In Diwan Khera village of Punjab’s Abohar district, Gursewak Singh, 46, stands amid the remnants of his once-thriving kinnow orchard. By July 2024, he had cleared nearly 3 of his 4 hectares of kinnow plantations, replacing them with paddy fields. The relentless heat had withered his saplings, and he feared the remaining crop might not survive the next growing season.

“It took us eight years to prepare these orchards, and they had been yielding fruit for the past six years,” says Singh, visibly disheartened. “We invested so much time and effort, believing it would sustain us for years. But now, with such a massive loss, we feel broken inside.”

Singh’s plight mirrors the struggles of countless farmers in Punjab’s southwestern region, known as the state’s “kinnow belt.” Covering districts like Fazilka, Ferozepur, Muktsar, Bathinda, Faridkot and Mansa, this region accounts for nearly 75% of Punjab’s total citrus-growing area, with kinnow dominating 93% of the state’s citrus cultivation.

Punjab, the largest producer of kinnow in the country, cultivates the fruit across more than 37,000 hectares in the Abohar-Muktsar belt alone, yielding an annual harvest of 7 to 10 lakh metric tonnes. The ‘Golden Queen’ variant, introduced from California in 1959, has significantly enriched Punjab's agricultural landscape, dominating over 48% of the state's fruit cultivation area and diversifying its crops.

Kinnow growers have created a niche for Punjab in the horticulture sector. Still, the rising temperatures, inadequate irrigation, fungal attacks, and an increasingly unpredictable climate have compelled many farmers to abandon their kinnow orchards, once considered a lucrative crop. Locals estimate that nearly 607 hectares of orchards have been uprooted in Diwan Khera village alone. In the Fazilka district, orchardists report losing 20-50% of their fruit-bearing trees in 2024. 

Also read: At this mango museum in Gujarat 300 plus varieties thrive

Inadequate irrigation, rising temperatures

Farmers in Abohar, the largest kinnow producers in Punjab, cite inadequate irrigation as a critical issue plaguing their orchards.  Between February and May—a crucial period for fruit development—a sizable area in the district failed to receive sufficient canal water. Nearly 100 villages in Abohar and its surrounding areas, located at the tail end of the state, are bearing the brunt of this shortage.

Raman, a farmer from Gidranwali village, recently cleared 16 hectares of kinnow orchards. He explains: “The months of March and April coincide with the annual closure of canals for maintenance. This is precisely when flowering and fruit setting in kinnow orchards begin, and the lack of timely irrigation disrupts the entire cycle.”

Similarly, Singh says, “We only need proper irrigation for 2 to 3 months during the flowering and fruit-setting stage, but the state government has consistently failed to ensure even that.”

In the two southern Malwa districts, groundwater is largely saline and unsuitable for irrigating kinnows. Farmers in this semi-arid region rely heavily on canal water for irrigation, with the Sirhind feeder canal—supplied by the Sutlej River—serving as a vital economic lifeline for agriculture. However, delays in water delivery during critical months have severely impacted yields, with farmers reporting a steady decline in production over the last four seasons. Poor canal management has destroyed the region’s economy, with orchards now bearing only 15-20% of the average per-acre yield of 100-150 quintals.

We weren’t even getting fair prices for our yield, and now, with the heat this year, the saplings have started dying even after harvest. At this rate, we fear our orchards will be completely gone in the next 1-2 years.

The irrigation crisis in Punjab’s kinnow belt has been further compounded by extreme summer temperatures, which have reached unprecedented levels in recent years. Ashok Madan, a seasoned farmer from Gidranwali who has cultivated kinnow for nearly two decades, shares his ordeal: “We weren’t even getting fair prices for our yield, and now, with the heat this year, the saplings have started dying even after harvest. At this rate, we fear our orchards will be completely gone in the next 1-2 years.”

Dr. HS Rattanpal, Principal Horticulturist at Punjab Agricultural University, weighs in on the issue. While he refrained from commenting on the adequacy of irrigation, he says: “Attributing crop failure solely to heat may be an oversimplification, as it’s not necessarily a long-term trend. The typical life cycle of kinnow plants is 10 to 15 years, and many trees are likely reaching the end of their productive life span.”

Singh even attempted to replant less than a hectare of land with kinnow after uprooting the old trees, assuming their demise might have been due to their natural lifespans. However, the saplings planted in March 2024 couldn’t withstand even two months of scorching heat and withered away.

Also see: The banana republic

A pest-y predicament

Additionally, the kinnow is a year-long crop, often vulnerable to pests such as mites at various stages of its growth. Kamlesh, another farmer from Diwan Khera, says that his 1.6 hectares of orchard land, which took eight years to cultivate, was destroyed because of pests in 2024. “We planted Bt seeds (or genetically modified seeds to kill certain insects) as it was promoted by the government, saying that it wouldn’t require much spraying or maintenance. But now, the plants have been infested with pests,” he says.

He further says that he even approached the government’s horticulture department in Abohar to show the affected plants. However, they, too, confirmed that there was no solution and that the saplings were bound to die.

Beyond dying orchards

In January 2024, kinnow farmers in Fazilka took drastic measures to crush nearly 50 harvest trailers under tractors to protest against collapsing prices and unsustainable market conditions. 

Farmers in Abohar revealed that pre-harvest contractors are purchasing their yield at an average price of ₹10 per unit in 2025. These contractors, in turn, sell the produce to wholesalers at rates ranging from ₹21 to ₹25, highlighting a significant markup in the supply chain.

Over the past two seasons, kinnow prices have been consistently low, with an average of ₹6 to ₹11 per kg in January 2024 and ₹6 to ₹10 per kg in December 2023. 

Punjab Agro Industries Corporation Limited (PAIC), a government enterprise in Punjab that promotes agricultural development, is set to introduce orange-based gin and process 4 lakh litres of kinnow juice. However, farmers have noted that local processing plants often use surplus or substandard fruit, rejecting good-quality kinnows and offering as low as ₹6 per kg.

Meanwhile, the Punjab government has reintroduced kinnow as a part of the weekly fruit distribution in the mid-day meal scheme for government schools, effective 1 January, though in the past years, repeated flip-flopping between promises and actual implementation has occurred. Under this initiative, it is estimated that nearly 19 lakh students across 19,120 government schools will consume approximately 3 lakh kgs of kinnow each month.

However, farmers in the kinnow belt remain uncertain about how schools will procure the fruit this year. The previous year, PAIC directly purchased kinnow from farmers and distributed it to schools. This year, schools are sourcing the fruit from local retailers instead. As a result, farmers fear they will not benefit directly from the programme, with the primary profits likely going to retailers instead of producers.

An economist from the Department of Economics and Sociology at Punjab Agricultural University, who spoke on anonymity, highlighted that kinnow production in Punjab has averaged around 12 lakh tonnes annually for over a decade. However, this production level is far more than the domestic market can absorb, and limited export opportunities have made the crop increasingly unviable for farmers.

The economist points out that kinnow also faces significant barriers in the international market. “The major problem is that kinnow has no export demand beyond Bangladesh and Sri Lanka, and it lacks a global export code, further limiting its appeal in other countries,” they say.

This stagnation in market expansion, combined with oversupply, has left farmers grappling with poor returns and dwindling profitability.

Also read: Kashmir’s apple farmers are ditching Delicious for dazzling

Sustainable solutions

Experts suggest that if farmers sell their kinnows in January and February, they can only secure about ₹10 per kg, as this period typically coincides with a bumper crop. However, by using cold storage from December to February and holding off sales until March to May, farmers can tap into a time of reduced supply and higher demand, potentially earning better prices for their produce. 

Additionally, for kinnows to be competitive in international markets, investments in better infrastructure, such as waxing and cooling stations, are necessary. Waxing, which helps extend the fruit's shelf life, is already being done at regional processing plants. However, farmers argue that the cost of waxing—which ranges between ₹3 and ₹3.5 per kg—is not justified by the minimal increase in the fruit’s value. This financial burden is further exacerbated by the lack of subsidies for the process, making it an unsustainable option for many farmers.

In an effort to revitalise Punjab's agriculture and move away from the traditional rice-wheat system, several expert committees have recommended the diversification of crops. However, the state's neglect of its kinnow farmers has led many to return to the more familiar paddy-wheat monoculture. If urgent action is not taken, the kinnow belt could face the same fate as Amritsar, which lost its pear cultivation to aggressive urbanisation. 

Beejom, a sustainable farm in Bulandshahr, Uttar Pradesh, cultivates a diverse range of naturally grown produce, including black turnips, violet broad beans, black rice, millets, legumes, oilseeds, herbs, and fruits. Established in 2014 by lawyer Aparna Rajagopal, it started on a piece of leased land in Noida before expanding into its own space. The farm operates on a community-supported agriculture (CSA) model, where urban consumers subscribe to seasonal produce baskets, embracing the farm’s ebb and flow. In addition to selling grains and dry produce at a weekly farmers’ market, Beejom welcomes visitors for weekend farm brunches, serving fresh, homegrown meals while fostering direct engagement with customers.

Beejom illustrates the CSA model in India, linking farmers and consumers through seasonal produce subscriptions. Customers embrace the unpredictability of harvests while supporting sustainability and enjoying fresh, chemical-free food. This system strengthens local food networks and reduces dependence on commercial supply chains.

CSA embraces a shared dedication to creating a more localised and fair agricultural system. It enables farmers to prioritise sustainable farming practices while ensuring their farms remain productive and profitable. Rooted in personal connections, CSAs strive to strengthen communities through a shared focus on food. It is a farming approach where consumers subscribe to seasonal produce, directly backing farms and sharing the rewards and risks of cultivation. 

Unlike traditional agriculture, which depends on intermediaries, CSA fosters direct connections between farmers and consumers. Subscribers commit to the farm’s yield, accepting natural variations caused by weather or pests. Many farms adopt organic, permaculture, or biodynamic methods to enhance soil health and biodiversity. Some also engage members in farm activities, deepening their connection to food production. By prepaying for seasonal shares, consumers receive a variety of produce while gaining insight into farming challenges, ensuring small farms a steady income and financial security.

Also read: Farmer’s Share offers a model for boosting farmers' income

Trust the process

The shift towards online food and grocery services has altered consumer behaviour, making it challenging for small businesses like Beejom to sustain themselves. With more people opting for takeout and delivery instead of home-cooked meals, the demand for fresh ingredients has declined. To address this, Beejom actively engages customers by preparing and selling meals made from their own produce and sharing recipes through WhatsApp groups. The farm also advocates reviving Indian millets and traditional foods to promote food security, health, and sustainability. By incorporating solar energy, biogas, rainwater harvesting, and vermiculture into its everyday functioning, Beejom can be self-reliant in its waste management, electricity generation, and water access. Dedicated to grassroots efforts, it collaborates with farmers to transition to organic farming, emphasising that access to clean and nutritious food is a fundamental right.

“The group has 30 consumers from the city, who give us a list of produce that they prefer, and every Friday and Tuesday, we deliver a mix of vegetables and seasonal fruits to them,” says Deepa N, a young farmer from Kariyappanadoddi village in Karnataka. She works under the Mayuri Vanashree Shakti Okkuta, a self-help group (SHG), which is part of an initiative started in April 2024 called ‘Kai Thota’ (“kitchen garden” in Kannada) by the Buffalo Back Collective (BBC). The Buffalo Back Collective was founded 12 years ago by Vishalakshi Padmanabhan, who has dedicated herself to discovering and safeguarding rare, ancient grains and seeds. The core philosophy behind her organic store is shaped by the food values she was raised with, minimising waste and appreciating every resource. She and her husband left their corporate jobs to purchase land in Kariyappanadoddi, 30 km from Bengaluru, where their journey began.

The Buffalo Back Collective is an organic farming collective designed to create mutual benefits for farmers, consumers, and the environment. It retails its products at an outlet in Bengaluru. All the consumers are members of the consumer federation created for the Collective, which mainly comprises people who are worried about food systems and want to make better choices, but cannot grow their own food.

Under the Kai Thota initiative, women from an SHG have leased a 1-acre plot to cultivate crops, allowing consumers to subscribe to 1,200 sq ft sections for a fixed fee. Farmers oversee cultivation, estimate yields, and deliver fresh produce twice a week while maintaining direct consumer engagement. “We set up the whole format for the farmers, including a sowing calendar, the pattern and how to manage seasonal produce, surpluses and deficits,” Padmanabhan says. The idea was to involve women SHGs in directly growing vegetables for consumers.

Also read: Regenerative farming: Solution to climate change?

Growing interest

Recent trends show a rising interest in CSA among Indian consumers, fuelled by a greater awareness of health, environmental sustainability, and the need to support local economies. This change aligns with a global movement toward more localised and transparent food systems. Navadarshanam and Farmizen, both Bengaluru-based, and Solitude in Auroville, are among the several CSA initiatives striving to develop sustainable and meaningful solutions that benefit both farmers and consumers.

Sahaja Samrudha Organics was established in 2010 under the Producer Act. This provision enables the formation of “producer companies” (legally recognised groups of farmers/producers who work together for production and procurement to enhance their incomes), allowing farmers to collaborate in production, processing, and marketing while leveraging collective benefits. It operates on a distinctive model of being entirely owned by organic producers dedicated to environmental preservation while offering various nutritious and sustainable food products. “All the farmers working with us are also shareholders of the company. We procure from the farmers and sell their produce; we ensure that we pay a premium price to the farmer, the annual profits go back to the farmers in the form of patternised bonus, and we also pay them a dividend based on their shareholding with us,” says Somesh B, CEO of Sahaja Samrudha Organics in Bengaluru.

Why CSA makes sense

There are several essential features to CSA, which are a win-win for both the producer and consumer, and the environment. “Production planning is much easier for a producer or producers' collective if they have steady and predictable consumer community support,” says Kavitha Kuruganti, a social activist with the volunteer group ASHA Kisan Swaraj. According to her, stable prices help the budgets of both the producer and the consumer. Very often, market options for a producer become restricted due to a lock-in period or clause with creditors. The way most CSA models operate, even the financing requirements of the producers are smoothened out, and more market options open up. For the consumer, safe food is assured in a verifiable manner.

Also read: Farmers demand a fair shake with minimum support prices

Gaps in the system

“What’s happening these days in the name of CSA is that they are only an investment on the land, and this is nothing but real estate or a business model. Real CSA happens when consumers can interact with the producers, and directly buy from the producers,” says Dr. G. V. Ramanjaneyulu, founder of the Centre for Sustainable Agriculture in Hyderabad. The Centre researches agroecological farming practices and their effects while supporting farmers and consumers in successfully shifting to organic methods. He believes it becomes challenging when consumers approach it as merely a business opportunity, as this mindset undermines the core purpose of producing clean food and fostering a meaningful connection between farmers and consumers.

CSA initiatives face many challenges, such as consumers' lack of awareness of the model, making it difficult to establish a loyal customer base. Small-scale farmers struggle with startup costs, ongoing expenses, and fluctuating demand, which threaten long-term sustainability. Moreover, managing storage, transportation, and timely delivery of fresh produce presents logistical challenges, which, when coupled with unpredictable weather and seasonal fluctuations, affect crop yields, leading to inconsistencies in supply.

Nearly five decades ago, in a remote village in northern Kerala, a young man made an audacious decision to transform five acres of barren, rocky land into a forest. The odds were stacked against him. The sun was merciless, the soil was unyielding, water was scarce, and the villagers mocked his ambition. But Abdul Kareem was undeterred.

In 1977, he planted his first saplings, only to watch them wither and burn under the relentless heat. Yet, he refused to give up. With steely determination, he replanted. This time he carried water on his motorbike to nourish the fragile saplings. Nature tested his resolve again, and almost every plant perished. However, one tree—a wild Maruthu, or Arjun tree—stood tall against the odds. This lone survivor became his beacon of hope. 

Undaunted, Kareem expanded his mission. Over time, he acquired an additional 27 acres of barren land and continued planting. Slowly, the landscape began to change. By the year 2000, the once-sterile land had been transformed into a thriving forest, bursting with biodiversity. Remarkably, he never used fertilisers or engaged in weeding, allowing nature to take its own course.

The forest, now a sanctuary for numerous bird and animal species—including hornbills, green pigeons, wild hens, peacocks, wild boars, monkeys, snakes, and jackals—stands as a testament to one man's unwavering perseverance.

My forest needs my personal attention, far more than my own children do. Children grow on their own, but a forest demands constant care.

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

Now 79, Kareem remains the guardian of his creation, which has been fittingly named ‘Kareem’s Forest.’ Living in a humble home nestled within the greenery, he has forged an unbreakable bond with his surroundings. “My forest needs my personal attention, far more than my own children do. Children grow on their own, but a forest demands constant care,” he explains, justifying his choice to stay within its embrace.

Originally, the land had a single well that yielded around 500 liters of water on a peak summer day. However, as the forest thrived, the well was rejuvenated, storing over 10,000 liters of water daily during summer. Unsurprisingly, the forest became his home, providing his family with crystal-clear water, unpolluted air, and a naturally cool climate.

Learning conservation  

Yet, Kareem candidly admits he was unaware of these benefits when he first embarked on his mission. “I created this forest for myself. Back in the ’70s and ’80s, I knew nothing about conservation.” At that time his only dream was to build a home in a serene, tranquil retreat, far from the hustle and bustle of city life. It was the heartfelt longing of someone who had once cherished nature but had to leave it behind to make a living. 

After completing Grade 12 in 1964, he moved to Mumbai to earn a living. He worked as a labourer in a private dockyard for four years before returning to his hometown, Nileswaram. During the Gulf boom of the early 1970s, Kareem recognised a major business opportunity and established a travel and placement agency to recruit job seekers for the UAE, Bahrain, Kuwait, Oman, Qatar, and Saudi Arabia. He also traveled extensively to the Gulf countries during this time.

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Despite his busy schedule, he nurtured a dream of creating his own Kaavu, or sacred grove. "Back in school, I would escape to the nearby Kaavu whenever I had free time. The dark woods fuelled my imagination, and I felt truly alive," he recalls.

And that wasn’t the only time that Kareem felt one with the forest, as a child. He remembers, many times, looking at the hilltop near his home engulfed in flames. The fire swallowed up whole trees and little creatures, and Kareem asked his mother: who set the forest on fire? His mother explained the practice of slash and burn to him. He would watch birds flying, wondering where they were going. He became fascinated with trees, mountains and birds alike.

Years later, he would find this serenity again, in his own forest. In fact, his time in the sweltering lands of UAE played a role in the cool refuge he built back home. He experienced the scorching heat right down to his bones–something that inspired him to create a forest. But it wasn’t just the heat: in the 1970s, Kareem saw Sheikh Zayed plant flowering trees and lawns in the sprawling deserts of Dubai–even the soil had to be brought in from Iraq. Then why couldn’t he do this in Kasargod?

His dedication has not only revitalised the land but has also had an astonishing impact on the village of Puliyamkulam, located 45 km east of the district headquarters of Kasaragod. Once plagued by acute water scarcity, the village now flourishes with abundant groundwater reserves. “The forest has raised the water table. Every well along its periphery brims with water throughout the year,” Kareem says.

No city or hotel in the world can match the serenity of my forest. These days, I find urban settings and air-conditioned spaces suffocating. I long to be amid nature.

His bond with nature is deeply personal. The melodious chirping of birds fills his mornings with joy. “I feel like they are talking to me,” he says. “They grow restless if I am away for more than two days. When I return, they gather around me. I make sure they have fresh water to drink. They repay me by bringing in new seeds, enriching the biodiversity of my forest.”

Also read: Tarachand Belji is turning farmers into eco-warriors

Transformation of life

Today, Kareem’s Forest is a lush sanctuary, home to over 800 varieties of plants and shrubs, forming a self-sustaining ecosystem. But the transformation extends beyond the land. It has reshaped him, too.

Once a frequent traveller who enjoyed the luxuries of city life while working in the UAE’s travel industry, Kareem now finds peace only in nature’s embrace. “No city or hotel in the world can match the serenity of my forest. These days, I find urban settings and air-conditioned spaces suffocating. I long to be amid nature,” he says.

His commitment has not gone unnoticed. Global leaders, scientists, and renowned personalities have praised his work. Among them are former US President Barack Obama, former Vice President Al Gore, UAE ruler Sheikh Mohammed bin Zayed, and Indian superstar Amitabh Bachchan. In 2000, India’s Green Revolution pioneer, Dr MS Swaminathan, visited Kareem’s Forest. “I dedicated a large tree to him,” Kareem recalls. “Even today, scientists and researchers come to explore and learn from my forest.”

Kareem’s remarkable journey has not only transformed a barren landscape but has also found its place in academic curricula. The Kerala education department has included his story in the Class 6 Malayalam textbook, while the Central Board of Secondary Education (CBSE) features it in the Class 4 syllabus, inspiring young minds across the country.

His efforts have grown beyond India and gained colourful global recognition. Trinity College in Hartford, Connecticut, has chosen Kareem’s Forest as a model for greening, and universities in India and abroad have made his work a subject of study. Even the Indian government, along with various agricultural and forestry departments, is now exploring ways to replicate his pioneering efforts in other arid regions.

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

Despite his growing fame, Kareem remains true to his principles. His forest welcomes visitors, but there is one strict rule: no plastic. This stems from a personal tragedy. “In 1997, my cow died after ingesting a discarded plastic bag that once held salt. It was a wake-up call. Even today, I actively collect plastic waste. What disheartens me most is that even educated people are polluting the environment with plastic,” he laments.

For Kareem, environmental conservation is not just about planting trees. “Not everyone can plant a tree, but everyone can contribute in their own way. We all should strive to save our dear planet,” he says.

(Image Credits: Sandeep S, Sreejith M)

In October 2023, thousands of farmers in Punjab protested by holding a chakka jam–blocking major roads–in the cities of Sangrur, Moga, Phagwara, and Batala. The protests, organised by the Bharatiya Kisan Union, were in response to significant delays in paddy procurement and fines issued to farmers for stubble burning. Farmers found guilty of stubble burning owe Rs.10.55 lakhs in fine–but this isn’t all. The Punjab police has lodged 870 FIRs and marked red entries in the revenue records of 394 farmers. 

The protests came right after a summon by the Supreme Court. In October, as the winter grew chillier in the north, the air quality in Delhi sunk to lethal levels. The AQI averaged at 234 in October, and it would jump another hundred points in the next month. The state and central government ramped up their efforts to control pollution and improve air quality–and in the same month, the Supreme Court criticised Punjab’s role in Delhi's pollution, summoning both Punjab and Haryana’s state officers to court. The states responded by immediately fining farmers.

But how much does stubble burning in Punjab contribute to Delhi’s worsening air quality?

Air pollution, broken down

Air pollution in Delhi and the NCR is driven by multiple factors, particularly human activities in densely populated areas. Key contributors include:

• Vehicular emissions
• Industrial pollution
• Dust from construction and demolition
• Road and open-area dust
• Open biomass and municipal solid waste burning
• Fires in landfills
  

Delhi’s topographic location in the Indo-Gangetic plains also makes the situation worse. 

During the post-monsoon and winter months, cooler temperatures, lower mixing heights, inversion conditions, and stagnant winds trap pollutants, leading to higher pollution levels in the region. The problem is worsened by episodic events like stubble burning, firecrackers, firewood burning in the nights, etc. 

Every year, the state as well as private agencies conduct source apportionment studies that ascertain exactly where Delhi’s pollutants come from–and consequently, what percentage of pollution is caused by which source. A recent report by the Centre for Science and Environment (CSE) has found that local pollution sources, not farm fires, were the most significant cause for Delhi's worsening air quality ahead of Diwali this year. The city’s air quality dropped from "poor" to "very poor" on the air quality index, despite stubble burning in Punjab and Haryana contributing only 4.4% to the pollution, according to the analysis. 

Still, Punjab’s farmers are repeatedly blamed for stubble burning–even when there are other major crises plaguing them.

Paddy procurement crisis

One of these is the massive delay in the procurement of paddy grown by Punjab’s farmers. Despite Punjab achieving its highest-ever rice cultivation area in 2024, paddy procurement is at its lowest in five years. The entire paddy supply chain–from cultivation to its delivery to Food Corporation of India (FCI) warehouses for the Public Distribution System–is under immense strain.

Each year, the Centre, in consultation with state governments and the FCI, sets paddy procurement targets before the kharif marketing season (October to September). For the 2024-25 season, the target was fixed at 185 lakh metric tonnes (LMT). However, as of 27 November, only 172.16 LMT had been procured, making it unlikely to meet the target. This shortfall has triggered ripple effects across the entire agricultural system.

The Punjab government, recognising the crisis, requested the central government to offload 20 lakh metric tonnes of milled rice to free up space in godowns. However, the request was not approved, leaving the godowns full and halting rice acceptance by millers. 

Also read: Farmers demand a fair shake with minimum support prices

Millers’ rejection

Punjab’s 5,000 private millers are unwilling to accept paddy due to two key issues:

Storage woes: Millers are unsure how long they will need to store rice since government godowns are already full. Compounding the issue, millers still hold over 2 lakh tonnes of rice from the previous season. In 2023, the government accepted rice deliveries until 30 September, while the new paddy procurement season began on 1 October. However, millers completed deliveries only by 31 March. This overlap caused delays for farmers, who either waited for procurement or sold their paddy at Rs 150–200 below the Minimum Support Price (MSP) in a distress sale.

‍Outturn ratio: The rise of private hybrid paddy varieties has led to a lower Outturn Ratio (OTR)–the proportion of rice extracted from paddy during milling–than what the Food Corporation of India (FCI) requires. This shortfall makes processing these varieties unprofitable. This season, lower OTR is projected to cost millers an average loss of Rs 300 per quintal. Unless compensated for these losses, millers are reluctant to process the paddy.

The procurement bottleneck has significantly delayed harvesting the standing paddy crop. If the farmers harvest their paddy, they risk spoilage of procured paddy in storage–which can lead to a distress sale. Farmers also cannot transport their paddy to mandis, as they are already full. So, of the estimated 230 lakh metric tonnes of paddy, only 22% has been harvested so far, compared to 42% at this time in 2023. The remaining crop continues to deteriorate in the fields.

Paddy is usually harvested with a moisture content of 21–22% and sold at 17–18%. However, delays in harvesting have reduced moisture levels to 14–15%, lowering yields. Farmers expecting 30–32 quintals per acre are now losing 2–5 quintals per acre because of this moisture loss.

The shrinking window between the paddy harvest and the rabi sowing season is what forces farmers to resort to stubble burning. Without sufficient time for in-situ crop residue management, this practice becomes a necessity rather than a choice, further entangling Punjab’s farmers in a web of challenges.

“Earlier, farmers used to grow crops like potatoes and pulses between the rice and wheat seasons. However, the delay in paddy harvest has made this practice challenging,” says Sandeep Chachra, executive director of the NGO ActionAid.

Historically, there was a longer gap between crop cycles, and paddy was hand-cut much lower to the ground. There is substantial anecdotal evidence that the Punjab Agricultural University used to encourage farmers to burn paddy straw. It was also common for farmers to use the straw to feed their cattle. In fact, many old homes in villages had a special room near the cattle shed, known as the "toori wala kamra" (the paddy straw room). However, over time, the scale of paddy farming has expanded significantly, and the University’s previous recommendations have become problematic. Additionally, advancements in mechanisation and changes in seed types have led farmers to no longer use paddy straw to feed their cattle. Today, after a combine harvester leaves over a foot of straw in the field, it must be removed or mulched into the soil in order to plant wheat. The timing is critical, as there is only a window of about one to ten days for this to happen. 

Economic vulnerability

Punjab's farming sector is already under economic strain, especially for small and marginal farmers, who, as of 2018, accounted for at least 65% of the state's 1.85 million farming families. Although Punjab ranks second in terms of average monthly income per agricultural household, its farmers are heavily burdened by debt. According to a study by Punjab Agricultural University, farmers in the state have borrowed over Rs 1,00,000 crore, with each farming household having owed an average of Rs 10 lakh to money lenders. Most of the farmers caught in this debt trap are small and marginal farmers, who make up 35 percent of the state's farming households. As it stands, farming has become an unprofitable occupation, and an estimated 12 percent of Punjab’s farmers have abandoned it altogether. A 2022 report by the OECD, which analyses agricultural policies in 54 countries to guide better policy making, revealed that Indian farmers have faced a more than 15% drop in revenue due to policies that suppress food prices.

Also read: On the deadly cost of farmer debts

Amandeep Sandhu, in his book ‘Panjab’, writes: “In 1971, the MSP for wheat was Rs 76 per quintal, and for paddy, Rs 21 per quintal. By 2015, these prices had risen to Rs 1,450 and Rs 1,400 per quintal respectively–a 19-fold and 67-fold increase. However, in the same period, salaries of government employees and professionals in sectors like education and corporate industries had risen by 120–1,000 times.”

Land inheritance laws that distribute land equally to heirs have further fragmented landholdings, pushing more farmers into the small and marginal category. The fragmentation has also institutionalised ‘theka’ farming, where farmers lease land instead of owning it, increasing their financial vulnerability.

Another critical issue is to do with groundwater–an invaluable resource for farmers. The Punjab Preservation of Subsoil Water Act (2009) aimed to align paddy planting with the monsoon season and water availability in the Bhakra Dam reservoir. Before the Act, groundwater levels were depleting by about one metre annually. Post-implementation, this rate slowed to three-fourths of a metre, saving approximately 20 centimetres of water annually.

Despite these gains, groundwater depletion remains a problem. In fact, paddy farming–which dominates Punjab’s agricultural area–demands and depletes massive amounts of groundwater. For years now, experts have recommended crop diversification in Punjab, for ecological sustainability and groundwater preservation. But this has proved difficult simply because paddy, a minimally labour intensive crop for farmers, brings the best returns–more than alternative crops like pulses, maize or potatoes. And thus, 80% of Punjab remains in the “red zone” for groundwater exploitation.

“Decreasing water levels are becoming a serious concern,” says Harpreet, a farmer from Jalandhar. The changing rainfall patterns are making things even more difficult. Our pumps can no longer extract water efficiently from underground sources because the groundwater levels have dropped significantly. To access water, we now have to dig much deeper, putting a strain on our finances."‍

Burning issues‍

Owing to these procurement delays and rejection of paddy from rice millers, the gap between paddy harvest and wheat sowing has now shrunk to just 7 to 10 days. This short window forces farmers to burn leftover paddy straw to clear fields quickly, contributing to severe air pollution. To track and monitor crop residue burning and estimate the area burned, ISRO developed standard protocols in consultation with key stakeholders, including the Indian Council of Agricultural Research (ICAR), to ensure consistent assessment of fire incidents. According to the latest data, the number of paddy stubble burning incidents has dropped significantly, from 48,489 in 2022 to 9,655 in 2024. However, the area burned has increased from 17.81 lakh hectares in 2018 to 19 lakh hectares in 2023, out of a total paddy area of over 30 lakh hectares.‍

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

The Commission for Air Quality Management (CAQM) has issued regular directives and advisories to various stakeholders (including 11 thermal power plants within 300 km of Delhi and the state governments of Punjab, Haryana, and Uttar Pradesh) to promote ex-situ stubble management by creating a strong supply chain to use straw effectively and curb stubble burning. While converting surplus residue into energy feedstock can boost farmers’ income, Gurleen Singh, a farmer from Rajpura, pointed out that only a few companies are buying stubble. Initially, they offered good rates, but pricing has now become uncertain and depends on how the stubble will be used.

“Transporting and storing bulky straw adds significant costs, making it less economically viable,” says Chachra. He emphasised the need for strong organisational systems to ensure farmers can sell or supply straw on time.

In 2018, the Ministry of Agriculture & Farmers Welfare (MoA&FW) launched a scheme to subsidise crop residue management (CRM) machinery for individual farmers and set up custom hiring centres (CHCs) in Punjab for in-situ paddy straw management. However, according to Ramandeep Singh Mann, an independent food and agriculture analyst, “Farmers often face significant delays, sometimes up to a month, in receiving machines from the CHCs. As a result, many are left with no choice but to resort to stubble burning.”

By 2023, around 1.3 lakh subsidised machines had been distributed, and 163 CHCs established, according to Jagdish Singh, the state nodal officer for CRM.

“Even with subsidies, CRM machines remain expensive for small and marginal farmers. For example, a Happy Seeder costs around Rs 1.5–2 lakh, making it unaffordable without substantial financial aid,” says Chachra. Many smallholders struggle to access these machines, leading to uneven adoption. He also highlighted that many of these machines need skilled operators and work best with dry stubble, becoming far less efficient in high-moisture conditions. Adding to the challenge, CRM machines run on diesel, and rising fuel prices make them even costlier to operate.

Tackling crop residue burning in Punjab requires more than one solution. “We need a multi-pronged approach,” Chachra explains. “We need to have a stronger push towards promoting crop diversification in the state and shift away from paddy. This calls for encouraging farmers to adopt low-water, short-duration crops like maize, pulses, oilseeds, and millets as alternatives to paddy.”

To support this shift, the Punjab government promised a minimum support price (MSP) for ‘moong’ to incentivise diversification. “While farmers responded by cultivating moong, they are now struggling to sell their produce,” says Sandeep Singh, an independent journalist.

Punjab's farming sector faces a complex web of challenges, from the procurement crisis to the economic pressures on small farmers. While stubble burning is often blamed for air pollution, it's only one piece of a larger puzzle. Without comprehensive solutions, Punjab’s farmers will continue to struggle, with consequences that extend far beyond the fields.

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There’s a story of a man called Kaho Shatsang in our extended family–one that has been passed down several generations. Kaho was from Huishu, a small indigenous Tangkhul Naga village located in the northern fringes of the Indo-Myanmar boundary in Ukhrul district, Manipur. 

Although his life may seem ordinary, among his peers, he is most fondly remembered for his peculiar affinity to sticky rice or makrei. Kaho was known as the man who only grew makrei in his fields.

There was a mantra that he seemingly lived by, that is still clearly remembered by many. It goes something like this: “I’d rather have a tightly packed little ball of sticky rice in my stomach than walk around with a heavy meal of plain rice.”

Our grandparents animatedly narrated this story to us when we were younger, something we had a good laugh about. Retrospectively, however, his approach makes a lot of sense.

The indigenous Tangkhul Naga tribe living in Manipur and part of Myanmar relies heavily, for their livelihood, on agriculture and farming–which involves strenuous labour. Loads of calories are required to get through long, taxing days in the fields. Kaho had realised the magic of sticky rice early: the calorie content of this rice sustained one longer in the fields, without making one feel too full and heavy to work. 

Indigenous resilience and ingenuity

Before the arrival of Christianity and the consequent exposure to globalisation, sticky rice served as one of the most important and versatile raw ingredients for many of the Tangkhuls’ staple food items. Rice wasn’t restricted to its ordinary cooked form–a reflection of the ingenuity of indigenous communities, who made the most of the limited resources at their disposal.

The food items prepared from sticky rice were generally considered as snacks, consumed while at work in the fields to stave off hunger and supply energy. This included Hao Khamui (rice bread), Ma Ngatai (flattened rice snack), Khor (rice beer), Manuizat (sticky rice), and Chakhan (porridge). 

To this day, despite the plethora of options available as snacks in the market, many of these food items continue to hold a special place in the daily lives of the community. 

Also read: The fragile future of Guchi mushrooms

Markei as food 

Hao Khamui or rice bread is one of the most commonly enjoyed snacks prepared from makrei flour. The older generations of this community prepared hao khamui by either wrapping the sticky rice dough in wild cardamom leaves before boiling it, or by baking the dough in ash. The baked or boiled khamui was also often pounded with perilla seeds for a special snack called Sachao. 

“Today, khamui is prepared in many ways. Some deep fry it in oil, while some bake it into cakes. All of these preparations have come with the adaptations to the modern lifestyle,” shares Michael Zimik, a reputed lawyer from Hunphun village.

Another snack that was very popular among the youth back then was Ma Ngatai (flattened rice snack). Ma Ngatai is prepared from young grains of sticky rice in early October, before the official harvest season begins. Peer groups called Yarnao(s) gathered together in the evenings to court one another in a practice called Meisum kapam, where they fried and pounded the young rice grains into Ma Ngatai. Although Ma Ngatai is still prepared by many farmers, the social element of the Yarnaos gatherings to prepare it is a practice that is losing its relevance in many Tangkhul villages. 

But a few other snacks such as Manuizat (cooked sticky rice, sometimes sweetened with sugar) and Chakhan (porridge) are still consumed by the community at large.

The only preparation among the many derived from makrei which has lost its reverence over the years is Khor (rice beer). The art of preparing this slightly sweet and savory rice beer is becoming a lost art due to the overarching influence of religion in the community.

When Christianity arrived in the late 19^th century, it looked upon the consumption of alcohol as an “evil practice”–so, the art of brewing khor was widely frowned upon and discouraged. This led to a majority of the early Christian converts abandoning the practice of brewing khor; slowly, this rendered it a nearly forgotten practice to the community today. 

Although illegal brewing and bootlegging of distilled local alcohol is still found in the community at large, only a few northern villages of the Tangkhul Naga community now hold the knowledge of brewing the indigenous khor that was once a daily staple in the lives of the community.

Also read: The tribal seed guardians of Dindori

Cultural significance

The significance of Makrei extends beyond being a food. This humble variety of rice had long found its place in some of the rites and rituals that were once practiced by the community. In the district headquarters of Hunphun village, Khamui was used as an item to appease the rain gods during times of drought. This was generally done in the month of June, when the irrigation canals would run dry and water remained scarce in the rain-fed paddy fields.

“It was believed that offering the khamui to the deities by the Muirangs (a clan in Hunphun attributed with the duty to perform this particular rite) brought about rain for the transplantation season,” explains Zimik

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Another significant occasion where the sticky rice takes centre stage is during the traditional Ngala Katha (bridal march) where the bride, adorned in her traditional attire, carries a gift of manuizat (sweetened cooked sticky rice) in a basket called Tunsop to the house of the groom. This gift is meant to signify the hope that the just-sprouting relationship between the newlywed and their extended family is as sweet and as sticky as the lovely makrei! 

This sweet practice is only one example; so many rituals and affinities to sticky rice remain relevant to the community to this very day, a living reminder of how makrei continues to transcend beyond being just a grain of rice. 

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In India, central and state governments have introduced countless schemes to reduce hunger and malnutrition. On the one hand, we have the vast network of the Public Distribution System and on the other–on the food production side–there exist various schemes which help small farmer communities with soil and water conservation, minor irrigation and related works.

Unfortunately, corruption—systemic and across various levels—often takes away a significant share of the benefits that people can get from these schemes. To counter and minimise the possibilities of this corruption, several social movements and organisations have emerged. These efforts received significant support when the Right to Information (RTI) legislation was enacted in India in 2005 at the national level. But even before this legislation, a few states had introduced their own RTI laws–like Rajasthan, which passed the Rajasthan Right to Information act in 2000. Though the RTI has been widely recognised as a crucial democratic right, its contributions to (and potential for) reducing hunger are not realised as widely.

This has much to do with the early beginnings of the RTI movement in India and its connection to grassroot struggles. This story starts where the RTI movement took birth: Rajasthan. The Mazdoor Kisan Shakti Sangathan (MKSS) had been working for the realisation of the legal wage rights of workers in drought-affected areas of the state. Whether a worker’s family would be able to eat food the next day depended on the breadwinner being paid their proper wages in time. It was in the course of these battles that the RTI’s power became evident.

More specifically, the MKSS workers and other activists understood that for such problems, it is vital to obtain official records on certain data, such as the number of workers employed at relief works, wages paid and works completed. With this information, it then becomes possible to make on-site inquiries in villages and compare this reality with the official records, to find out the pattern and extent of corruption and misappropriation of funds.

Also read: Hunger traps migrant workers in cycle of exploitation

Jan sunwais

Even before the RTI law had been passed in Rajasthan, MKSS activists had started informally obtaining essential information from the authorities on the basis of how ethically driven their efforts were. They employed the same approach of comparing official records to the starkly different on-ground reality, which prompted village communities to start organising public hearings (jan sunwais), with the help of the MKSS and related organisations.

At these jan sunwais, all the newly learnt facts and disparities were placed before the people of the village as well as eminent panelists. Those accused of corruption were also invited and given an opportunity to present their points of view. So effective were these community-level interventions that in places like Surajpura in Ajmer district, the accused agreed, right during the hearing, to return the pilfered resources–that could be used again for development tasks.

In the Kot Kirana village of Rajasthan’s Pali district, the public hearing revealed official records showing that villagers involved in the construction of minor irrigation works had received their wages–but in reality, they never did. Additionally, it was discovered that the construction itself was so poor that it was washed away in the subsequent bout of rains. The next public hearing at Rajsamand district’s Bhim Tehsil revealed that a huge payment worth Rs 30 lakh had been made to a fraudulent company–a non-entity that was merely a bank account made in the name of an official’s wife.

In Alwar, a public hearing revealed that unfair means had been used to grab fertile land –which was producing food crops–to set up a polluting unit for producing liquor. In the Janawad panchayat of Rajsamand district, a public hearing revealed corruption of Rs 45 lakh in the previous five to six years. The government then found itself pressured to order an official inquiry in the panchayat. Soon, it was discovered that from a total allocation of Rs 123 lakhs during a six year period, Rs 67 lakhs–over 50% of the allocation–had been lost to corruption and misappropriation. What’s more, as many as 49 development works out of the 141 that were examined by the official inquiry simply did not exist.

Also read: On the deadly cost of farmer debts

Ripple effects

Over the course of time, the public became aware about how funds reserved specifically for certain purposes, such as paying wages to workers, providing irrigation, water conservation and drinking water works, were simply not reaching the beneficiaries. These revelations, underscored by fact and detail, caught the eye of the media, resulting in greater pressure on the authorities to reduce corruption. At the same time, the movement pushing for a national-level legislation on RTI also gathered momentum.

Once the act was passed in 2005, several other organisations —now strengthened by a new law—also took up similar work.In Delhi, the Satark Nagrik Sangathan (SNS) had been working with the city’s slum settlements since 2003, and within two years, they were able to use the RTI effectively to improve the Public Distribution System in several of these areas inhabited by the capital’s marginalised population.

SNS first obtained information related to stock sales registers maintained by ration shops; by then studying and comparing these documents, they exposed the extent of diversion of food grain to the black market. In time, black-marketing reduced and the residents of these settlements started receiving ration more regularly.

Several single women, elderly persons and disabled people also faced difficulties in receiving their rations regularly. RTI activists’ fights also proved helpful for them.

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

Potential unrealised

Strong, impactful movements like these could have been imagined and executed at the national level, but this progress has been hindered by problems related to the very implementation of the RTI law–which has steadily grown weaker with time, in several parts of the country.

This is partly due to a few legislative changes, and partly because the many vacancies existing in Information Commissions have not been filled. In many instances, applicants do not get proper information when filing an RTI, and when they appeal against this as per the provisions of the law, their appeals are often massively delayed, because there are a large number of appeals already pending in the Information Commission–due to the unavailability of information commissioners and the other important staff.

This is extremely unfortunate, as effective use of RTI can help make significant improvement in important schemes, including various works taken up under National Rural Employment Guarantee Law (NREGA); this is apart from improving the implementation of various food and nutrition schemes. All of these efforts, in turn, contribute to reducing hunger and malnutrition in the country.

While improving the implementation of RTI law is a wide democratic issue, the law’s specific, important contribution to reducing hunger and malnutrition should also be highlighted. This powerful purpose only strengthens the case for better, more effective implementation of RTI.

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Editor’s note: As a child, the experience of tasting different foods for the first time can feel primal—etched into the senses and memory. To an infant or toddler, nothing is as sweet as a ripe mango, or as tart as a squeezed lime. In the following excerpt from ‘Adukkala: Tales and Cuisine from the Kitchens of North Malabar’ by visual artist Bara Bhaskaran, a child’s hunger and curiosity prompt them to take a bite of raw elephant taro or Mundya—a plant whose stem and leaves are known to punish eaters with lingering stings. Will the child regret this discovery or cherish it in the years to come?

I stood up holding the door and pulled it open. Tender sunlight tumbled inside laughing, an invite to step out. Had barely learned to be on my feet. No wait, I could toddle. A belly crawl and then shuffle and stretch to latch on to the door. Waist bells tinkled. Steps, I could get down on all fours. Ahead, a long veranda. Elevated, made of cement, smooth. Moving sideways, holding on to the wall, led to a bathroom door. Inside, a hearth where a copper cauldron sat cavernous like hell. Water in it hot. But the pot couldn’t be scaled. Only if I could get down the steps. On my feet, impossible. I spread myself, stretching the legs on to the steps. A crawl down all three of them, on my knees. On the side of the bathroom drain stood the Mundya, an elephant taro, towering with massive leaves and stems. Leaves, dark green with veins. Watery and glazed, the light green stems looked bewitching in the sun. Laid supine and tilted while being bathed, I had pined for them. Lifting myself up wouldn’t do; I was now upright, gripping a Mundya stem. A hen on the black humid soil in its shade strutted away cackling with chicks and gawked at me jerking its neck with half-open beak. Except for them, not a soul was around. Sunlight and breeze tickled me together, laughing. I felt famished! The hunger was unbearable! Dark green leaves, glassy-green limbs! There was no one outside. On my toes, I grabbed the Mundya stem and pulled. Two thick pieces of leaf, a fistful, came off. The mouth opened wide to stuff them in and a torrent-like a scream birthed itself. The mouth stung, prickled, roasted! The house stood up on its feet, shook itself and settled. In a single leap, I was ejected to a sun-lit courtyard. Fire-drops filled the eyes. Someone held me, hearing the terrible screams. Who poured coconut oil into my mouth?

Through its viscousness, flowed screams and water breaching dykes. Both my hands were clawing the thighs. I was aflame and shrieking as if everything was being burnt down and pulled apart. Drooling, mewling, trotting under the sun, the scream show lasted many hours.

That child hollering from under the sun is my first memory. Nothing exists before that. All that I narrated here was aided by skills of mind, merging figments of imagination and memory. The door and the steps, the up and down climbs are all cut-up fragments of cloth, stitched around a scream.

It is from a time when I was a toddler and used to stay at the house of an uncle. The Mundya stood next to the bathroom of the house. It stayed in memory because its leaves were the first meal I had. For me it isn't just the first memory of hunger, it's my first ever memory. I have no recollection of anything before that. A memory that preludes it is a darkness that permeates the kitchen. A cat sleeping on the hearth, covered in ash. Nothing more.

Mundya koottukari

People carrying flaming torches made of dried coconut leaves walked helter-skelter but no fire mishap was reported even in summer nights. The story of the demonised elephant taro is similar. The leaves, stem and even the root of the incredible Mundya have the annoying ability to cause itching. Despite this, the entire village relished the ‘koottukari’ (mixed vegetable and legume curry) made with Mundya. No one felt the itch. 

A mature root, when dug up and peeled, is around four to five feet long. It has the appearance of the trunk of an areca palm, and inside, the redness of elephant yam. It may have reached north Malabar via the Konkan route. I have not come across giant Mundya roots being cooked anywhere. The Mundya ‘koottukari’ is often made during events where a large number of people assemble, like Theyyam rituals, weddings and the ceremonial feast called ‘Adiyanthiram’, held a few days after someone dies.

Koottu

• Mundya diced into cubes
• Raw banana diced into cubes
• Black chickpeas (small) soaked overnight

Peel the Mundya root and leave it to dry for four to five days. The three main ingredients—Mundya, raw banana and chickpeas—need to be cooked separately. While the Mundya cubes are cooked with salt, turmeric and tamarind water in a large cauldron, the raw banana and chickpeas are cooked with salt and turmeric. The cubes of Mundya are then transferred to a special wooden vessel called ‘mari’ and mashed lightly using a mallet. The mashing process is repeated after adding cubes of raw banana.

Dry round chillies and coriander seeds are toasted in coconut oil and powdered. They are then mixed with pepper, garlic, ginger, cumin seeds, green chillies and freshly grated coconut, and coarsely crushed on a grinding stone. Coconut oil is poured into a large ‘uruli’ (flat cooking vessel made of bronze) and tempered with mustard seeds when the oil turns hot. The coarsely ground coconut mix is added to the oil. Tip in boiled chickpeas and the mashed pieces of Mundya and raw banana. The curry is stirred with a large wooden ladle till it boils and everything merges together. It is then checked for salt and transferred to the wooden vessel.

Flakes of dried coconut and curry leaves fried in coconut oil are lavishly spread on the curry which is then covered with banana leaves. When it is time to serve, pour in some coconut oil and stir.

No one had fertilised the Mundya plant that stood in a corner of the courtyard. Yet it grew towering over the place like a giant. It fed hundreds of people in a village who cooked it collectively. None of them ever felt an itch.

An excerpt from Adukkala, tales and cuisine from the kitchens of north Malabar by Bara Bhaskaran, published by Manorama Books. Translation by Binu Karunakaran.

Hidden from the spotlight, this place is a treasure trove of indigenous wisdom. Inside the modest kitchen of a mud home in Gudiyapadar village in Chhattisgarh’s Bastar district, something beyond the usual utensils draws the visitor’s attention. Rows of dried corn hang from the ceiling, with kernels carefully stored in bamboo baskets and spread across supas (flat bamboo trays) used for winnowing paddy to separate the grain from the chaff. Alongside the corn, dried bitter gourd and mushrooms also make their presence known.

Gudiyapadar is a scenic village inside the Kanger Valley National Park, known for its caves, the Bastar hill mynah and the Tirathgarh Waterfall. Its Gond tribal residents originally came from the Sukma district in Chhattisgarh, about 131 km away, and settled here about two decades ago. In 2022, the village was granted the Community Forest Resource Rights under the Forest Rights Act of 2006. The provision ensures its residents enjoy full ownership and management rights over forest resources. 

As Sukka Markam shows us around his spacious kitchen, he explains the age-old practice of drying food for long-term storage. “All of us here dry bamboo shoots, mushrooms, tomatoes, bitter gourds and corn so that they can be consumed throughout the year,” he says. Even chicken is dried, lasting up to three to four months. “We roast it over the fire and store it,” Markam explains. Other dried foods can be preserved for nearly a year. When seasonal vegetables are scarce or missing from haats (weekly tribal markets), these dried ingredients step in, cooked just like regular sabzi.”

Seated on the floor, Markam says that the drying process is popular in all tribal villages of Bastar. If the sun's rays are strong, mushrooms can be dried within a day. For other vegetables, more time is needed.

Also read: Dried to last

A few decades back, certain food items were available only seasonally. So, drying ensured their consumption throughout the year.

Rupendra Kavi, a government official working for the Chhattisgarh Tribal Research and Training Institute, has been closely studying Bastar’s tribal culture for years. He explains that food drying is a traditional technique extant among tribals. “A few decades back, certain food items were available only seasonally. So, drying ensured their consumption throughout the year.” 

Bastar has seen significant change in recent years, with a growing influx of tourists drawn to its natural beauty. As a result, a variety of foods are now easily available in the markets. “But in remote villages where roads are scarce, the story is different,” says Kavi. During the heavy monsoon season, these areas turn inaccessible, making dried foods a lifeline for tribal families.

Also read: The surprising culinary uses of jasmine flower

Enjoying dried mushrooms

In the villages of Achanakmar Tiger Reserve, 462 km from Bastar, the prized Pihiri mushroom is foraged and sun-dried during the rainy season. At a tribal home, a man crafts a bamboo chalni, used for roasting these mushrooms, which, Markam notes, is a traditional instrument resembling one used in Bastar too.

Forest guard Brijbhushan Manikpuri mentions that sun drying and roasting of mushrooms are common throughout this tiger reserve, which shares a border with the Kanha Tiger Reserve in Madhya Pradesh. “The locals collect the mushrooms in huge quantities. While some amount is sold to traders at high prices, a substantial quantity is stored in the dried form. When people run out of veggies, they consume mushrooms.” 

Also read: Foraging in Bengaluru: A source of sustenance, flavour

Tribal communities dry various foods in the winter season… It is common to find sun-dried tamarind and roselle on the roofs of village homes. Apart from sun drying, smoke-drying fish, meat, and corn is also common.

Bhubaneswar-based chef Rachit Kirteeman occasionally experiments with tribal food. He once organised a pop-up in Kolkata featuring the red ant chutney; though popular in Bastar, Mayurbhanj has received the Geographical Indication tag for this product. “Tribal communities dry various foods in the winter season… It is common to find sun-dried tamarind and roselle on the roofs of village homes. Apart from sun drying, smoke-drying fish, meat, and corn is also common. Pork is cleaned and cut into small pieces. After that, the pieces are put on a bed of hay and slowly burnt. Sometimes, the pieces are either attached to a bamboo structure, under which a fire is lit for slow searing, or they are put on a mud chulha and kept in the sun for a few days,” Kirteeman explains. This is somewhat similar to drying mushrooms in Achanakmar, where chalnis are used inside rooms.

In the popular Bastar dish chaur bhaja—a rice and chicken preparation—the whole, skinned chicken is fire-roasted, cut into pieces, and cooked with rice and a few spices. “Food drying is common among all tribal communities in Bastar,” says Baliram Nag, a Dhurwa tribesman working with the Chhattisgarh State Renewable Energy Development Agency. It also prevents wastage when there is excess food.

Richness of tribal kitchens

Botanist Geetanjali Singh, an assistant professor at Dr. Shyama Prasad Mukherjee University’s Botany Department in Ranchi, Jharkhand, is immersed in the scientific study of mushrooms. “We’re working on their identification because many species share similar colours and features but are entirely different,” she explains. “Tribals, however, never get it wrong, thanks to traditional knowledge passed down through generations.”

This expertise was echoed by two female tribal guards in Kanha during a foot trail. They shared how locals instinctively avoid poisonous varieties, a skill sharpened by ancestral wisdom.

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Singh, who also studies traditional food preservation techniques, highlights the nutritional richness of tribal cuisine. Beyond mushrooms, she’s particularly fascinated by tender bamboo shoots. “During the early monsoon, bamboo shoots—locally known as kareil—are plentiful and cherished in tribal kitchens,” she says. “They’re a seasonal delicacy, enjoyed fresh or preserved in various forms.”

Fresh kareil shoots are often prized in their fermented form, sandhna, known for their distinctive sour flavour. Widely used to make pickles, sandhna can also be sun-dried into haruwa. Once rehydrated, haruwa is cooked with tomato paste and leafy greens, adding both variety and nutrition to tribal meals.

“Since kareil is available only during the monsoon, preservation techniques like fermentation and sun drying ensure its availability year-round,” Singh explains. “This method isn’t just for bamboo shoots. Leafy greens, flowers, tubers, and forest fruits are all preserved through sun drying, helping maintain nutritional security during off-seasons.”

Singh, who practices food drying at home, recalls how even cauliflower was once boiled, sun-dried, and stored for future use. Dried leafy greens, she notes, are sometimes ground into powder for easy consumption. But this traditional knowledge, she warns, is fading. “With greater market access and the rise of modern packaged foods, it’s disappearing. Readymade noodles, chips, cakes, and biscuits are now found in every village.”

Kirteeman adds that Indian chefs aren’t tapping into the potential of food drying. “European restaurants serve aged beef steaks, but in India, this technique remains underexplored.” Perhaps it’s time, he suggests, to revive and experiment with the rich preservation techniques hidden in India’s tribal kitchens before they’re lost.

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Ten years ago, organic food was a niche phrase in the country’s vocabulary.  Less than 1% of India’s agricultural land was sown for organic farming. By 2020, though, this number climbed to approximately 2% of India's 140.1 million hectares of net sown area. Slowly but certainly, the practice started to be discussed both in living rooms and in Parliament sessions. Many governmental programmes were introduced, bills were placed for policy consideration. But the transition to widespread adoption remains a challenge. Take the case of fertilisers, which prove to be both an essential necessity and cost to farming–both, conventional and organic farming.

For the financial year 2023-24, the government budgeted the total fertiliser subsidy at approximately Rs. 1.79 lakh crore. While chemical fertilisers receive substantial subsidies, natural or organic fertilisers do not receive similar privileges. Whether it’s about availing bank loans or getting fair compensation due to losses from natural calamities, organic farmers often get the short end of the stick.

A number of problems plague these farmers: a lack of subsidies, limited market accessibility, challenges in financing and a gap in policy implementation. But organic farming is important–not just to the environment, but to Indian farmers, too. Conventional agriculture hurts their soil and keeps their input costs at a constant high; moreover, organic produce can empower farmers to benefit from the premium prices that these products sell for.

So, what can organic farmers do about this?

The mission

In Tamil Nadu, there is a glimpse of the way forward. To address the challenges associated with organic farming and scale the practice altogether, a group of volunteers established a not-for-profit collective called the Tamil Nadu Iyarkai Velan Kootamaippu (TNIVK) in 2023. This collective, comprising civil society organisations, farmer producer groups, activists, seed conservators, and consumer organisations, is dedicated to mainstreaming organic farming in Tamil Nadu through government initiatives. 

Their efforts go beyond merely rejecting synthetic chemicals. In its one-and-a-half years of operation, the TNIVK has organised monthly organic markets in Chennai and Madurai, supported organic farmers affected by cyclone Fengal through crowdfunding and even conducted a one-month travel-based program to raise awareness among younger citizens about the seven agro-ecological landscapes in the state.

Tamil Nadu ranks 14th in organic production across India with a total output of 24,826 metric tons, which includes both farm and wild produce. For context, Madhya Pradesh produces the highest organically farmed produce in the country. In the year 2020–2021, Tamil Nadu exported 4,223 metric tons of organic products and generated a revenue of ₹108 crore. While there are clearly individual efforts across the state, there is a dire need to bring them all under a singular umbrella. That serves as the TNIVK’s mission. "Through our collective, we aim to bring together the decades of effort that has shaped the state's organic farming movement,” explains G Karthik, coordinator of the TNIVK.

Another hurdle is within the produce market. A significant portion of buyers still expects organic products to be priced similarly to conventional food items. Farmers relent, but the problem is that middlemen often end up reaping substantial profits in the process. “To address this issue and directly connect organic farmers with consumers, the government should designate public spaces, such as government school premises, to conduct Sunday markets in every district. Additionally, dedicated spaces should be allocated in Uzhavar Sandhais (farmers markets) for organic farmers to sell their produce,” suggests R Vetrimaran, a Dindigul-based organic farmer.

Watch: A beginner’s guide to growing organic food

Need for government participation

Perhaps one of the most significant aspects of the support that the TNIVK is rallying for, is alleviating the organic farmers’ financial problems. A study that looked at Wayanad’s organic farmers found that fluctuations in interest rates and the inadequacy of conventional financial support mechanisms are holding them back significantly.

The state government, alongside civil society and the private sector, can play a pivotal role in driving this transition through policies and effective implementation. "The organic farming movement in the state has stagnated now. Involving the government is necessary to push the upscale," states G Ananthoo, founder of the TNIVK.

Introducing traditional rice varieties and replacing palm oil with native oils like coconut oil in the breakfast and lunch schemes for children will ensure nutritional security.

Tamil Nadu recently launched the Organic Farming Policy, 2023 to promote chemical-free agriculture, a step that is meant to acknowledge the collective efforts of numerous organisations and individuals. However, the policy has been facing the heat from the organic farmer community. “The policy did not commit to any fixed targets,” explains Karthik, outlining one of the more significant concerns with the policy. “There is no action plan, no timeline and no vision.” While the state wants to focus on chemical-free agriculture, the policy does not reflect it adequately. “One of the biggest demands that the genetically modified seeds should be banned in the state was not incorporated in it either,” Karthik adds.

The collective is also urging the state government to procure millets and traditional rice for inclusion in school breakfast and lunch schemes. "The Tamil Nadu government is the largest provider of food in the state through the Public Distribution System (PDS), the Integrated Child Development Scheme (ICDS), breakfast and lunch schemes for children, and nutritional food kits for pregnant women,” says Karthik. By procuring 30% of its food essentials from organic farmers, as suggested by the collective, the government can open up the market for these farmers but not just that: it can successfully align with the state’s goal of providing safe food to its citizens–including children.

“Introducing traditional rice varieties and replacing palm oil with native oils like coconut oil in the breakfast and lunch schemes for children will ensure nutritional security,” Ananthoo says. Another one of the collective's goals is to integrate a curriculum on organic food in educational institutions that educates children about conscious eating and the disadvantages of processed foods.

Also read: Kerala collective leads the charge in organic rice farming

‘Include organic farming in the budget’

In the past year, the TNIVK has held multiple state level consultative meetings–along with their discussions, they collected powerful suggestions from 500 farmers, including: a scheme to establish community seed banks for traditional seeds, provide infrastructural subsidies to enhance access to organic input shops, and periodically incentivise organic farmers to deliver ecosystem services. The TNIVK then formed a drafting committee comprising organic farming experts. On January 6, the final recommendations were submitted to the chief secretary N Muruganandam, agricultural minister MRK Paneerselvam as well as the members of the agricultural department, seeking to incorporate it into the agricultural budget. The recommendations ranged from demanding a place in the agricultural budget to addressing water management and farm mechanisation. The final budget is awaited.

“The agricultural budget is not a unilateral exercise; inputs from organic farmers will also be incorporated into the final plan. Organic farming is gaining traction in the state, driven by community efforts such as TNIVK,” promises G Prakash, Principal Secretary to Government.

Organic farming aids in reducing carbon emissions, conserving biodiversity and enhancing soil sequestration. However, while chemical fertilisers receive substantial subsidies, natural fertilisers receive none.

TNIVK recommends that 30% of the total agricultural budget should be allocated to organic farming programs. This is a substantial increase from the previous year's allocation, which was less than 0.05% of the total agriculture budget. But consider that organic farming incurs higher costs at every stage. For instance, while conventional farmers use weedicides costing less than Rs 1,000 for three applications, organic farmers rely on manual labour, spending at least Rs 2,500 for a single day in the field on a 25-cent plot of land. “Using weedicides harms the soil. Aren’t we providing ecological services by avoiding them?” questioned R Vetrimaran.

“Organic farming aids in reducing carbon emissions, conserving biodiversity and enhancing soil sequestration. However, while chemical fertilisers receive substantial subsidies, natural fertilisers receive none,” says Jalakanteswar, an organic farmer from Ranipet.

Certain government schemes and subsidies provide in-kind support, such as seeds, but these may not align with the exact needs of organic farmers.  “For organic farmers, this support is of no use. Such policies need to be changed promptly,” Ananthoo says.

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