How the death of a forest led to drying streams in Odisha

In Barakutuni, a tribal village in Odisha’s Koraput district, ecological collapse and water scarcity brought farming — and lives — to a halt. A decade of community-led restoration is slowly reversing that. Koraput, Odisha: “We have never seen God, but if we are alive today, it is because of this water and this forest,” said Yeshudan Disari (34) from Barakutuni village in Semiliguda block in Odisha’s Koraput district.Barakutuni is home to 91 households, most belonging to Scheduled Tribe communities. For generations, life here revolved around monsoon-dependent farming and the forests that sustained it. Then, slowly, that relationship began to break.Despite receiving 1,500mm -1,800 mm of annual rainfall, according to India Meteorological Department, most of it fell in a compressed monsoon window — and that window was becoming increasingly unpredictable. Across Koraput, nearly 1.8 lakh -1.9 lakh hectares of upland agriculture remains entirely rain-fed, leaving farming vulnerable to even brief dry spells.Villagers working in the farms of Barakutuni village (Photo - Prativa Ghosh, 101Reporters)Decades in makingAround 2009-’10, forest degradation intensified as more families turned to podu (shifting cultivation), clearing hill-slope forest patches for agriculture. The reasons were structural: declining soil fertility, erratic rainfall, and almost no access to irrigation.“Earlier, we used to grow enough in our lands below. But the soil became weak and rains were not regular,” said Dabuli Santa, 75. “We had no option but to go uphill and clear forest patches for podu.”The expansion of podu was both a response to ecological decline and a driver of it. Repeated clearing and burning reduced vegetation cover, exposing soil to erosion and cutting its capacity to retain moisture. Springs that once sustained the village began to dry up. Data from Global Forest Watch shows Koraput district lost an estimated 20,000-30,000 hectares of tree cover between 2001 and 2023.“Earlier, we collected a variety of forest foods,  kokodi saag, puliyari saag, girli flowers,” recalled Sambara Jani, 70. “As forests were cleared and land was burned for podu, these disappeared. They were not just forest produce, they were part of our daily meals.”The village once depended entirely on a single perennial stream, Pahala Jhola, nearly 1.4 kilometres away, for drinking water and daily use. As farming failed, distress migration increased,  men leaving for Andhra Pradesh and Chhattisgarh in search of work. The village was slowly emptying out.The crisis peaked around 2010-’11 when Gorada Mala, the key spring used for drinking water, dried up completely during summer. In the Semiliguda block, where only about 0.33% of agricultural land is irrigated, this was an existential moment.“We had nothing then. There was no water in the village. We depended on Pahala Jhola, a stream nearly one and a half kilometres away, for all our daily needs.” said Disari. The crisis in Barakutuni was not unique — it reflected a broader pattern across Koraput. The problem was never a shortage of rain, but its increasing unreliability. Earlier studies show the region received relatively stable rainfall of about 1,274 mm annually with nearly 70 rainy days. Today, farmers report a different reality: delayed monsoon onset, prolonged dry spells, and sudden intense downpours that damage standing crops rather than recharging the soil.According to the Odisha State Disaster Management Authority, districts like Koraput are experiencing both extreme rainfall events and prolonged dry periods — a double blow to rain-fed farming. Rising temperatures have compounded the problem by accelerating soil moisture loss, worsening water stress during critical crop stages.The economic toll is severe. Across Koraput, erratic rainfall has led to estimated losses of over Rs 30 crore in cashew cultivation alone, according to GB Nayak of ICAR-Central Rainfed Upland Rice Research Station. Unseasonal rainfall events have repeatedly damaged standing crops in several blocks including Semiliguda. In such a fragile landscape, communities depend heavily on hill streams — making their protection not just an ecological choice, but a matter of survival.View of an agriculture field in the upland area (Photo - Prativa Ghosh, 101Reporters)Rebuilding waterFaced with collapse, the people of Barakutuni came together. In January 2012, at a panchayat-level meeting with elected members and facilitated by the Foundation for Ecological Security (FES), the community collectively recognised — for the first time — the link between forest loss, water scarcity, and collapsing livelihoods. Their response began with water.With their own labour and support from FES, the village built a diversion-based irrigation (DBI) system: channelling water from hill streams to farms using gravity. A 1,400-metre pipeline was laid from Pahala Jhola to farmlands; a small cement storage structure with a control valve was constructed to regulate use. Water is released only when needed, and the community agreed that half the flow would be reserved to sustain the forest ecosystem.“We made rules so that everyone gets water,” said Barsha Sirika, a farmer from Barakutuni. “No one can irrigate more than two acres. Water is shared from upstream to downstream, and once one field is done, we help the next.”All work was done through voluntary labour. The system, pipes, channels, storage structures, continues to be maintained collectively.“We worked together to bring the water to our fields,” said Nilasa Santa, 63. “Now we don’t waste it…only when needed do we open the valve. We have rules so that both farming and the forest can survive.”Diversion based on the irrigation work in their village (Photo - Prativa Ghosh, 101Reporters)Water managementAs the irrigation system stabilised, villagers understood that it alone would not sustain them unless the surrounding ecosystem was restored. Through repeated Gram Sabha meetings facilitated by FES, they arrived at a critical decision: to completely stop podu cultivation on upper hill slopes.The land was left undisturbed to regenerate. To support families who had depended on podu, those with cultivable land in the plains voluntarily shared portions of their fields, an arrangement based on mutual agreement rather than formal contracts, held in place until alternative livelihoods and irrigation were established.“We could not stop podu unless everyone had something to depend on,” says Manuku Sisa, 80. “So those who had land gave a part of it for others to cultivate. It was our way of supporting each other.”Youth groups began restoring degraded hillsides through annual seed broadcasting drives during the monsoon, dispersing native species across barren slopes. Within a few years, the impact became visible: streams that had dried up began to flow again, and new springs emerged closer to the settlement.Two additional streams — Jamir Jhola and Gorada Maha — were revived through community-led conservation. Villagers mobilised their own resources and labour to construct additional DBI structures on each. Recognising the scale of what the community had achieved, Koraput district Collector Abdaal M. Akhtar, during a recent visit, sanctioned Rs 10 lakh for a further DBI system on the revived Gorada Maha stream.Group of women working in their field, they cultivate across kharif, rabi and summer (Photo - Prativa Ghosh, 101Reporters)Rising incomesToday, revived streams, Gorada Maha, Dayori Kalu, and Jamir Jhola, support irrigation across nearly 70 acres. Where once a single paddy crop in the kharif season was possible, farmers now cultivate beans, ginger, tomato, chilli, and sweet potato across three seasons: kharif, rabi, and summer.“I cultivate around three acres now. With water available beyond the monsoon, we can grow crops in two to three seasons. Earlier, we depended only on rain and had to migrate for work — but now we can manage from our own fields,” said Tika Gunkha, a farmer. “Earlier, we could grow only one crop,” said Basanti Jani. “Now we cultivate two to three crops — even if rainfall is irregular.” In Semiliguda, where irrigation coverage is just 0.33%, that qualifier carries real weight.The income data from the village’s producer group, Annapurna Producers Group, tells a clear story. In 2022-’23, most households earned between Rs 32,000 and Rs 40,000 annually. By 2023-’24, incomes rose to Rs 1.18- Rs 1.42 lakh. By 2024-’25, they reached Rs 1.59- Rs 1.91 lakh, with some farmers earning over Rs 2 lakh. Average annual incomes have increased four to six times within three years.Distress migration has declined sharply. Families that once relied on seasonal work in neighbouring states are now able to sustain themselves within the village.“Earlier we depended on one crop and rain. Now we grow crops throughout the year,” said Jambo Dishari, a farmer from the village.Villagers do their meeting on different issues before the Gram Sabha (Photo - Prativa Ghosh, 101Reporters)Diversification of livelihoodsEcological recovery has created new livelihood opportunities. Women in the village now collect hill broom from regenerated forests, process it, and sell it in nearby markets including Kunduli. Supported by government livelihood programmes, this has become a steady secondary income source.“The forest has come back, and so has our income,” said Jamuna Jani, a member of a women’s self-help group.Dependence on forests has also become more sustainable, reduced pressure on natural resources is allowing regeneration to continue, creating a self-reinforcing cycle.The roots of this transformation go back to 2008, when villagers first organised to protect their forests amid rising degradation, forest fires, and human-wildlife conflict. They introduced rules on grazing, fire prevention, and forest use, and adopted a ‘thengapalli’ system, rotating household-by-household forest guard duty.In 2016, the village secured Community Forest Rights (CFR) under the Forest Rights Act, bringing nearly 1,000 acres under collective protection. The Gram Sabha gained legal authority to manage forests, regulate use, and enforce conservation rules. Today, decisions on forest use, water management, and livelihoods are taken collectively.Alongside conservation, the village has adopted a Village Ecological Register (VER) to track environmental changes. Villagers document rainfall patterns, water sources, biodiversity, and seasonal cycles, building a local record of climate variability that now informs decisions under community forest rights.“We are now tracking changes in rainfall and forests ourselves,” says Jayanti Sirika, a young para-ecologist trained through the programme. “Last year we recorded delayed monsoon rains, so farmers postponed sowing to avoid crop loss. It helps us understand what is happening and plan better.”Hill broom work done by the villagers (Photo - Prativa Ghosh, 101Reporters)A model worth watchingBarakutuni’s experience demonstrates that resilience in rainfed regions does not always require large infrastructure. By restoring forests, managing water collectively, and strengthening local governance, the village has built a system capable of withstanding climate variability — and of sustaining the people who depend on it.In Koraput, where nearly 1.89 lakh hectares of farmland remains rain-fed and irrigation covers a fraction of a percent of agricultural land in blocks like Semiliguda, this model carries implications well beyond one village.“What Barakutuni shows is that restoring forests and water systems together can significantly improve climate resilience in rainfed regions,” said a practitioner associated with FES. “The intervention shows diversion-based irrigation can increase farm incomes by 20-50% and enable multiple cropping cycles. Equally important, reducing dependence on podu has allowed forests to regenerate — creating a cycle of ecological recovery that reinforces itself.”“We understood that if the forest lives, we live.” said Jayanti Disair.  This story was produced as a part of 101Reporters Climate Change Reporting Grant. Cover photo - Basanti Jani from Semiliguda expressing her thoughts on income (Photo - Prativa Ghosh, 101Reporters)

Caught between two laws: Why a child survivor’s compensation was stalled despite conviction

In Odisha, confusion over whether POCSO or SC/ST law applied delayed compensation ordered by the court.Nabarangpur, Odisha: On January 9, inside the District Magistrate’s office in Nabarangpur, an eight-year-old girl sat quietly beside her mother as officials completed paperwork approving Rs 6 lakh in victim compensation.More than three years after she was sexually assaulted, the child finally received the amount meant to support her rehabilitation.Too young to understand the legal process behind it, she turned to her mother and said, “Please give me the money that nani gave me. I only want to buy chocolates.”In 2024, a special POCSO court sentenced the accused to 20 years of rigorous imprisonment. But while the conviction came through, the compensation remained stuck for over a year.For the child’s parents, daily wage labourers, the delay was both confusing and exhausting.“We thought once the court gave the judgment, everything was over,” said her mother, Namita (name changed). “But we were told the money could not be released immediately because of some rule. We did not understand what mistake we had made.”Conviction without compensationThe assault took place on August 10, 2022, when the child was five years old. She was lured by a neighbour while her parents were away at work.An FIR was registered under the Indian Penal Code, the Protection of Children from Sexual Offences Act, and the Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes Prevention of Atrocities Act.According to Special Public Prosecutor SN Swain, the decision to invoke the SC/ST Act is taken by the investigating officer at the FIR and chargesheet stage, not by the prosecutor.“The Act is applied where the facts are seen to attract its provisions, alongside other laws,” he said. “But that does not necessarily mean conviction under all sections.”In this case, the accused was ultimately convicted under the POCSO Act but acquitted of the SC/ST charge.In May 2024, the POCSO court sentenced him to 20 years of rigorous imprisonment and recommended Rs 6 lakh as compensation under the state’s victim compensation scheme.But the money did not reach the family for more than a year.The child’s father recalled repeated visits to government offices. “Every time we went, they said there was a technical issue. We are poor people. We do not understand these laws. We only knew our daughter needed help.”Two lawsAccording to Swain, the delay stemmed from the overlap of legal frameworks.Because the case was initially registered under both the POCSO Act and the SC/ST Act, authorities were unclear about which mechanism should govern compensation.“When there is an overlap between special laws, the Collector becomes the authority to decide compensation,” Swain said. “This administrative confusion often slows down the process. But compensation is a legal entitlement. It should not depend on technical interpretation.”had initially been registered under the SC/ST Act.It was only after intervention by South Orissa Voluntary Action, a local organisation, that the family filed an appeal before the State Legal Services Authority. In January 2026, the compensation was finally approved.The delay stemmed from overlapping legal provisions governing victim compensation. Under Section 33(8) of the Protection of Children from Sexual Offences Act and Rule 7 of the POCSO Rules, 2020, compensation is awarded based on court recommendations through the District Legal Services Authority under Section 357A of the Code of Criminal Procedure.However, in cases registered under the Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes (Prevention of Atrocities) Act, compensation is governed by Rule 12(4) of the SC/ST Rules, 1995 (as amended in 2016), which places responsibility on the District Magistrate.In the absence of clear operational guidance for cases involving both laws, the overlap can delay compensation.The delay added to the family’s financial and emotional burden.The Nabarangpur district court is around 22 km from their village. Each visit cost them around Rs 700, including transport and other expenses. Over the course of the case, the family made around 20 visits.“For us, even one day’s wage matters,” the father said. “I had to borrow money while pursuing the case.”The family said the police acted promptly when they filed the complaint at Tentulikhunti police station, and they did not face harassment during the investigation. But navigating the legal process was difficult.“We felt lost,” the mother said. “Only later, when SOVA helped us, we understood what to do.”After the compensation was approved, Rs 4.8 lakh was placed in a fixed deposit for five years, while Rs 1.2 lakh was released for immediate use.The parents said they plan to use the money for their daughter’s education and care.The compensation has brought some relief, but the impact of the case continues.The family said they still face stigma in the village and are considering relocating to Nabarangpur town. They are also exploring the option of placing the child in a hostel.Gaps in support systemThe family’s experience also highlights gaps in institutional support.According to the Protection of Children from Sexual Offences Act, the Child Welfare Committee is expected to appoint a support person, ensure rehabilitation and facilitate access to compensation.But in practice, these safeguards are not always implemented.“Ideally, there should be continuous monitoring of the child’s rehabilitation,” said Dr Benudhara Senapati of Ruchika Social Service Organisation. “But in reality, follow-up is limited.”He said compensation is often deposited in a bank account operated by the guardian, and there is little structured monitoring of how it is used.“Families generally use it for education, medical care or basic needs,” he said. “But there is no system to ensure it is consistently used for the child’s rehabilitation.”The family said no support person was appointed by the Child Welfare Committee during the case. Officials of the District Child Protection Unit and the Child Welfare Committee in Nabarangpur did not respond to queries.The family added that they have not applied for financial assistance from the Child Welfare Committee and are currently relying on support from SOVA, particularly counsellor Uma Satnami.Systemic issueData from the National Legal Services Authority shows that Odisha has recorded more than 2,000 pending victim compensation applications annually over the past five years.In 2022-23, pending cases peaked at 2,674. Even in 2023-24, more than 2,300 applications remained pending.While the data does not separately classify POCSO cases, child sexual assault cases form a significant portion of compensation claims filed under Section 357A of the Code of Criminal Procedure.“Compensation is not charity… it is a statutory right,” said public prosecutor Rajib Sasmal. “When survivors are forced to wait for years, it only prolongs their trauma.”At the same time, Odisha continues to report high levels of crimes against children.According to NCRB data, the state recorded 8,577 crimes against children in 2023, up from 8,240 in 2022.Swain said that such delays reflect deeper issues in coordination between institutions.Drawing on his experience at the Nabarangpur POCSO court, he said he has rarely seen the Child Welfare Committee actively intervene in cases.“In all these years, no representative from the CWC has approached me regarding any case,” he said.He added that the overlap of legal frameworks can create avoidable delays.“In this case, the SC/ST Act was invoked at the investigation stage, but the conviction was under POCSO,” he said. “This created confusion over which authority should process compensation.”For the child and her family, the money has finally come.But her mother says no amount can erase what happened.“We only want our daughter to study well and forget this,” she said. “We don’t want any other family to run from office to office like we did.”This story was produced for and originally published as part of the Crime and Punishment project in collaboration with Vidhi Centre for Legal Policy. Cover Photo - Representative image/ AI-generated using Canva

‘The sky now lies to us’: Changing rainfall patterns are erasing Koraput’s traditional seeds

In Odisha’s tribal heartland, unpredictable monsoons are wiping out indigenous crops and with them, centuries of farming knowledge and cultural memory.Koraput, Odisha: “The sky now lies to us,” Farmer Tikima Pangi (56) from Semilguda village in Odisha’s Koraput district told 101Reporters. “My mother used to say that by looking at the clouds in May, we knew exactly when to start sowing. But now, the sky lies to us. The rains come whenever they want, and our seeds no longer know what season it is.”Pangi grows Dangarbaji, a traditional paddy variety, on her one-acre farm. Once common across Koraput, Dangarbaji is a medium-duration rice that matures in about 110 to 115 days. It has slender, light green stalks, withstands mild droughts, and thrives in poor soils without fertilisers. Older farmers recall that it was once preferred on upland slopes for its soft, fragrant rice that stayed fresh for days.Farmers followed the sky as faithfully as a clock (Photo - Prativa Ghosh, 101Reporters)Pangi is among the few farmers in Koraput who still grow the crops their grandmothers once did. But across Odisha’s tribal belt, ancient seed varieties are vanishing as erratic rainfall upends growing cycles, taking with them not just food security, but also cultural identity and collective memory.Over the past six to seven years, Koraput has lost more than eight varieties of mandia (finger millet) and over 30 traditional crops. The varieties now disappearing were perfectly matched to Koraput's old monsoon patterns.  Earlier, traditional farming calendars worked because the rain could be trusted. Historical records show that Koraput receives about 1,950 mm of rainfall a year, spread evenly over roughly 90 days between June and late October.Farmers followed the sky as faithfully as a clock. May showers signalled it was time to sow early mandia (finger millet). The first June rains meant rice planting. By August, the uplands turned green with crops ready to flower, and by October, the harvest began.Mandia varieties like Kuya Gandhia took just 60 days to mature. Farmers planted them in May after the first rains and harvested them by July, ensuring food before the main rice season. Upland rice varieties such as Dangar Dhan and Paradhan took 100-110 days, timed to the steady June-to-October monsoon, explained Pangi. That rhythm is now broken. Rainfall data from 2021 to 2025 shows wild swings that have made farming unpredictable. In 2021, June brought just 216.8 mm of rain while July saw 523 mm: a sudden imbalance that forced farmers to delay planting and miss the optimal window.In 2024, June received 263.9 mm, July 238.9 mm, and August 318 mm. But in October, normally the harvest month, Koraput was deluged with 740.9 mm of rain, nearly five times its usual average of 165–305 mm. Floods swept through the fields just as the crops were ready to be cut.“By late August or early September, our mandia plants flower and form grain,” said Parima Muduli, 39, a Paraja tribal farmer from Kurmakote village. “By October, they should be ready to harvest. But now October brings floods. The grain rots in the field. Fungus takes everything.”Extreme rainfall events have also become more concentrated. On July 2, 2025, Koraput recorded 75.89 mm of average rainfall in a single day, with Jeypore block receiving 141.8 mm and Kotpad 152 mm. Such downpours, once rare, now routinely exceed entire monthly averages within hours.According to Jyotirmayee Lenka, a scientist at the Indian Institute of Soil and Water Conservation in Koraput, the district has seen both more frequent and more intense rainfall events between 2018 and 2025. “These changes,” she said, “are fundamentally altering upland farming conditions.”The increasing unpredictability of rainfall has made it difficult for farmers to rely on traditional seed varieties, pushing many to abandon traditional crop cycles.Women farmers working in the finger millet fields (Photo - Prativa Ghosh, 101Reporters)Vanishing seeds and stories"My grandfather used to say that the kokila bird's call told us when to prepare the fields,” Lakhmi Khilo, an elderly farmer from Kundra block, told 101Reporters. “When the first thunderstorm came from the east, we knew it was time for Dangar Dhan. When the frogs sang for three nights, we planted mandia on the slopes. Now the birds call, but the rains don't come. The frogs sing, but floods arrive instead. Nature is confused, and we are confused with it.”These elders watch their knowledge become useless in real time, a particularly cruel form of loss. Agricultural calendars memorised over lifetimes, techniques perfected through decades of practice, seed-selection wisdom accumulated across generations, all made obsolete by shifting climate patterns.Budri Bhatra of Badnayakguda village said, “We taught our children to save the best seeds from the best plants. But what good is that teaching when the rains kill the best plants? When October brings water instead of harvest? Our knowledge is dying with us because it no longer works in this new world.”Yet even as they mourn, these elders remain crucial sources of information for custodian farmers. They remember varieties that have already disappeared, describe their characteristics, and recall their uses.“My grandfather showed me how to pick the strongest stalks of Haladichudi rice and plant them on higher slopes to survive the floods. Because of his guidance, I could save the variety even when unseasonal rains destroyed everything else,” said Raimati Gihuria, custodian farmer from Nuaguda. This oral history helps document what has been lost and informs efforts to preserve what remains.The disappearance of traditional crop varieties in Koraput has brought losses that go far beyond agriculture. Traditional seeds once offered balanced nutrition suited to local diets. Aromatic rice such as Haladichudi, Basantichudi and Kalajeera provided distinct flavours and nutrients, while millets supplied calcium, iron and amino acids, crucial for communities with limited access to diverse food. As these crops disappear, tribal meals have grown monotonous, reduced largely to government-supplied ration rice.The loss of seeds has also disrupted the region’s cultural rhythm. In August, farmers used to plant early-maturing crops such as Dangarbaji, Kuya Gandhia, Ladu Mandia, Kandul and Dangarrani. The first harvest was offered to local gods during Nua Khai Parab, the festival of new food.“Now we cannot perform these rituals with the new hybrid rice because the early varieties are gone,” said Pangi. “Our children will grow up not knowing the taste of Dangarbaji or the ceremonies their great-grandmothers performed.” She remembered the first year the village could not offer traditional rice: “The entire village wept. It felt like breaking a sacred promise.”Pangi has spent the past eight years saving nearly 70 traditional seed varieties of paddy, pulses and vegetables. Their names, she said, sound like poetry: Dangarbaji, Kalakandul, Pati Badei, Kaja, Dameni, Kalijima and Jhunta Bin.Parima Muduli, who has preserved varieties like Biri Dhana and Sugandha, said these crops are part of the community’s identity. “The songs we sing during planting, the prayers we offer at harvest…they all mention these seed names. When the seeds vanish, our stories make no sense to our children.”“These weren’t just crops,” added Raimati Ghiuria, 42, from Nuaguda village, known locally as the Queen of Millets for conserving over 70 rice and 30 millet varieties. “Kalajeera gave fragrance for festival meals. Machakanta was served to the guests. Tulasi rice was offered to gods. Each seed had a purpose, a story, a place in our lives.”Traditional varieties were also living libraries of genetic adaptation. Drought-tolerant strains such as Kalajeera, Asamchudi, Ojan and Tulasi helped farmers survive erratic monsoons, while short-duration millets like Kuya Gandhia and Kuruma Bati ensured food during lean periods. In 2022, Pangi planted Kuya Gandhia mandia in May, expecting it to mature within 60 days. But rains came late, and the few stalks that sprouted were washed away by July showers. “For the first time, I could not save a single seed,” she said. “I knew that the story of Kuya Gandhia might end with me.”Farmers explained that such seeds once offered genetic insurance against climate shocks. “On our 8-acre farm, we harvest 12-14 quintals per acre from indigenous varieties,” said Ghiuria. “They survive floods and droughts that kill hybrids. If we lose them now, we’ll have nothing resilient left.”Although hybrid seeds can yield 20 quintals per acre under ideal conditions, they depend on fertilisers, pesticides and irrigation. Only 9.3% of the cropped land in Koraput has irrigation access. Traditional varieties, grown organically with minimal inputs, yield 12.5quintals per acre even in dry years.Hybrid paddy sells for about Rs 2,160 per quintal, while traditional varieties fetch anywhere between Rs 2,100 and Rs 5,000 per quintal. “High-value varieties like Kalajeera, Raghusahi and Lactimachi can go up to Rs 5,000 per quintal,” said Kartik Kumar Lenka, senior scientist at the MS Swaminathan Research Foundation in Jeypore. For farmers with limited inputs and rainfed fields, this price range often makes indigenous crops more economical despite their lower yields.Yet procurement systems continue to favour hybrids. “Government policies reward volume, not sustainability,” said Ghiuria.However, some indigenous rice varieties have slowly made their place in the markets. Ghiuria sells her organic rice for Rs30-Rs40 per kg, while heritage pigmented varieties like Kalajeera or Bali Raja fetch Rs300–Rs500 per kg in urban organic stores. “Even packaged Kalajeera now sells at Rs259 a kilo,” said Tankadhar Chendia from Machhara village. “Meanwhile, bulk hybrid rice sells for Rs30-Rs40. The difference speaks for itself.”Annual rainfall totals still appear adequate, but the timing has become erratic, with long dry spells followed by intense downpours (Photo - Prativa Ghosh, 101Reporters)How seeds get lostThe immediate cause of seed loss in Koraput is simple: when rainfall patterns shift, crops fail. But the deeper reasons are more complex.Traditional mandia (finger millet) varieties that matured in 60 days depended on early May showers. “Earlier, rains in May allowed tribal farmers to plant and harvest mandia by July or early August, ensuring food security,” said Tikima Pangi. “But now May rains are unreliable. If we plant and rains fail, the seeds are wasted. If we wait for July rains, the growing season is too short for 60-day varieties to mature before October floods.”The result is a cruel choice — plant early and risk drought, or plant late and risk flood. Either way, short-duration varieties cannot survive. After several years of failed crops, farmers stop saving these seeds altogether. Once that happens, the varieties disappear from fields, then from seed stores, and finally from memory.Lakhmi Khilo, an 82-year-old farmer from Kundra, remembers how Haladichudi, a rice that could survive late-September floods, was once saved from extinction. “I taught Raimati Ghiuria to select the strongest stalks and plant them on higher slopes, so they would survive when rains flooded the lowlands,” he said.“Because of his guidance, I could save the seeds and grow Haladichudi even when floods came two years in a row,” said Ghiuria. “Without that knowledge, this variety might have vanished from Nuaguda forever.”For upland rice varieties such as Dangar Dhan, Para Dhan and Mati Dhan, the problem is equally severe. These crops were once planted in May and harvested by August, completing their cycle before the monsoon waned. Now, the rainfall pattern has fractured.Annual rainfall totals still appear adequate, but the timing has become erratic, with long dry spells followed by intense downpours. “Heavy rainfall events create artificial flooding, while reduced frequency of rain dries out the soil,” said Pangi. “Crops experience stress during crucial growth stages, and yields collapse. Eventually, farmers abandon the varieties.”Koraput’s hilly terrain worsens the impact. Sudden, high-intensity rains cause soil erosion, stripping away the fertile topsoil from slopes. Without topsoil, even resilient traditional varieties cannot grow. By October, when crops are ready to harvest, excess rain often waterlogs the fields, leading to fungal infections and grain spoilage.“The floods destroy not just the harvest,” Pangi said quietly, “but also the seeds we would have saved for the next season.”Climate predictions are unfolding in real timeThe experiences of Koraput’s farmers mirror climate science projections for the region. Studies predict a 4%-16% increase in overall rainfall across Odisha, with a longer rainy season and more extreme precipitation events. But this doesn’t mean simply more rain — it means heavier downpours packed into shorter periods, separated by longer dry spells.Debashish Jena, Senior Scientist at the IMD in Cuttack, calls this “rainfall seasonality stress”  when not just the amount but the timing and distribution of rain shift beyond historical patterns. For rainfed districts like Koraput, where nearly 90% of farmers depend entirely on the monsoon, such stress is catastrophic. Crops bred for predictable rainfall cannot adapt quickly enough to survive.The Odisha State Disaster Management Authority reported that unseasonal rains in 2023 caused severe crop damage in Koraput. But the word unseasonal itself is losing meaning — the seasons no longer follow any familiar rhythm. When October, once the harvest month, can now receive five times its normal rainfall, the agricultural calendar collapses.If current trends continue, the outlook for Koraput’s traditional agriculture is bleak. Climate projections suggest rainfall variability will increase further, making it harder to sustain indigenous cropping patterns. As more varieties fail, farmers abandon them, and the region’s genetic reservoir of seeds shrinks — eroding the very biodiversity that once buffered it against droughts and floods.Food security, too, is at risk. When tribal communities cultivated diverse traditional varieties, they had natural insurance: if one crop failed, others survived. Modern single-crop systems lack that resilience. A single pest, disease, or weather shock can now wipe out entire harvests. The loss of drought-tolerant and flood-resistant varieties removes the very tools farmers need most in a changing climate.The seeds of Koraput are vanishing, and with them, centuries of wisdom, culture, and resilience that once allowed communities to live in step with the rain.This project is supported by the Internews Earth Journalism Network with funding from the Swedish International Development Cooperation Agency (Sida) Cover photo - Woman farmer working in their mandia field in Koraput (Photo - Prativa Ghosh, 101Reporters)

From charts to change: Teens in Salmanguda, Koraput tackle child marriage

In Salmanguda, a child-led network tracks at-risk girls, supports families, all while stopping dozens of early marriagesKoraput, Odisha: Every month, Mamata Jani (15) and her team of teenage volunteers set out with hand-drawn maps of their village. The colourful charts might resemble a school project, but for the children of Salmanguda they are a serious tool: a system for tracking girls at risk of child marriage.Teenage volunteers drawing the colourful maps (Photo - Prativa Ghosh, 101Reporters)What began in 2021 as a monitoring exercise introduced by the grassroots group South Odisha Voluntary Action (SOVA) has grown into a community-led child protection network. “Since then, the children have stopped 47 marriages across 12 villages in the Salmanguda panchayat,” said Padlam Khora, SOVA’s grassroots coordinator, who monitors the club’s work. The data is maintained by the Mahatma Gandhi Child Club and validated by SOVA’s monitoring team.“This is by far the most effective prevention system we have seen in Koraput, because it is run by children themselves,” Khora added. The children have been trained through child rights workshops alongside local Child Protection Committees.The club has identified 156 “high-vulnerability” households. These are homes where children had dropped out of school, families faced financial stress, or parents had openly discussed marriage plans. “Of these, 89 households have now been moved to a ‘safe’ status,” explained Sabita Nayak (17), who manages the mapping system. Currently, the network monitors 847 children, with each child’s education status, family circumstances, and marriage risk updated monthly.“We meet every Tuesday evening at 6 pm in our bal sabha [children’s assembly],” said Jani, the club’s elected coordinator. “We review our maps, discuss new cases, and plan our interventions for the week.”Young boys and girls participating in the club meeting (Photo - Prativa Ghosh, 101Reporters)The system relies on meticulous documentation. Using coloured pencils and chart paper, the teenagers have created detailed village maps. “We use green dots for safe households, yellow for ‘watch closely,’ and red when immediate intervention is needed,” said Nayak. “When we see a girl dropping out of school or a family talking about marriage, we immediately mark it red and act. Our maps are updated every two weeks, so we know exactly which families to focus on.”The network has 23 teenage volunteers aged 13 to 18. Most are from Salmanguda, but they also cover nearby hamlets such as Lauriguda and Hatapada, guiding local child club members. Each volunteer monitors 15-20 households, tracking school attendance, financial stress, and social pressures that often precede child marriages.Members of the child club are presenting their findings from mapping exercise (Photo - Prativa Ghosh, 101Reporters)The heart of the systemOne of the club’s first successes was Daimati Jani, now 17. “In 2022, my parents were arranging my marriage because we needed money for my brother’s treatment,” she recalled. “The Child Club members came to our house five times, spoke to my parents, and even connected us with government schemes for medical support. Today I’m in Class 11 and want to become a teacher.”Club members said they repeatedly counselled Daimati’s parents, highlighted the health and legal risks of child marriage, and together with the village sarpanch helped the family access the Ayushman Bharat health scheme, which was previously Biju Swasthya Kalyan, which covered her brother’s kidney treatment. Relieved of financial pressure, the family dropped the marriage plan.At the heart of the system is the weekly bal sabha, which functions like a village panchayat. The 23 members elect a coordinator, secretary, and action teams, maintain records, debate strategies, and vote on how to use a small fund raised through community contributions.“We run our meetings just like a panchayat, we keep minutes, vote, and make action plans,” said Debendra Badanayak (16), secretary of the Mahatma Gandhi Child Club. “The bal sabha taught us that our voices matter,” added Laxman Badanayak (16), another elected leader. “We’ve learned to speak confidently with adults, negotiate with families, and even approach government officials when needed.”When the teenagers identify a potential child marriage, they first gather information through peer networks. “Since other young people are often aware of such plans beforehand, the information quickly reaches our child club and adolescent group,” explained Nayak. They then call urgent meetings to assess the situation before approaching the Child Protection Committee. “We don’t go there to argue or judge,” said Jani. “We sit with the parents, listen to their problems, and try to understand why they think marriage is the only solution for their daughter.”If counselling fails, the case is escalated to the Village Level Child Protection Committee (VLCPC). The club’s main contact is Ramesh Khora, convener of the Salmanguda VLCPC. Committee members visit the parents while teenagers mobilise village elders, women’s self-help groups, and respected community members to reinforce the message. “Out of fear of the law, most parents agree to postpone the marriage until their children are legally adults,” said Rohit Khillo (18), a former child club member now working as a youth volunteer.When families need more than persuasion, the teenagers connect them to government schemes, scholarships, skill development programs, or livelihood support with guidance from SOVA. If all else fails, cases are escalated legally, through Childline (1098) or the District Child Protection Unit and Child Welfare Committee. According to SOVA’s monitoring records, around 60% of cases are resolved through direct counselling by the teenagers, 20% at the VLCPC or community engagement stage, and the remaining 20% require intervention from Childline or legal authorities.Club members discuss the child marriage concerns with anganwadi didis (Photo - Prativa Ghosh, 101Reporters)ChallengesChallenges are never far away. The teenagers face resistance from families, logistical hurdles in reaching remote households, and the emotional strain of intervening in sensitive situations. “Sometimes parents get angry and tell us we’re too young to understand their problems,” said Jani. “We’ve learned to be patient, to listen first, and to come back with solutions, not just criticism.”The Child Club’s most defining moment came when traditional methods weren’t enough. During a monthly meeting, members discovered that a minor girl from their village had been missing for several days. After visiting her parents and conducting inquiries, they learned she had eloped with a young man from Lauriguda and had been secretly married at a relative’s house. “We refused to accept this as inevitable,” Jani said. The teenagers gathered evidence and presented it to the Village Level Child Protection Committee, which escalated the matter to the District Child Protection Unit and Child Welfare Committee. Within two days, the boy was arrested and later sentenced to ten years in prison, the first time in the region that children had successfully used the legal system to defend a peer.“The district administration appreciated our work, and the news spread to neighbouring areas. It motivated us tremendously,” said Sabita Paik (17). Village elder Hema Jani said, “Earlier, we thought early marriage protected our girls. Even Udulia and Jhikka [traditional systems for forced marriage] were part of our culture. But when the children showed us the reality through their maps and stories, we understood we were actually harming them. Now we use religious gatherings to advocate for girls’ education.”The results have shown a shift. Where 12-15 child marriages once occurred annually in each village, not a single child marriage has been reported across the 35-village cluster in the past two years. The child clubs have federated at the panchayat level, organising campaigns, puppet shows, narrowcasting sessions, and peer-to-peer education, with participation from PRI members and tribal leaders. “We’ve had to call Childline only four times in the past two years,” said Sabita. “It’s always our last option because we prefer to solve things within the community.” Sarpanch Daita Khosla added, “These children know every family’s situation better than we do. When they bring a case to the panchayat, we take it seriously. They’ve stopped marriages that even we didn’t know were being planned.”The Pradhan family’s story illustrates the teenagers’ impact. In early 2023, financial distress led them to consider marrying off their 16-year-old daughter, Sita. “The Child Club members visited us repeatedly,” said Sita’s mother, Kamala Pradhan. “They helped us access a self-help group loan, got Sita enrolled in a skill development program, and showed us how her education could improve our family’s future. Today, Sita is preparing for her Class 12 exams.”The teenagers have documented similar transformations in 89 households, where families have shifted from viewing education as a luxury to seeing it as essential for their daughters’ futures. Their model is now being replicated across the Koraput district, with 127 villages expressing interest in creating child-led tracking systems. The Odisha government has officially recognised the approach, and discussions are underway to integrate it into the state’s child protection framework.The impact extends beyond preventing child marriages. School enrollment in Salmanguda has increased by 34% since 2021, with girls’ enrollment jumping by 52%. Records show that 78 girls who would have been married are now in school, with 23 planning to pursue higher education. “We’ve changed how our community thinks about childhood,” said 18-year-old Rohit Khillo. “Parents now consult us before making decisions about their children’s education. We’ve become part of the village’s decision-making structure.”The tracking system has also identified and addressed 31 cases of child labour and eight cases of children at risk of trafficking, demonstrating its wider potential for community-led child protection. Yet challenges remain. The teenagers continue to face limited resources, resistance from some traditional families, and the emotional burden of handling complex cases. They have also noted gaps in reaching the most marginalised households.Cover photo - Child club members are doing the mapping exercise (Photo - Prativa Ghosh, 101Reporters)

Turning a new leaf, these Odisha women make eco-friendly practices a habit

They make siali and sal leaf plates and bowls, besides enforcing the ban on single-use plastic in their villages located in Nayagarh district Nayagarh, Odisha: Men and women sit cross-legged on the ground enjoying a scrumptious meal of rice, dal (lentil) and chicken on a sultry afternoon at Sanakameti in Bhogabadi panchayat of Odisha’s Nayagarh district. A quaint charm abounds the whole affair — the trees with wide canopies, the orderly assemblage of people under them, and the feast served in siali (Bauhinia vahlii) and sal (Shorea robusta) leaf plates.Sanakameti is aware of plastic menace to such an extent that even drinking water is served in leaf bowls for events here. If bowls are not available in enough numbers, residents carry steel glasses to the functions. Undoubtedly, community participation is at the core of this sustainable lifestyle.  This transformation did not occur overnight. Following COVID-19 pandemic, the villagers began to rely more on the local forest for siali and sal leaves. This caught the attention of Vasundhara, a non-governmental organisation (NGO) advocating for the rights and livelihoods of forest dwellers.In August 2021, the state government declared that all picnic spots should be plastic-free. "We were overjoyed and hopeful for our income," exclaims Monorama Gauda (33), a resident. However, the real change came about only in June 2022 when Vasundhara's field staff interacted with the women members of Sanakameti's producer group, Banabhumi, to explore the potential of selling sal and siali leaf plates. With the district administration’s support, a strict order was issued to make the local picnic spot, Kuanria Dam, plastic-free. Visitors were encouraged to use leaf plates and bowls made by the local women. “When plastic ban came about in the dam area, the members of Banabhumi Mahila Utpadaka Gosthi petitioned local authorities, including the sarpanch, block development officer, tehsildar, welfare extension officer, irrigation officer and sub-inspector, and got approval to use biodegradable leaf plates in the picnic spot,” says Pramila Behera (45), a gram sabha member of Sanakameti in Dasapalla block.For over one-and-a-half years, prohibition of single-use plastic has been in place at Sanakameti. In February last year, a gram sabha meeting decided to embrace this initiative fully, especially as loss of livestock due to suspected ingestion of plastic was increasing in the village. Inspired by Sanakameti's efforts, Kanipadar in Kalasakhaman panchayat and Bijataila in Kujamendhi panchayat followed suit. Sanakameti and Bijataila are located 15 km apart, while Kanipadar is 40 km away. However, all three villages are united in their shared commitment to sustainability. “Nine domestic animals died in our village in a span of two years. Although the exact reason was not known, we suspect polythene ingestion,” claims Tilottama Bhoi (42) of Bijataila.Tapaswini Bhoi (45) of the same village says she lost four goats to polythene munching in 2022. “Like every other day, the goats had gone to the field near my village to graze. When they got back, they were suffocating. Upon consulting a veterinarian, we learnt that they have ingested polythene. We could not save them,” she says dejectedly.“Before the plastic-free initiative, residents used to carelessly discard plastic waste within the village premises and grazing fields,” notes Baniprava Nayak (42), a member of Sanakameti gram sabha. “Once we recognised the issue, we began to convene a village-level meeting every two months to discuss the challenges posed by single-use plastic and devise strategies to reduce its impact," says Lambodara Behere (36), a member of the Sanakameti plastic-free campaign.  Villagers sit cross-legged enjoying a meal (Photo - Prativa Ghosh, 101Reporters)A positive coincidenceAround the same time when the villagers’ reliance on forest resources were increasing came the positive outcome in connection with their community forest resource (CFR) rights. “Since the early 1990s, the residents have diligently protected their village forests, yet they remained unaware of their legal rights on them. It was not until 2010, when NGO Vasundhara began its work in Nayagarh district, that the path towards empowerment was illuminated. We initiated a grassroots movement mobilising the residents to fight for their forest rights,” Vasundhara’s Forest Rights Act (FRA) team member Nilamani Mohapatra (42) tells 101Reporters.A pivotal moment arrived in 2012 with the FRA amendment, which paved the way for the formation of regional forest committees and forest protection unions in small villages. However, lack of financial resources hindered the villagers' ability to effectively protect and manage their forests. Consequently, the once-thriving woodlands fell prey to encroachments.Vasundhara restarted its efforts in 2018, joining forces with local NGOs Brukhya o Jibara Bandhu Parishada, Nirman, and Mahila Jibika Surakhya Mancha. Together, they filed claim forms for CFR rights in Dasapalla and Nuagaon blocks, igniting a process fraught with bureaucratic hurdles.Initially, the forest department refused to cooperate in the joint verification process, but the collective perseverance of the villagers, supported by the revenue department and the district magistrate (Collector), prevailed. After a thorough verification process involving local rangers and foresters, the forest department finally recognised the community's rights on January 8, 2022, marking a historic victory for the villagers of Sanakameti and Kanipadar. Bijitaila has filed for CFR and is awaiting its approval.Avanti Behera (33), a gram sabha member and secretary of Banabhumi group, reflects on the transformative journey they have undergone. "Before 2022, we did not have control over our forests. Whenever we went to gather food and leaves from the forest, we moved in constant fear of the forest department. They would demand to see our voter IDs. They would ask for transit permits [to transport forest produce from the forest to places outside] if we were into selling sal and siali leaves to the local traders.""We now legally own the forest. Earlier, we could not sell sal and siali products in large quantities as the forest department demanded transit permits. When local traders bought from us, they struggled to pay us fairly," shares Gijantajali Behera (28) of Sanakameti.Each village has designated forest areas within its traditional boundaries, which the community members protect and manage. Ipsita Behera (29), the field coordinator for Dasapalla of NGO Vasundhara, tells 101Reporters that the community forest resource management committees have been guarding forests using thenga pali system after getting CFR rights. Awareness programme for plastic free village (Photo - Prativa Ghosh, 101Reporters)The common goalsBanabhumi was formed in May 2022, pioneering the producer group movement in the area. Banalata producer group became operational at Bijataila on September 19, 2022, and Banasivani  at Kanipadar on May 8 last year.It is not just business that matters for these women, their social commitment is a notch up. Sanakameti gram sabha has unanimously decided to impose a strict penalty of Rs 1,000 on anyone found violating the single-use plastic prohibition rule. Banabhumi group has been entrusted with its implementation and monitoring.  All three villages have adopted a comprehensive set of guidelines to promote eco-friendly practices. Single-use plastic products are barred in the village premises. Each household has been provided with separate dustbins for organic and plastic waste.In February last year, Rs 2.5 lakh from the Kalasakhaman panchayat development fund was utilised to construct a solid waste management facility. Its primary objective is to collect and segregate solid waste, process organic matter into compost and utilise plastic waste for landfill purposes.Women pluck sal leaves from the forest and bring them back (Photo - Prativa Ghosh, 101Reporters)Women in businessWith the assistance from Vasundhara, Banabhumi established a small-scale leaf plate production unit in September 2022. Three specialised machines — one for hydraulic pressing and two for stitching  — for processing sal/siali leaves were procured at a total cost of Rs 1 lakh. The Ford Foundation Project undertaken by Vasundhara facilitated the funds. Women from all three producer groups use the machine installed at Sanakameti.People in these villages belong to Scheduled Tribe Kandha, Scheduled Caste Gouda and Behera and other traditional forest-dwelling communities. The women traditionally gather and sell minor forest produce such as sal/siali leaf, herbs, fruits and seasonal mushrooms at the local market. Men take up agriculture in forestlands. Some migrate seasonally for work.Before Vasundhara's intervention, sal leaves were primarily used for household purposes and as gifts for relatives. Occasionally, the villagers would sell siali leaves to local businessmen who visited the villages, but at meagre prices. "We could only fetch Rs 30 for every 100 sal leaf plates sold,” recalls Sarojini Behera (29).After completing their household chores, the women venture into the forests, typically collecting the leaves from 6 am to 9 am during the summer months and 10 am to 3 pm in the winter months. They make these trips twice a week. “A woman can gather up to 4,000 good quality, mature leaves in a day and make a maximum of 200 sal/siali leaf plates,” says Bisakha Behera (39), a member of Banabhumi group. If the machine is used, a woman can press up to 240 plates daily.Due to their engagement in other works, the women’s group dedicates only about an hour per day for the leaf plate-making. The process involves stitching of sal/siali leaves into the desired plate shape either by hand or machine as per the buyers' preference, followed by manual hydraulic pressing. Generally, the finished pressed plates could fetch them Rs 45 per 100 piece in the market.  Machine-made plate involves assembling two hand stitched plates together. For pressing, it cost Rs 15 per 100 plates. Grading, packaging and transportation costs Rs 5 each.   "Due to our family's insufficient income, I had to abandon studies in 2018. However, the additional income generated by my mother Biroja Behera through leaf plates has opened new doors for me," beams Debjani Behera (25), a student from Sanakameti who enrolled for higher secondary education at Brundaban Subudhi Mahabidyalaya, Dasapalla, last year. NGO Vasundhara has forged strategic partnerships with major traders in Andhra Pradesh and Chhattisgarh, and in local markets such as Bhubaneswar, Puri and Cuttack, facilitating the sale of sal/siali leaf plates and bowls, sal seed, mango kernel and other minor forest produce. Following Vasundhara's intervention, the traders in Andhra Pradesh have agreed to pay Rs 89 per 100 pieces of leaf plate, while local traders have promised Rs 90. Edited by Rekha PulinnoliCover Photo - Women with their hand stitched leaf plate (Photo - Prativa Ghosh, 101Reporters)

Healers grow 100 rare medicinal plants in Odisha's Mali hills to treat patients from 45 villages

Tribals in villages surrounding the hills in Odisha’s Koraput district see jadibuti as the only cure for ailments, be it a minor skin infection or a major condition like paralysisKoraput, Odisha: Malyavant or Mali hill range is everything for the people of the 45 picturesque villages nestled in it. The hills, belonging to Odisha’s forest department, are the provider of herbal medicines in the villages located just five km from Semiliguda town in Koraput district.  From minor skin infections to heart diseases, neurological disorders, high blood pressure and paralysis, jadibuti (herbs) from the hills are traditionally seen as the perfect cure. Taking this idea forward, 10 disharis (traditional healers) jointly started the Sri Gupteshwar Herbal Medicine and Traditional Technology Research Institute in the year 2000. “We are not qualified doctors. My elder brother and mother also work as disharis. My grandfather's father was a dishari in the court of Maharajah Vikram Dev of Jeypore Kingdom. We have come this far by practising the knowledge that our forefathers passed on to us… This facility will ensure that the traditional knowledge we possess will not fade away once we are gone,” Sri Gupteshwar institute’s director Hari Pangi (52) tells 101Reporters.The disharis collect herbs from Iswaramali, Deomali and Hatimali that form part of the Mali hill range. They turn tree branches, leaves, roots and flowers into valuable medicines. Some are dried at a specific temperature and stored away.Kishore Hantal (46) says jadibuti collection starts at a particular season and time. "We call it amrit bela. Most of the herbs and plants are collected in the monsoon season (early June to early October), whereas some specific tubers and shrubs are collected before the fire season (February to May). We worship our tribal deity and pray for the good health of all villagers before setting out to find jadibuti in the morning or evening on a fixed day, as per Sushruta's chikitsa sastra,” says the dishari, who claims there are many secret treatments that cannot be publicised.(Above) The disharis collect herbs from the Mali hill range. They turn tree branches, leaves, roots and flowers into valuable medicines (Below) The cave where Maa Pakulidebi (the Earth Goddess) is belived to reside in Mali (Photos - Prativa Ghosh, 101Reporters) Ramani Ranjan Mahapatra of Kakarigumma personally attests the efficacy of the herbal treatment. "I suffered from Guillain-Barré Syndrome for many years. My condition gradually got worse and I reached the stage of partial paralysis. As medical treatment at hospitals in Cuttack, Bhubaneswar and Visakhapatnam did not help, I came to Gupteswar healing centre. After six months of regular treatment, I feel fully healthy.”Raghunath Bhumia of Maliguda says he prefers herbal medications for arthritis because they “have no side-effects and come cheap”. His doctor had advised a surgery that would cost him Rs 35,000. As he was not in a position to spend that much, he did not opt for it. A few months later, he contacted Pangi, who promised a cure for his three-year-old condition. “I kept coming to the centre and took medicines hoping for a cure. In fact, I am feeling good now!”Semiliguda native Tarulata Paraja strongly believes in Mother Nature and her abilities. “All tribal people first trust their traditional knowledge and practitioners. I believe in the same thing and encourage others to follow suit. Moreover, herbal medicines are inexpensive,” Paraja tells 101Reporters.Patients at the healing centre come for seeking treatments for minor skin infections to heart diseases, neurological disorders, high blood pressure and paralysis (Photos - Prativa Ghosh, 101Reporters)Losing plant diversity"Previously, around 80% of our requirement of herbs was met by these hills. Kasturi haladi, nilakantha kedar, jingiberi, gunjrimali, deosandha, bhumipal, kiktas lemon and penu karla are some of the local varieties that have disappeared due to climate change, illegal felling and mining. Therefore, we have to depend on various hills in nearby Rayagada and Malkangiri districts, and also Shunki hills on the Odisha-Andhra Pradesh border," says Kalpanga-based Dishari Singru Hantal.He claims the institute has treated cases of diabetes, appendicitis, sickle cell disease, heart disease, neurological disorders, paralysis, oral cancer, osteoporosis and sinusitis. “More than 20,000 people consult us every year,” he adds."Most of the trees with medicinal properties have disappeared from the Mali hills only in the last 20 years. Unsustainable harvest practices are the main reason," says Kartik Lenka, senior scientist, MS Swaminathan Research Foundation (MSSRF).Sri Gupteswar Herbal Medicine and Traditional Technology Research Centre (Photo- Prativa Ghosh; 101Reporters)Lenka blames disharis of tweaking time-tested harvesting practices. “Earlier, fruits, flowers and roots were collected at a specific time and season. However, it is done in an unskilled manner now, harming the trees in the long run. For example, removing the bark and leaves in dry months gradually kills the trees,” he says.In some cases, after the unseasonal harvest, roots, leaves and tubers are exported to Andhra Pradesh or Chhattisgarh. Though there are strict rules under the Biological Diversity Act, 2002 (Section 41(3), Chapter X), Lenka alleges that the forest department is not interested in implementing them properly.Learning curveDambarudhara Tading proudly claims that he and other disharis have managed to preserve around 100 rare varieties of medicinal plants in the four acres of land that the forest department donated to the community. They have not got any other incentive from the government so far.“We also provide free training to young healers who are enthusiastic about this profession. Even researchers from the MSSRF, Koraput Central University, Odisha Biodiversity Board, ayurveda colleges, State Medicinal Plants Board and the National Innovation Foundation come here for training. Researchers learn the ropes from us, but do not give us any credit when publishing their findings. So, we now hesitate to speak to or teach them in-depth.”For the protection and conservation of medicinal plant resources and the associated traditional knowledge, it is critical to document the locally available resources by registering them under the Peoples' Biodiversity Register at the respective gram panchayat, block, district, or urban level.In case they need to bring about any changes in their practice, the healers sit together and reach an agreement on it.The cover image is of traditional medicines at the Sri Gupteswar Herbal Medicine and Traditional Technology Research Centre (Clicked by Prativa Ghosh, 101Reporters)Edited by Rekha Pulinnoli

Odisha’s seed fest brings back 60 indigenous crops from the brink

Spearheaded by women, Burlang Festival of the Kutia Kondhs ensures everyone in the community has access to all indigenous crops, protects the region’s age-old dietary practices and promotes harmony in villagesKoraput, Odisha: The November chill belies the festive fervour in scenic Deogarh village in Odisha’s Kandhamal district. Draped in colourful sarees, a group of boisterous women from surrounding villages makes its way to the venue of the Burlang Festival. On their heads are the hand-painted burlangs (earthen/bamboo seed pots) that form the core of this festival of the Kutia Kondh community.Once at the venue, the pots are placed on a mud platform embellished with traditional motifs. Apart from the main task of exchanging seeds, the event witnesses talks on agriculture, sharing of experiences, and felicitations of farmers. It also has its set of simple pleasures. The women dance together in a wave-like movement, placing hands on each other’s shoulders, besides indulging in celebratory feasts and tuning into tribal music.A practice that fostered the community spirit and enabled sustainable integrated agriculture, Burlang Festival has helped the Kutia Kondhs of Tumudibandha tehsil save 60 indigenous seed varieties of mung, kandula, masang, kuling, kaladhan, kating, dangarrani, kangu, bazra and jower, edible roots, and locally grown herbs and spices, according to Odisha Millet Mission block coordinator Soumya Ranjan.“Sakara and dhulila mint species have also been identified as traditional crops of the tribal people of Kandhamal, though they supposedly belong to the Himalayan belt,” said Bikash Rath, a researcher and technical advisor to NIRMAN, an NGO that has been holding the Burlang Festival since 2013, after noticing that several traditional seeds in the region were disappearing.The festival, locally known as burlang jatra, began when a jaani (a women priest) noticed the severe seed shortage in the community and decided to find a solution. “Community leaders jaani, maji and bejan announce the timing of the festival. They believe the jatra would make the community realise the importance of indigenous seeds, besides overcoming the deficit through seed sharing... We celebrate three festivals: maria and anka are to please dharanipenu (the gods of nature) during times of climate crisis, while burlang jatra is held in times of seed deficit,” explained Kumuli Majhi, a young Kutia Kondh woman. The Burlang Festival has been held annually since 2013 to help the community realise the importance of indigenous seeds, besides overcoming the deficit through seed sharing (Photo courtesy of Bikash Rath/101Reporters)Traditionally, the jatra was organised every three or four years. But after NIRMAN’s intervention, it became an annual affair. The festival is organised in a different village each time, with a majority of the families in five participant gram panchayats getting involved in it. Seed exchange is voluntary in nature, and there is no barter system or seed bank facility. Though most of the attendees in the seed exchange event are women, men also accompany them for the celebrations. Sharing is caringThe Kutia Kondhs cultivate lands on dongars (hills), located far away from villages. They build earthen cottages near to these fields' crops during the harvest season. Millets, maize, pulses, sorghum, oil seeds, vegetables as well as herbs and spices are their prominent crops. Months before the festival, the mature seeds of beans, pumpkin, onion, garlic, ginger, yam and other vegetables are collected, dried and stored away for the next year. “Since high-quality seeds are essential for a good harvest, we preserve them in burlangs,” said Rukmani Nayak of Deogada in Kandhamal district.Kuni Majhi of Dupi village claimed the Kutia Adivasi women possessed in-depth traditional knowledge on harvesting, seed collection and preservation, and took an effort to pass it onto the next generation. According to Sita Majhi (60) of Rangaparu, seeds are tied up using bamboo strips and stored in specially-built mud houses that do not allow direct sunlight. Dark soil is used to build these houses, and a special mixture made from cow dung, ash and mud is prepared to polish them. This keeps out rodents and insects.The seeds are tied up using bamboo strips and stored in specially-built, pest-resistant mud houses that do not allow direct sunlight (Photo courtesy of Bikash Rath/101Reporters)Tilottama Majhi (23) of Dupi started collecting and sharing seeds after learning about them from her elders. She said they prefer to consume what they grow rather than what they get at the PDS (public distribution system) shops. According to her, the villagers claim it only to sell in the market for cash.Pointing out that seed sharing was an integral part of biodiverse farming, Ranjita Digar, a farmer from Birunga, said, “It enables us to grow our own food. The production of millets and other indigenous grains is part of the Kutia Kondh identity. Notwithstanding this, millet production has come down in recent years causing a shift in traditional dietary practices.” This very fact upholds the significance of the Burlang Festival.Promoting indigenous cropsWhen NIRMAN conducted an agricultural survey in 2011, it found that several indigenous crops had disappeared due to hybrid agricultural practices. The younger generation also associated their traditional diets with poverty and backwardness, which led to the exclusion of staples like millets from their food baskets. On the other hand, farmers stopped cultivating small grains due to lack of a steady market and procurement system. “Realising these issues, we decided to first focus on Dupi village to preserve traditional crops and knowledge practices for the future generation,” said NIRMAN executive director Prasant Mohanty.According to Dr Debashis Jena, a senior scientist at Cuttack Krishi Vigyan Kendra, hybrid seeds introduced during the Green Revolution were less drought and flood-resistant. They needed efficient management of water, fertilisers, insecticides and pesticides. With rainfall becoming erratic and weather patterns changing over the last few decades, production also dropped.As crop loss began to haunt farmers despite investing in fertilisers, pesticides and labour, elderly and tribal farmers gradually began to avoid hybrid seeds and returned to traditional farming practices and seeds which had the potential to be climate-smart, genetically diverse and sustainable.The festival is reviving not only several indigenous crops had disappeared over the years but is also encouraging farmers to switch back to traditional agriculture practices (Photo courtesy of Bikash Rath/101Reporters)They are already seeing the benefits of switching back to traditional ways. As they use only cow dung for manure, their crops earn better prices under the organic produce category. There is a huge demand for their products in Pallishree and Adivasi Melas held in the State.Sushree Mohanty, an anthropologist at the Kalinga Institute of Social Sciences, said the men in Kutia Kondh community did all the heavy work, including irrigation of farms to the actual cultivation process. The women, on the other hand, were engaged in skilful work, including preservation of seeds. NIRMAN programme officer Sigma Dan said women in the community have become conservationists of their knowledge systems, food, nutrition and health. They play a central role in all aspects of community life, from farming, to processing, to decision-making.   On why seed sharing was important, Soumya Ranjan said, “Kandhamal district is a hilly terrain and does not have much plain land. Hence, the tribal people convert hilltops into farmlands… However, not everyone can cultivate all kinds of crops and so they uphold the practice of seed exchange.”  Cover photo courtesy of Bikash Rath, NIRMANEdited by Rashmi Guha RayThis article is a part of 101Reporters' series The Promise Of Commons. In this series, we explore how judicious management of shared public resources can help the ecosystem as well as the communities inhabiting it.

Koraput tribal women rise above the rest, save traditional rice variety from extinction

Kala Jeera rice cultivation and its marketing through an e-commerce platform bring better income and social status to women farmers, while also ensuring storage of good quality seeds for future needsKoraput, Odisha: Odisha’s near-extinct Kala Jeera rice is making a comeback, thanks to the tribal women who are cultivating and marketing it to the outside world from Machhara village in Koraput district with the help of MS Swaminathan Research Foundation (MSSRF), Jeypore, and Odisha Rural Development and Marketing Society (ORMAS). A traditional variety with a distinct aroma and nutty taste, Kala Jeera rice grains resemble cumin seeds. It has medicinal properties that help increase haemoglobin levels.Researchers at the MSSRF trained the villagers of Koraput district to enhance productivity of Kala Jeera, an indigenous rice variety (Photo: Prativa Ghosh)Researchers had warned that Kala Jeera rice would gradually vanish in 12 years, but the village women brought about the much-needed change. In fact, Kala Jeera seeds sowed by them also reaped them the fruits of financial freedom.Eight years on, over 100 women farmers in Machhara and nearby villages are now involved in Kala Jeera rice production. They have formed a collective — Sabari Producer Group — which not only cultivates the rice, but also collects, processes, brands and sells it on e-commerce platform Amazon.Apart from Machhara, the group purchases Kala Jeera from farmers in over 10 nearby villages, including Mandia, Bajra, Suan, Dangarrani, Sukriguda, Bodapadar, Podeiguda and Mendhaguda.Koraput is a part of the poverty-stricken Kalahandi-Balangir-Koraput (KPK) region, where farmers cultivated mandi, kangu, suan and some rice for their basic needs (Photo: Prativa Ghosh)“Most people in our village belong to Poraja, Godaba and Bhumiyan communities. Traditionally, we cultivate rice to feed our families. We also worked under the MGNREGA scheme. Even then, we could barely manage to keep ourselves alive,” Machhara-based Chitta Chendia, who now has three acres under Kala Jeera rice cultivation, tells 101Reporters.She says adopting Kala Jeera variety has enhanced her source of income as it is priced at Rs 25 to 30 per kg in the market against the Rs 15 of a basic paddy variety. “If you cultivate basic paddy on three acres, you get Rs 50,000 to 70,000 per harvest cycle (once in a year); for Kala Jeera rice covering the same area, you get around Rs 2 lakh per cycle,” she elaborates, adding how she earns enough to send children to school now.From sowing seeds to packaging the rice, involves a community of over 200 women from rural parts of Koraput, Odisha (Photo: Prativa Ghosh)According to Daimati Chendy, not everyone was involved in farming Kala Jeera initially. But on realising the demand for the product in Amazon, many women joined the initiative. From just 30, the number of cultivators has grown to over 100 in the last eight years. “Even landless women now take up cultivation in plots on lease,” Chendy says.Sita Jani of Machhara expanded her Kala Jeera cultivation by getting another plot on lease, apart from utilising her small piece of land. Seeds are available easily and at affordable prices, and there is no struggle to sell the produce either, she says.“Due to our successful enterprise, the women of our village are seen differently now. We got opportunities to visit big cities and talk to people as equals. Even men respect us more and want to help us so that we can bring in more money home,” says Haribola Sukia.Initial days of struggleThe traditional knowledge of tribal community was utilised to procure and increase the yield of Kala Jeera variety of rice (Photo: Prativa Ghosh)A special committee has been constituted to oversee the seed banks, used to store indigenous seeds of Kala Jeera rice (Photo: Prativa Ghosh)A senior scientist at Watershed Support Services and Activities Network (WASSAN), Sushant Choudhary remembers how difficult it was in the initial days of the project to convince farmers to cultivate Kala Jeera commercially.“Koraput is a part of the poverty-stricken Kalahandi-Balangir-Koraput (KPK) region, where women cultivated mandi, kangu, suan and some rice for their basic needs. Yet, they were finding it difficult to meet their daily food requirements,” says Choudhary, who has been working for Kala Jeera conservation since 2010.Seed conservation, genetic enhancement and gainful utilisation of limited resources demanded serious attention to make Kala Jeera appealing to the farmers. As a follow-up, the MSSRF team and some tribal farmers surveyed the plots under Kala Jeera cultivation and identified low yield as one of the major concerns. Non-availability of both quality seeds and financial support for cultivation was another key issue.Researchers had warned that Kala Jeera rice would gradually vanish in 12 years, but the village women brought about the much-needed change, which provided them financial freedom (Photo: Prativa Ghosh)The MSSRF also found that Kala Jeera farmers were vulnerable to exploitation by moneylenders as they could not repay loans due to poor returns from the crop. The MSSRF started training farmers to safely store seeds in village seed banks and exhorted them to sell only rice, not seeds.The ORMAS also supported women farmers in a big way. “We are working in Machhara, Kotpad, Borigumma and Kundra, all of which have one producer group each. Every year, we procure over 10 metric tonnes of Kala Jeera rice for supply, earning over Rs 14 lakh. This whole process employs around 200 women,” ORMAS Deputy Chief Executive Officer Roshan Kartik tells 101Reporters. Seed banks make a difference  “Nearly 57% of the total cropped area in Odisha is drought-prone. So, drought-tolerance in crops is crucial for maintaining a stable yield, especially in a rainfed ecosystem. Koraput district is drought-prone, which is why cultivating indigenous drought tolerant species like Kala Jeera rice benefits all,” say Kartik Lenka, an MSSRF senior scientist, and Debabrata Panda, assistant professor, Biodiversity and Conservation of Natural Resources Department, Koraput Central University, in a research paper.Due to a successful enterprise, women have also achieved a social status in their village (Photo: Prativa Ghosh)Traditional farming practices are employed in Kala Jeera cultivation, which is fully organic. “Instead of chemical fertilisers, we make organic manure using readily available components such as cow urine and leaves of neem, papaya and pomegranate, among others,” explains Jani.Additionally, the researchers at the MSSRF have trained the villagers of Koraput district to enhance productivity while staying true to traditional methods. “Using our traditional knowledge, we could grow three quintals of Kala Jeera rice in an acre. After training, we now harvest 10 to 15 quintals from the same land,” she says.According to Surajita Turuk, the MSSRF field officer and officer-in-charge of Machhara village, traditional fertilisers and seed purification method used by tribals for generations are the easiest ways to ensure organic farming. “We have branded them as Jibamruta and Bijamruta.”“Seeds for the seed bank are collected from relatives and surrounding villagers, and then distributed among beneficiary farmers. We have a special committee for the seed bank,” Haribola Pitia explains.Anyone who gets seeds from the bank has to return more seeds than they have taken. This is the rule, though it varies from village to village. “In Machhara, if someone takes 10 kg of seed, she has to return 12 to 13 kg. In Kundra, you have to return 14 kg for every 10 kg taken,” informs Pitia.Over 100 women have formed a collective — Sabari Producer Group — which not only cultivates the rice, but also collects, processes, brands and sells the rice on e-commerce platform Amazon (Photo: Prativa Ghosh)Before the sowing season, villagers get together to identify good quality seeds and decide on the quantity to be distributed in each area.They will also reach an understanding on how to collect the seeds back from the beneficiary.Due to these efforts, Koraput district today stands as a fine example of community participation for biodiversity conservation. Edited by Tanya ShrivastavaThe cover image is of women part of the Kala Jeera initiative in Koraput district, Odisha, captured by Prativa Ghosh.This article is a part of 101Reporters' series The Promise Of Commons. In this series, we explore how judicious management of shared public resources can help the ecosystem as well as the communities inhabiting it.

Wild yams provide health and wealth to Odisha tribals

The high nutritional and immunity-boosting qualities of tubers keep the vulnerable communities in Koraput in good health, while its cultivation improves both financial situation in hamlets and forest cover Koraput, Odisha: The humble wild yam is a staple of the tribal population of Odisha. The region is home to many yam varieties, including the famed jangali kanda, which provide nutrition and boost the immune system. Not to say, the seven particularly vulnerable tribal groups in Koraput survive on 122 types of wild trees, creepers, bushes, fruits and tubers!“The collection of wild yams is an age-old practice. All our forefathers did it,” says Trilochan Muduli of Bolyguda village in Koraput district. Muduli belongs to the Paroja community, a particularly vulnerable group. Harvesting and protecting all forest food sources are part of the traditional knowledge of many tribes here, among which yam stands out. Reason: its ability to provide both nutritional cushion and commercial benefits to the forest-dwelling communities.This boiled spud is often served with ragi gruel or rice. A popular recipe calls for cooking the chopped tubers with pulses, eggplant and onion, liberally seasoned with garlic, chilly, turmeric powder and salt. The yam also finds its way into traditional curries when prepared with hill gram, horse gram and bhodei. Sometimes, it is fashioned into a soup, called ambila, along with rice powder.The tribal women dig at a depth of three to four feet to collect wild yams from the forest (Photo: Prativa Ghosh)The tubers collected from the forest are also prized for their use in traditional medicines for treating arthritis, cold, fever, cough, menstrual disorders, and skin diseases. Shuaram Chalan, a traditional healer or dishari, has been practising for 40 years and learnt the trade from his father. He buys yam and many other forest products from tribal communities, in addition to cultivating wild yams on his land. A recent research by Dr Debabrata Panda at the Central University of Koraput brought the benefits of jangali kanda to the fore. “During the post-COVID-19 days, we studied the lifestyle and food patterns of tribal communities and found that despite having a vitamin deficiency, the population was not deficient in nutrients and minerals,” Dr Jayant Nayak of the Central University told 101Reporters.In the paper, Panda claims that wild yams could be the key to fill the nutrition gaps in Koraput tribals. As indicated by the research, yam (Dioscorea spp.) is recognised as the fourth most important tuber that plays a prime role in the food habits of forest-dwelling communities during periods of food scarcity. Twin effectEach family of the Gunji and Lenja villages of Boipariguda block collects wild yams from the forest on the hillock and sells it in the market. A family collects as much as 20 to 25 kg of yam in a month, saves some of it for personal consumption and sells the rest, earning between Rs 2,000 to Rs 3,000.To harvest the tuber, one has to dig at a depth of three to four feet. “The village women go into the forest to collect them. They know when is the best time to harvest and where exactly in the dense forest can they find high-quality yams,” Muduli says.Wild yams provide a nutritional cushion to the Koraput tribals in Odisha (Photo: Sourced by Prativa Ghosh)Tulshi Jani of Jhiaguda village says, “We consume it daily, and sell the surplus to disharis (traditional healers). Disharis from Similiguda, Lamtaput, Potangi, Kotpad and Kundra purchase yams from us at the rate of Rs 200 per kg. They collect up to 50 kg of the tuber in a month.” For most villagers, around 60% of their household income comes from yams.Usually, a group goes into the forest to get the yams, which are enough to provide for one hamlet or almost 10 families, who divide the produce among themselves. The distribution depends on the number of family members, and the purpose of collection — whether it is for personal consumption or sale.There is a market for Odisha’s yams in Chhattisgarh as well. Ghasi Harijan of Badamundipadar in Koraput supplies yams from the forest in Kundra, which lies on the border with the neighbouring state.“Medium-scale businessmen come to me for wild yams. I get them directly from the forest dwellers or buy them from the local market,” says Harijan, adding that he usually collects about 8 to 10 kg of yams from each tribal family per day and wraps them in bags for supply in Chhattisgarh.“From May-end to July-end, wild yams help me earn Rs 15,000 to 20,000 per month,” says Harijan.Returning the favourThe tribal population returns the favour that nature does by taking up forest conservation activities. Both men and women follow thengapalli (thenga means stick and palli means turn), where they patrol the forest area with a stick in hand and protect it from poachers and smugglers. In Maliguda and Pukulpada, locals have demarcated their forests from the neighbouring villages to have better control over conservation practices. Twelve years ago, Maliguda shared a large forest area with Kurkuti village, but it became difficult to govern the conservation activities. “We were on the verge of losing all green cover," explains Mangala Mali, president of Maliguda Vana Surakhya Samiti (VSS).The tribals of Koraput, Odisha are actively involved in the conservation practices to preserve their forests (Photo: Sourced by Prativa Ghosh)Alarmed by the situation, Maliguda residents collectively decided to demarcate their 60 acres of forest land. Every day, five to six villagers, along with two sevakars (helpers), keep a vigil in the forest. All the 85 families residing here pay in cash or kind — 15 kg of rice collectively per year — to the sevakars in return for their services."Since 2019, the forest department has been providing technical assistance in development projects such as tree planting, setting up ponds for rainwater harvesting, and marketing of our minor forest produce by the Tribal Development Co-operative Corporation," Mali says.Dibya Madhuri Sethy, Range Officer, Boipariguda, confirms Mali's statement. "We have been associated with the community since 2020. After the formation of the VSS, people are engaged in activities such as pineapple plantation, capacity building programmes by the Odisha Livelihood Mission, marketing of forest produce at Adivasi Mela, Pallishree Mela, Toshali, and the ORMAS (Odisha Rural Development and Marketing Society) Mela, to name a few."The department is considering granting land rights to the community under the Community Forest Rights category, she adds.A recent research by Dr Debabrata Panda at the Central University of Koraput brought the benefits of jangali kanda to the fore (Photo: Sourced by Prativa Ghosh)The tribal community has their own rules for forest protection, which are decided by the village committee. Padam Pradhani, a member of the Boliguda village committee, says, “Our village falls under the protected forest, and anything to do with the forest and its conservation, including the collection of minor produce, is controlled by the village committee. Nothing goes out without its permission.”Dr Kartik Charan Lenka, a senior scientist at the MS Swaminathan Research Foundation in Jeypore, Odisha, informs that a People’s Biodiversity Register and Biodiversity Management Committees have been created in Koraput, with the help of the Odisha Biodiversity Board. “The idea is to promote equitable sharing of benefits. Also, there is a need to create awareness among the forest community on the commercial aspects.” Any industry that extracts biological resources from the forest villages has to share a part of its revenue with the local community.Elaborating further, Lenka says that when the sale of yam begins on an industrial scale, the management committees would be empowered to negotiate with traders/corporations and regulate the harvest and supply, with the State Biodiversity Board playing the role of a middleman. The forest department would also have a role in granting permissions to find/expand cultivation sites.A family collects as much as 20 to 25 kg of yam in a month, saves some of it for personal consumption and sells the rest (Photo: Sourced by Prativa Ghosh)But harvesting is now happening at the individual level. And in this case, the traditional method of harvesting is sustainable in itself, Lenka says. The tribal farmers ensure that they do not over-harvest from one particular site and carefully cut the spud and leave behind the root and seed so that fresh yams can sprout when it rains. “The Biological Diversity Act, 2002, and the Forest Rights Act, 2006, have given formal recognition to the local communities’ knowledge of their biodiversity and their responsibility to protect and conserve the same,” says Dr Sweta Mishra of the Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes Research and Training Institute, while adding that many tubers and wild yams are on the International Union for Conservation of Nature’s Red List of Threatened Species.“Conservation and sustainable use of wild yams are essential for the optimal use of biodiversity and for meeting the present and future food and medicinal needs of the locals,” Mishra emphasises.Edited by Tanya ShrivastavaThis article is a part of a 101Reporters' series on The Promise Of Commons. In this series, we will explore how judicious management of shared public resources can help the ecosystem as well as the communities inhabiting it.The cover image is of Koraput locals buying wild yams from the tribals, captured by Prativa Ghosh.

Mayurbhanj’s tribal communities bind with the best, tie rakhis to trees

The annual Jungle Raksha Bandhan Utsav not only reinforces the link between tribal communities and forests, but also helps them claim forestland pattas under the FRAMayurbhanj, Odisha: Hundreds of acres of forestland in Mayurbhanj district of Odisha are safe today, thanks to the Jungle Raksha Bandhan Utsav organised annually by the tribal communities here. As part of the festival, they tie rakhis to the trees with a promise to protect them from illegal felling and forest fires.In the summer season, people actively participate in clearing dried branches and dead trees from as many as 750 village forests in 21 blocks of the district. They repeat the process every three or four days to keep forest fires at bay.“Be it celebrations or funerals, we need forest produce. However, we did not understand its importance until about three decades ago. At that time, timber mafias from West Bengal and Jharkhand ruled the roost here,” said Mohan Murmu (50), a village committee member of Hatimada in Suliapada block.According to him, the situation became so dire that they had to travel about 10km to access basic forest produce. Food scarcity was acute, forcing villagers to migrate to Kolkata and Midnapur in West Bengal. In those tumultuous days of 1992, some tribal families in Hatimada understood the importance of their village forest and formed several groups with around 10 people in each to offer full-time forest protection. This way, they managed to save 150 acres of forestland!Hatimada again set an example in 2004, when the tribal communities launched a unique tradition of tying rakhis to trees. Soon, the entire district followed suit. On the eve of the ritual, the priests officially invite the villagers, decked in traditional attire, to the celebrationsEvery year, preparations begin with a community meeting before Rakhi Purnima, presided by the Majhihadam or the Santhal head priest of Sajanti village, and Dehuri Nayak, another priest. A decision is made on budget allocation and other festival-related matters. In addition, rules to ensure forest protection and procure minor produce are laid out.  On the eve of parvan (ritual), the Majhihadam and Dehuri Nayak officially invite the villagers for the celebrations. Men and women join the parvan in traditional attires, and dance to the tune of madal and dhamsa.The Nayak takes mango leaf, sal leaf, honey, ghata, kalasi, jhuna and deepa to the forest and begins the rituals. As per the tribal tradition, the priest ends the prayer with a chant in Santhali language: "Johar bo goshain maranburu tehenja dinre ne tobe alele banga amkana ar amm sala tapal segei le dahayada abad dinge nankage amho alia dukh bujhani aleha amle rakhami" (Oh universe, today, on this auspicious day, we offer you prayers unitedly and commit to taking care of you. Please take care of us and bear all of our sorrows. Give us health, food and rain.)The long road to protection  Even though forest protection began in 1992, the road was not easy or safe for the villagers.“Timber mafias threatened us several times, but we did not give up on our forests,” said Rebati Hansda of Hatimada. As a result, the situation improved in a few years’ time. The sal trees started to grow again, and the canal near the village had water even in the dry months (April to June). It also helped irrigate the nearby lands in the kharif season.“Mayurbhanj is famous for the Similipal Biosphere Reserve. In 2004, we learnt the locals were protecting village forests, but not in a systematic way.  The participation of women was also very low,” said Bibekananda Pramanik, honorary wildlife warden, Mayurbhanj.The villagers and the forest department did not share a good relationship then. “Introducing a joint forest management programme was a difficult task. But after a series of meetings, it was decided that at least one man and woman would join the protection committees.”“The forests were geographically demarcated into clusters and villages close to a cluster became a part of that cluster. The protection committees gradually evolved into management committees that laid down the rules for accessing forest produce,” he said.(Above) The Gunfa stream which has been revived due to the forest conservation efforts, strengthened through traditions like tying rakhis to treesA green paradiseOnce a barren land, Hatimada is now known for its green cover. This became possible by the consistent efforts of 170 Santhal families residing here. Panmani Hembram, a local, said the families depend on forest produce for sustenance, be it the leaves of mahua, sal and tendu, or turmeric and mushrooms.“Santhals neither celebrate Raksha Bandhan nor have guardian deities. Our sacred land is the forest, and our Gods are animals and trees. We call this land jahira, where no one can enter,” Hembram explained.According to Hatimada’s Dehuri Nayak Khelaram Murmu, all tribals follow the decisions made by the village committee as laws. “In 2004, SPARDA, a local NGO, first came forward with the suggestion of tying rakhi to trees, but we refused. Later, we realised that it was like a sacred bond of promise to protect the forest. We then took it up wholeheartedly.”Neighbouring villages of Kankani, Dandiadiha, Kalajhori, Keutunimari and Santungadua have adopted the practice since then. “Multiple village forests have come together to form a mahasangha, through which we appeal to the government regarding land rights under the Forest Rights Act (FRA), 2006, and other associated rights,” Murmu said, adding that 38 people have received lands in the village under the FRA.Thanks to the extensive conservation efforts, Mayurbhanj district now has the distinction of accessing maximum forestland pattas/individual rights under the FRA, says Dr Sweta Mishra, a researcher on the FRA and tribal livelihoods.“So far, 52,820 people have received forest land pattas or individual rights over land under the FRA. About 69,023 people have submitted land rights claims under the FRA, of which 65,014 are tribals,” she added.Community members put on a dance to welcome the priests to the Jungle Rakhsabandhan Utsav The district committee has approved land pattas for 53,035 people, under which 14,288.15 hectares have been allotted, Mishra said. In addition, 717 gram sabhas have been given both community rights and community forest resource rights under the FRA, by which 1,51,413 hectares of land has been assigned.These rights allow gram sabhas to manage their own forests and gather forest produce. If sustained, these measures will go a long way in alleviating poverty, attaining development goals and achieving climate justice. Edited by Rashmi Guha Ray The cover image, captured by Prativa Ghosh, shows a tribal woman tying a rakhi to a treeThis article is a part of a 101Reporters' series on The Promise Of Commons. In this series, we will explore how judicious management of shared public resources can help the ecosystem as well as the communities inhabiting it.