trend in concentrations of essential and beneficial elements, but an upward [trend] in toxic elements in [the] past 50 y[ears].”

Ayang Trust has attempted to support Majuli’s farmers if they opt for high-value, high-yielding vegetables and non-local fruits. Dharamjeet, the livelihoods coordinator at the NGO, says that this support has been offered keeping in mind what the future may bring for Majuli. “Soon, there will be a highway and a bridge passing through these villages, connecting Majuli to Arunachal. Industries and rice mills will follow, there will be massive land grabs,” he warns, “What will farmers have to hold on to their land?” From our conversations with the NGO and our field visits, it was clear that their intervention—introducing Tezpur litchi and L49 guava—had only a lukewarm impact. This reflects a pattern: relying on non-native, high-input, market-oriented varieties instead of finding innovations that would secure fair prices for indigenous, nutritious crops.

Majuli, buffered by its inaccessibility and strong food culture, has held on. Reachable only by ferry, it has not yet been exposed to the takeover of supermarket culture or the presence of MNCs, or even the food procurement regimes that mainland areas are accustomed to. For context, electricity reached the village of Chilakela in 2010. But the change is seeping in. In Chilakela, we laid out local seeds before children aged 4 to 19. Only Radhika, age 9, could name them all. Most couldn’t tell a pumpkin from a sponge gourd, or distinguish between the small and large varieties of ridge gourd. Even Paban, a sharp 20-year-old, struggled to identify the rice varieties his mother cultivates.

“Often the stress and the solution is not in agriculture,” says Anshuman Das, a Lead Expert in agroecology and food systems at aid agency Welthungerhilfe. “We have to zoom out… If the need of the community in Majuli’s villages is better education, we need to address this. This is a part of agroecology—to enable the community to take part in decision-making mechanisms. They may have to participate in gram panchayat development planning, engage in advocacy with their government bodies for better education and health care,” he says.

Right now, no one tells the people of Majuli that their food systems—local, resilient, and deeply nourishing—are worth emulating.

Across India, several experiments are underway to restore lands damaged by chemical farming, revive indigenous seeds, and build fairer markets for farmers. But for these efforts to truly take root, our institutions and social imagination must value the promise rural India holds. Right now, no one tells the people of Majuli that their food systems—local, resilient, and deeply nourishing—are worth emulating. Instead, agricultural universities promote chemical sprays for fragile hybrid varieties. And yet, quietly, the people of Majuli carry on, saving seeds, sharing knowledge, and honouring food with celebration.

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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.

The sweat on your brow, the dew on a leaf, the droplets lingering on your umbrella—all evaporate, condense into clouds, and return to the Earth as rain. They make themselves at home in rivers, seas, wells, aquifers and the like. Ultimately, they make their way back to you, flowing from the taps you use to wash your face, to the streams you dip your feet into. The story of the water cycle is the story of the oldest, most consistent system of recycling this essential natural resource.

Recycled water makes a comeback

As the 1970s rolled around, the climate crisis really unveiled itself. This is when reusing water became an environmentally conscious thing to do. But long before that, people in Greece, Yemen, and closer home in the Indus Valley had the same idea: they were also connecting homes to drains, and drains to sewers, and sewers to agricultural fields. Such sanitation practices stayed relevant, and in fact, proved all the more important after several water-borne epidemics ravaged parts of the world. In the mid-19th century, for instance, European cities were planned in a way that the urban sewage would drain into nearby agricultural land, aptly named 'sewage farms'. But eventually, the growing density of populations and the increase in human settlements reduced the land available for agriculture, and other avenues had to be found to get rid of wastewater and sewage. Herein emerged septic tanks, contact beds, and trickling filters (the latter two use layers of microbes to filter and clean water) that allowed treated wastewater to be directly fed to freshwater sources.

The return of recycled water is owed to various factors, but it mainly ties into pollution, our depleting groundwater sources, increasingly irregular weather, and the growing fear that we might run out of water.

In the 20th century, these technologies became sophisticated, and one could now recycle large volumes of water in compact spaces. Urban areas spilled into rural ones, and the need to move wastewater to agricultural lands shrunk. The idea of reclaiming nutrients from used water for farming became arcane.

Now, we are inching back towards exploring the potential of recycled water. In late 2019, Chennai launched two Tertiary Treatment Reverse Osmosis (TTRO) plants that purify sewage water to the same quality as raw freshwater. In the town of Devanahalli, Karnataka, thousands have been receiving recycled drinking water since August 2023. In its annual civic budget for 2025-26, the Brihanmumbai Municipal Corporation (BMC) allocated Rs 5,545 crore for constructing seven advanced tertiary treatment plants (ATTPs) in Mumbai, which serve the same purpose.

The return of recycled water is owed to various factors, but it mainly ties into pollution, our depleting groundwater sources, increasingly irregular weather, and the growing fear that we might run out of water.

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

Know the status quo

Turn the tap, turn it back. Water gushes and retreats like magic, and we never pause to decode the magician's trick. Where does the water come from? Well, it depends on where you come from. In their paper published in 2015, researchers Mihir Shah and Himanshu Kulkarni proposed a 6 x 4 matrix to understand a city's relationship with its water.

Imagine a city as a cell: we start with a small nucleus (stage I), the centre of development. The cell grows (stage II) and expands (stage III) into suburbs and peri-urban areas. Finally, some cities either expand their boundaries significantly or merge with a satellite city (stage IV). These 4 stages comprise the first axis of this matrix. At each stage, the water supply system morphs and builds upon its former self. While a growing township starts out relying on private wells and borewells, as it grows it formalises into a system of pipelines and tankers.

However, water infrastructure in India tends not to catch up with expanding cities. The nucleus continues to receive formally established public water supply, while suburbs tend to source water privately through tankers, and those on the very periphery may continue getting their water from private borewells.

For example, in Bengaluru, large parts of the city receive either Kaveri water or groundwater through the Bangalore Water Supply and Sewerage Board (BWSSB). However, the BWSSB does not yet have a presence in the periphery of the city, where residents instead turn towards private tankers or local borewells. Similarly, one’s socio-economic strata plays a role in water access. A slum's notified or unnotified status dictates its access to BWSSB supplies, even if it is located in an area with the requisite infrastructure.

The other axis of this matrix documents six geological classifications of aquifers—underground layers of rock that can store groundwater, like natural reservoirs—in India based on their quality and capacity to transmit and store water. For example, in the Himalayan ranges, aquifers flow across several villages and towns, while most of south India has crystalline rock that has low storage capacity.

The BWSSB currently has 33 STP plants that treat around 1350 million litres of sewage daily before emptying it into storm water drains.

Ultimately, whether in pipes or through tankers, your water comes from rivers, lakes, or wells fed by rivers and lakes. Once it goes down your drain, this water changes its identity, having now become dirty from the processes of cleaning it was used for. In areas where the municipal sewerage board supplies water, it also takes responsibility for the sewerage—by and large. Apartments over 120 units in BWSSB sewerage networks and apartments over 20 units outside of BWSSB sewerage networks are responsible for installing their own Sewage Treatment Plants or STPs. 

The BWSSB currently has 33 STP plants that treat around 1350 million litres of sewage daily before emptying it into storm water drains. Apartments, however, are mandated to reuse the treated wastewater. Predominantly, this water is used for flushing and landscaping. Senior hydrologist at WELL Labs, Shashank Palur, shares that excess recycled water is often illegally discarded into storm water drains, too. However, last year during the water shortage in Bengaluru, the Bangalore Apartments’ Federation (BAF) convinced the Environmental Ministry to allow apartments to offer up to 50% of their treated wastewater on sale, provided that they use the remaining half.

A crash course in STPs

To be fit for gardening and flushing, water undergoes two levels of treatment. At the primary level, machinery is used to break down large particles and then separate out particulate matter through sedimentation. At the secondary level, microbes are used to digest organic contaminants like nitrates. The latter is a dynamic process, requiring constant supervision. "That's where the most maintenance and operational cost is," explains Shashank Palur. 

However, there is only so much water that can be used for gardening and flushing. A survey of over 200 apartments by Boson Whitewater found that only 20% of recycled water is used for non-potable purposes. The rest is usually discarded or, if permitted, resold.

If we want to do more with our wastewater, we need to treat it further. Most STPs set up by apartments are only capable of secondary treatment of wastewater. The next round is cost-intensive, and requires added, trained personnel. Charcoal or sand filters are considered the baseline for any tertiary treatment, but they are often supplemented with reverse osmosis (RO), ultrafiltration (UF), ultraviolet light (UV), and chlorination. Each of these methods target different kinds of impurities, and are often used in conjunction with each other. For example, chlorine and charcoal filters are often paired together in water purification systems. Chlorine effectively removes most bacteria and viruses, but is itself harmful for us in large amounts; charcoal filters effectively remove chemicals like chlorine, thus protecting from the negative byproducts created during the purification process. But the silver bullet of water purification is RO: it removes everything, from viruses to dissolved solids and even the natural minerals of water, resulting, practically, in distilled water. Most RO filters are accompanied by a mineral bed to add back necessary minerals into drinking water.

These internal variations in any tertiary treatment process mean that tertiary treated water cannot automatically be declared potable—it needs to be tested to meet certain requirements and safety standards.

However, public animosity to the idea of treated wastewater comes from more than just the ‘yuck’ factor felt while drinking it.

At the national level, the Union Ministry for Consumer Affairs, Food and Public Distribution sets guidelines through the Bureau of Indian Standards. Currently, two standards pertain to drinking water: IS 10500:2012, and IS 17482:2020. The former pertains to drinking water quality specifications, while the latter covers the management of drinking water supply systems.

The BIS 10500 tests water for 6 physical characteristics, 24 chemicals, and 12 toxic substances. Moreover, water must also be tested for radioactive substances and pesticides. For most parameters there is an acceptable limit for these characteristics, and a permissible limit in the absence of alternate sources. For some parameters, like radioactive substances, there is no relaxation even in the absence of an alternate source. If water quality is below the acceptable limit, then despite the absence of alternate sources, that source should not be used to supply drinking water anymore.

However, the BIS is a standard and not a law. This means that while a conscientious supplier can obtain a certificate proving the quality of water supplied, it cannot be enforced for all suppliers. This lack of enforceability is exacerbated by the fact that water supply is a State subject. While the Centre can nudge the states in a certain direction (as the Jal Jeevan Mission does), it must leave enforcement in the hands of individual states. More recently, the government has also released the draft of the Liquid Wastewater Management Draft (effective from October 2025) which includes expected percentage of wastewater reuse for various kinds of establishments.

Also read: In Gurugram’s rise, a cautionary tale about satellite cities and groundwater

Potable pathways

Two roads diverge in a yellow wood, and potable treated water cannot travel both. The choice, in this case, lies between Direct Potable Reuse (DPR), and Indirect Potable Reuse (IPR).

Direct Potable Reuse is when the water goes through primary, secondary, and tertiary treatment and is directly piped into the water supply system after spending a meagre 24 hours in a man-made environmental buffer. As a drought-prone country, Namibia was one of the first countries to embrace direct potable reuse through the Goreangab Water Reclamation Plant in Windhoek. Since its inception in 1968, residents have reported no adverse health effects from the consumption of recycled water. Yet, DPR has had to make way for its more popular sibling, the IPR.

There are different ways to embark on Indirect Potable Reuse, but by definition, they all involve a natural environmental buffer. The idea is to naturalise water by mixing it with sources of ground or surface water, as well as rain. Sewage water supplied by Chennai city is currently emptied into lakes after treatment and then pulled out for water supply. Palur shares how this is, in fact, counterproductive. "It is known that the quality of water right out of the STP is way better than what comes out of the lake, because the lake has some legacy contamination. That's why, again, they have to put up a water treatment plant next to the lake which pumps the water in and then sends it to people." 

This extra step is a response to public discomfort with the idea of drinking treated wastewater; most administrators find it easier to placate people by undertaking an additional level of treatment from the environmental buffer rather than attempting to supply treated water directly. This explains why IPR projects are found far more commonly than their DPR counterparts—even though generally, it is more expensive to treat wastewater through this process. 

However, the Devanahalli town of Karnataka has found a more purposeful way of undertaking indirect potable reuse. Its municipality has married the causes of recycled water with lake and aquifer rejuvenation. Diluted treated wastewater is first introduced into Bagalur lake, then rediluted in Sihi Neerukere, and lastly diluted by the earth when it enters the well. Then it goes through a water treatment plant before entering the water supply system. However, for such an indirect potable reuse system to work, there is one non-negotiable requirement: clean lakes and wells. The first thing the Devanahalli municipality did was to clean its lakes and wells, such that it can receive treated wastewater and dilute it with clean surface water and rainwater. Now, multiple tests have attested that Devanahalli’s treated water complies with BIS 10500 standards.

This extra step is a response to public discomfort with the idea of drinking treated wastewater; most administrators find it easier to placate people by undertaking an additional level of treatment from the environmental buffer rather than attempting to supply treated water directly.

“The water that the Devanahalli town was supplying to the town before did not meet drinking water standards, because there was no choice. But now, we are making sure that it is meeting drinking water standards,” shares Vishwanath S, director of Biome Environmental Trust, who provided technical knowledge to the Devanahalli town municipal corporation for this project.

Worldwide, across multiple projects, public response has been a big make-or-break factor in treating and consuming treated water. It only makes sense that the WHO 2017 guidelines have a separate section dedicated to ‘The Art of Public Engagement’ with real-life case studies in tow.

However, public animosity to the idea of treated wastewater comes from more than just the ‘yuck’ factor felt while drinking it. There have been, for instance, plenty of reports detailing the emptying of raw sewage into rivers by STPs, instead of treating it. Small semantic adjustments like calling wastewater ‘used water’ can help with this. But the most obscure obstruction is the lack of public trust in the administration to undertake these processes faithfully, transparently, and correctly. Disillusionment with governments in a policy like this can come at the cost of implementation, and many administrators have had to abandon projects like these. Generally, a policy of transparency is recommended where public backlash is anticipated.

This is where Singapore’s NEWater project took the bull by the horns. In 2003, they introduced a water museum, live tours of the factory through a gallery, and got the political leadership to use their packaged water in public.

In all this, it can help to revisit the philosophy of Dr Lukas van Vuure, one of the pioneers on the Windhoek plant, who is remembered for the quote: “Water should be judged by its quality, not by its history.”

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

Cover art by Prabhakaran S  

Produced by Nevin Thomas and Neerja Deodhar

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