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At 2,000 metres above sea level, even before the cowbells begin to ring at five in the morning, women in 40 villages around Darlaghat–41 kilometres from Shimla–are already on the move. They milk the cows, then climb the slopes to the nearest road to deliver the milk to an Amritdhara Milk Co-operative van.

This daily exchange in these hills is indicative of more than a routine, it is also a reflection of who earns, and how.

Women have always been a key part of agriculture, even if their labour has rarely been counted.

In Himachal Pradesh, women carry out nearly 80% of agricultural tasks, from sowing and harvesting to post-harvest and dairy work.

This has slowly been changing in Darlaghat.

Many of the women supplying milk today are earning an income for the first time. They trace this back to the introduction of the Pashu Sakhi programme in 2008, which trains women to provide basic veterinary care within their villages, including treating animals, improving feeding practices and preventing disease.

Over the years, as successive batches of women were trained and livestock health improved, milk production increased. A group of 28 of them then came together to set up Amritdhara in 2016, a farmer-producer organisation that collects and sells milk.

“But we were determined to work towards the betterment of our village. I could see that the panchayat wasn’t doing much in giving us facilities... As an educated person in these regions, with a Bachelor of Arts degree, I knew I had to do something,” she says.

Turning daily effort into income

The Pashu Sakhi programme was introduced in the region to train rural women engaged in livestock rearing as frontline animal-care workers, improving both animal health and women’s agency.

At the time, livestock care was both labour-intensive and often inefficient.

Women were responsible for most of the work such as feeding, cleaning and tending to the animals. In many villages, it was common to feed cattle every two hours, which meant repeatedly walking across hilly terrain to gather fodder, explains Daleep Kumar Sharma, a project coordinator with the Ambuja Foundation, which introduced the programme locally. Practices such as vaccination, deworming, proper shed ventilation and varied fodder were limited, leaving animals vulnerable to disease.

The model, training women as community-based para-veterinary workers, was first implemented here. It has since been adopted more widely under the Deendayal Antyodaya Yojana or National Rural Livelihoods Mission, which trains women to provide basic animal health services within their villages. These include checking animal health, vaccinating and deworming, maintaining hygiene, supporting breeding, facilitating artificial insemination, and referring more serious cases to government veterinarians.

The model itself emerged from earlier work in Rajasthan. In 1998, Sanjeev Kumar, who later founded The Goat Trust, was working with PRADAN (Professional Assistance for Development Action) among goat and dairy farmers when he observed that poor livestock health was a key constraint for small farmers, affecting both productivity and income. In 2008, PRADAN formalised the idea by training women to deliver doorstep preventive care and basic extension services.

The Goat Trust works with small and marginal farmers to build livelihoods around rearing livestock, with a focus on rural women.

Livestock and livelihoods

“We had started self-help groups in 2002, focusing on savings and credit,” says Daleep. “As we worked with women, helping them save Rs 20-Rs 30, we felt the need to support livelihoods as well.”

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“In a rainfed area, agriculture did not seem very feasible,” he explains. “Then we thought of dairy and it seemed to have good scope because every household had cattle. The problem was that people did not know what to feed, what kind of veterinary services their cattle needed or even much about breeds.”

“Even if they had 12 cows, they were hardly getting three litres of milk from each,” he adds.

The problem was further aggravated by a lack of access to veterinary care. “There is often only one hospital, sometimes 10 or sometimes 80 km away from the villages, and even then the doctor may not be available all the time. In an emergency, it could mean that the cattle would die,” Daleep says.

For households that barely earn Rs 12,000 a month, the loss of an animal, typically valued between Rs 50,000 and Rs 1 lakh, can be difficult to absorb.

For some, the shift was driven as much by necessity as by opportunity.

Amritdhara’s president Shanta Sharma, aged 49, from Koon village says that earlier her household was dependent on her daily-wage labourer husband who earned Rs 60 per day.

Nirmala Sharma, from Sera village, who joined the programme in 2009 says that her situation was so dire that she could not even afford to buy food.

“My kids were small and my husband was an alcoholic who was not interested in working at all,” she says. “We did not have enough land for farming…I was desperate to earn, so that I can feed my three school-going children.”

Before the training, she worked as a grass-chaff cutter, earning barely enough to buy grain for her family each day.

Crossing the threshold

Initially, stepping outside the confines of home was not easy. Nirmala’s husband and mother-in-law often opposed her decision to work.

Daleep recalls how difficult those early days were.

“In our monthly meetings, some women would come in crying,” he says. “Men sitting at crossroads would pass comments like, ‘Look at her, she has no fear or regard for her family’s reputation.’ When these women boarded the bus, people wouldn’t even offer them a seat.”

One such day, Kamla Verma, 70, from Kashlog village, arrived at a meeting visibly shaken. “Today they passed so many comments that even standing in the bus had become difficult,” she told them.

That same night, one of those men came knocking on her door. His buffalo was in distress, and neither a doctor nor a pharmacist was available. “The buffalo was pregnant and the calf was stuck. With folded hands, he asked for help.”

Kamla left immediately. Close to midnight, she set to work, rolling up her sleeves and guiding the calf into position. After nearly two and a half hours, both the buffalo and calf were saved.

The next morning, the same neighbour who had mocked her offered Rs 500 and a suit as shagun.

Four days later, when she passed the same crossroads, he stopped the others and said, ‘She saved my buffalo. Let us not pass comments.’”

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As perceptions began to shift, so did earnings, though slowly. Some, like Shanta, earned nothing for the first six months. Nirmala went without income for nearly two years.

“It was only when we started acquiring skills and proving ourselves through work that things changed,” adds Renu.

Take disbudding, a common procedure to prevent injuries from horned cattle. It involves applying local anaesthesia to a young calf (under three weeks) and cauterising the horn buds with a hot iron.

“Usually, a pharmacist charges Rs 150-200,” Renu says. “When women saw that a pashu swasthya sevika could do it for Rs 100, and that she was from their own village, they started preferring us.”

Today, women farmers rely on the pashu swasthya sevikas for a range of services: from deworming and artificial insemination to monitoring pregnancies.

Becoming an enterprise

In 2013, the Doodh Ganga Yojana, implemented through NABARD, sought to increase milk production by promoting improved breeds, scientific animal management and access to credit.

“Under the scheme, we experimented with Holstein Friesian breeds from Haryana and Punjab,” says Daleep. “But they could not survive in this climate. Doctors then advised crossbreeding through artificial insemination to preserve traits of both mountain and hybrid cows.”

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The pashu swasthya sevikas played a central role in this shift by introducing improved practices and supporting breeding. Milk yields rose over time, from two to five litres, and in some cases up to 10-15 litres a day, Shanta says.

With production increasing, a new issue cropped up: the management of surplus.

Initially, elders of the community resisted selling the surplus, since the trade of milk was considered to be a taboo. But as other regions under the scheme began supplying to local milk companies such as Kamdhenu and Super, mindsets began to change.

With support from the Ambuja Foundation and NABARD, the women organised themselves into a farmer-producer organisation. Amritdhara Milk Co-operative was established in 2017.

At first, Kamdhenu, the local dairy company, procured limited quantities. As supply grew, the women invested in a bulk milk cooler in December 2017, pooling their own resources, some even mortgaging jewellery, to raise funds. A pasteurisation unit followed. After difficult business dealings, Amritdhara decided to independently build a distribution network to supply milk to highway markets from Bilaspur to Darlaghat.

Today, 28 pashu sakhis run the cooperative, collecting milk from about 3,000 people across 32 villages and selling around 1,200 litres daily. The cooperative reports an annual turnover of Rs 1.17 crore. Their work has earned several recognitions, including the state-level Best Farmer Producer Organisation award in 2018–19 and the Significant Achievement Award for FPO in Cold Chain in 2021-22 from CII.

What changed and what remains

For Nirmala, the shift began at home. She took a loan to buy hybrid cattle and applied what she had learnt.

“There was a lot of pressure at home,” she says. “Everyday there were fights… Yet when I started working with other women, I felt I could do this. I was already taking care of cattle…I thought, why not turn it into an income?”

The work also changed how she saw herself. “How else could I have spoken to you earlier?” she says. “I used to feel inhibited. Now I can sit in front of villagers and speak freely.”

She has since been elected vice-president of her panchayat twice.

The work has also shifted the mindset within her household. Her husband Laikram Sharma, aged 51, began assisting her. “I would mention his name when I was praised,” she says. “People started calling him, Nirmala, the pashu sakhi’s husband…when his name was attached to mine, he would feel happy.”

This journey, however, was not without challenges. In the early years, many women were not paid for their services. “For the first two years, nobody paid me for vaccinating or deworming cattle,” Nirmala says.

In addition, training also required overcoming hesitation. “In a batch of 10, only two or three women would come forward to perform tasks,” explains Dr. Dev Raj Sharma, a veterinary officer who trained the sakhis. “There were many myths around animal care.”

“For instance, the villagers in the area believed that a cow that has just delivered should not be milked until the placenta is released from the body but we taught them that science does not support this…we experienced something similar while training on how to disbud the horns,” he adds.

While women have built strong skills in livestock management, newer challenges have emerged around marketing and scaling the business.

Shanta believes that they have passed the age where they can devote the time and effort to pursue the necessary education required to handle complicated veterinary tasks. She says, limited formal education shapes the kind of responsibilities they can take on as pashu swasthya sevikas. Most of them in the region are over 30 years of age.

“We are not qualified to do artificial insemination or post-mortem because we are not that educated; gaining that kind of experience will take years,” she adds. “Had I been younger, I might have studied further and been able to do artificial insemination. I have seen cases where the pharmacist arrives too late and the window is missed.”

During the Covid-19 pandemic, the cooperative continued to procure milk, ensuring a steady source of livelihood for member households. In villages with few other sources of income, it remained one of the only ways families could earn.

“Even during the time of the pandemic, we continued working in villages where families depended only on dairy,” says Renu. “We are not just a business…It was important for us to keep the milk collection going during a difficult time so that households which had no income except from dairy could also manage to earn something.”

“So now, whenever things seem difficult, I look back at how far we have come,” says Renu. “People in the village now say they want daughters-in-law like us. That only happened because we stepped out and learnt.”

This story is published as part of the Hands of Transition initiative, which connects communities leading the transformation of food systems in India. Officially launched in 2025, Hands of Transition brings design, storytelling, and ground-up action together to ensure that the people most affected by climate and food insecurity are also the ones shaping the solutions, as both messengers and drivers of change.

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India is the world’s second largest agricultural producer. Yet millions of tonnes of food is lost between the farm and the market.

In 2023, post-harvest losses in India amounted to 74 million tonnes– which is 22% of total foodgrain produced in the country and 10% of total output if we put together foodgrain and horticulture (fruits and vegetables) production in India in 2022-23. This is 8% of total global food waste.

A 2022 study by NABCONS, NABARD’s wholly-owned subsidiary providing expert consultancy in agriculture, rural development, and allied sectors like food processing and infrastructure, says that while grain and crop cultivation in the country rose by 23% between 2015 and 2022, post-harvest losses could only be reduced by 1%.

These losses occur after harvest because farmers do not have access to cold chains or other low-cost storage solutions to increase the longevity of their perishable produce.

In 2022 alone, post-harvest losses resulted in a wastage of about 5%-13% of fruits and vegetables and 3%-7% of other crops, leading to a financial drain of Rs 1.5 lakh crores, approximately 2.3% of the gross domestic product.

The small and medium farmers, with less than two hectares of land to cultivate, in remote villages – who form 86% of all farmers in India - cannot afford to store their produce in cold storages, which are expensive and made for bulk storage.

The cost of storing vegetables, such as potatoes, in a cold storage can range from Rs 250 per quintal to Rs 270 per quintal a month, depending on the location. The rent can go up to Rs 290-Rs 300 per quintal a month for sweet potatoes, tomatoes and other leafy vegetables that require strict temperature control.

And in practice, farmers are billed for a minimum of three months, even if they need space for just a couple of weeks. For many, this means paying around Rs 2,500-Rs3,000 a month, a price that often exceeds their sowing expense.

To address this gap, scientists at the Indian Agricultural Research Institute in New Delhi developed the Zero Energy Cool Chambers or ZECCs in 1983.

The institute tweaked the traditional mud-and-brick storage systems by turning them into double-walled chambers using the principle of evaporative cooling, Former Director of the Indian Agricultural Research Institute (IARI), Dr Ashok Kumar Singh says.

These double-walled brick structures are filled with sand or dry grass which are sprinkled with water to bring down their temperature. As the water evaporates, the temperature inside drops.

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Calling them “game-changing solutions”, the institute claimed they promoted ZECCs as a low-cost solution that can be installed and run without electricity. Even in areas where temperatures reach 45 degree Celsius, the IARI claims that ZECC maintains 27 degrees to 30 degrees Celsius.

“While they were demonstrated to be effective, and the government tried to popularise them many years later, I am not sure if they took off at a large scale among farmers,” Dr Ashok says.

On paper, the solution is well-suited for small and medium farmers but decades later, adoption remains negligible.

Why ZECCs failed to scale

India had 8,600 cold storage facilities with a capacity of 39.4 million metric tonnes, a 2024 study shows. Of these 70% were dedicated to storing potatoes over other fruits and vegetables. But most of them were outdated, with high energy demands that increased their operation costs which most often passed on to farmers.

In the last decade, the IARI encouraged farmers to build ZECCs on or near their farms to store fruits and vegetables for small durations.

But practical challenges, including limited awareness, resource scarcity, and structural design prevented them from adopting ZECCs at large scale.

Harinaam Singh Varma, a farmer leader based in Lucknow, Uttar Pradesh, said that he has not seen ZECCs in Central Uttar Pradesh.

“Had this been a profitable solution, I think we might have seen some ZECCs on the ground,” he says. “Today, farmers don’t rely on ‘jugaad’ [make-shift] solutions and prefer to either sell their products as soon as possible and if they can afford then opt for cold storage, rather than finding a low-cost low-electricity option.”

Nitya Sharma, Programme Manager at World Resources Institute (WRI), told UpBeat that she had heard from those at IARI and PUSA that the ZECCs hold potential for reducing post-harvest losses.

“The technology in itself is scientifically sound but practical challenges like making the structure with correct dimensions, availability of water, maintenance etc are factors that change the efficacy on ground,” she said.

She added that focused pilot testing under different on-ground conditions could help strengthen implementation.

Ajit Narvele, state secretary of the Akhil Bhartiya Kisan Mahasabha in Maharashtra says that farmers across his network in 23 districts have not heard of ZECCs as a viable option for cold storage of perishable produce.

He explains that farmers in the region prefer to sell their products in mandis instead of storing them which is why perhaps they did not seek out a storage solution. “Besides, perishables don’t have such a long shelf-life that they can be stored for more than one-two days.”

He says that potatoes and onions were the top two crops that needed to be stored before being taken to the mandi for sale. For these, farmers either prefer cold chains or a shed with exhaust fans and mesh.

For vegetables such as tomatoes, peas, cauliflowers, cabbages and other seasonal vegetables, farmers prefer to sell them as soon as they harvest them.

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New tech finds urban users instead

However, Subjee Cooler designed by RuKart, based on the enhanced evaporative cooling with a seven-layer membrane-based cooling system that uses three to four litres of water per day, has been adopted by some urban retailers and B2B commerce platforms. The company has sold around 3,000 units to retailers, farmer producer organisations and some farmers.

Different kinds of coolers vary in price depending on capacity, with smaller units starting from Rs 8,000 and customised passive reefer vehicles costing up to Rs 1 lakh.

Among its clients is Sahaja Samrudha Organics, a farmer producer organisation in Karnataka, which has used six units over four years to store leafy vegetables and beans overnight before dispatching them to local supermarkets.

Another user, Ratnjbabu Nagabhairava, who runs Aarogya Aahayam, a fresh-cut fruit and vegetable service in Guntur, Andhra Pradesh, said he stores fruits for up to four days in a 100-litre cooler. “There has been a considerable reduction in food waste,” he says.

Despite these examples, affordable and flexible storage options remain out of reach for many small farmers.

Behavioural pattern

Another reason for low adoption of ZECCs is the farmer’s behaviour.

Nihar Priyadarshi , Lead at the Samunnati Foundation – that works to improve farmer incomes by helping them build a market-focus approach by integrating trade, finance, and climate-smart interventions, says that ZECCs were tried out between 2015-2017 but did not scale because farmers are usually in a rush to sell their produce.

This is more the case for small land holders as income from one harvest cycle funds the next cultivation cycle.

Nihar says that farmers in India do not have a “business mindset” and they operate with the idea of selling the produce as soon as possible even if it means selling it for a loss.

He adds that many farmers practice seasonal monocropping, leading to oversupply of certain vegetables.

To reduce post-harvest losses, the Union government allocated Rs 63,559 crore under the Agriculture Infrastructure Fund in the 2020-2021 Budget to support pack-houses, silos and cold storage projects. The scheme includes 2,712 cold store projects.

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However, Nihar feels that if the government wants to help farmers it should encourage community cold storage solutions that allow short-term and flexible rentals instead of pushing outdated make-shift solutions.

Theory versus reality

Research papers, particularly from parts of the Northeast, suggest that crops such as potatoes can be stored in ZECCs for up to 90 days, allowing farmers to sell in the off-season at higher prices. But farmers in central India say such results are difficult to replicate.

Nihar says that the “experiments that proved to be successful in the North East might have been so because the climate allows the system to function well”.

“In states like Maharashtra where temperatures reach over 40°C in summers, the evaporation is much faster, making it a tedious task to keep the walls of the chamber moist,” he says. “Water scarcity in many areas makes this a water-intensive technique, not feasible for many.”

Krishnapal Singh Sisodiya, 35, from Kilona village in Madhya Pradesh’s Agar Malwa district, experimented with ZECCs after reading about them. “I first tried underground pit storage in 2013, but the potatoes went bad. Then I built a ZECC in 2015. After heavy losses, I gave up potato farming,” he says.

He adds that maintaining the structure required regular cleaning, watering and repairs. “Farmers do not have the time to maintain such set-ups. Most prefer cold storage if they can afford it.”

The size and water requirement of ZECCs also vary depending on the quantity stored and local weather conditions. One paper suggests that storing 100 kg of produce requires around 400 bricks in a structure measuring roughly 165 cm by 115 cm. However, estimates of daily water requirements remain unclear which is a practical uncertainty that further complicates adoption.

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Have you come across functional and effective zero energy, low cost storage solutions that can work for small farmers in rural India? Let us know.

It is hard to believe that India doesn’t yet have a low cost farm produce storage option. This is an immediate requirement given the increasing heat across the country in the summer months.

This story is published as part of the Hands of Transition initiative, which connects communities leading the transformation of food systems in India. Officially launched in 2025, Hands of Transition brings design, storytelling, and ground-up action together to ensure that the people most affected by climate and food insecurity are also the ones shaping the solutions, as both messengers and drivers of change.

UpBeat appreciates your feedback, comments, and engagement with our stories. Share your thoughts over our chat, notes or email.

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“Skod dang mimangs kun lay, rang yul bo sangra borin”

Come, let’s go to keep our environment clean, let’s keep our village clean.

This cheerful song is heard regularly on the streets of Leh. It plays from garbage trucks as they move through the Main Bazaar, lined with stone-paved streets, shops, cafes, and restaurants, frequented by locals and tourists alike. As the song loops, people emerge at shopfronts, bringing bags of waste for collection.

But for nearly three decades, much of Leh’s garbage had ended up at an informal dumpsite known as Bomb Garh, which locals say acquired its name back in the day when the Army had an ammunition depot there.

Spread across a valley between rugged mountains, near the Housing Colony neighbourhood, covering 20 acres of public and eight acres of private land, Bomb Garh was - until a couple of years ago - piled high with untreated waste. Hundreds of stray dogs roamed the site, and frequent fires sent smoke billowing into nearby residential areas home to around 18,000 people.

“When you came here, you had to walk over the trash. You could not even see the ground,” says Stanzin Tundup, who handles communications at the Ladakh Ecological Development Group (LEDeG), a local environment nonprofit, and has visually documented the site. He gestures at the land that is now finally visible.

Leh’s tall pile of waste

Before 1974, Leh generated little waste due to its isolation. Tourism changed that, bringing packaged food, tetra packs and PET bottles, explains Stanzin Rabgais, executive officer of the Municipal Committee, Leh.

And, the garbage generated by tourists has become a major and growing source of waste in the town.

While Leh’s population is about 1.3 lakh, the town receives tourists multiple times over its resident population every year - say, nearly three times the town’s population in 2024 and over double the number in 2025. Waste generation increases nearly fivefold in summer, which is also the tourist season – rising from 7 tonnes-8 tonnes per day in winter to 30 tonnes to 40 tonnes during the peak season, according to a 2023 study by LEDeG and the German nonprofit Bremen Overseas Research and Development Association (BORDA).

Although the Municipal Committee was established in 1963-64, Leh had no waste processing facility until 2020. For decades, waste was dumped openly at Bomb Garh, turning it into a site that was hard to ignore.

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Bomb Garh had to go

In 2019, the residents of the Housing Colony, who were the worst affected by the magnitude of Bomb Garh began their protest.

“In the mornings, we couldn’t breathe because of the smoke from the fires. The fire brigade had to come to douse the fires,” says Dechen Youdol, 41, an entrepreneur who lives nearby. She recalls an incident in 2022 where residents blocked a garbage truck from entering the site to dump more garbage.

Nudged by the increasing momentum of people’s protests, the local administration started to find ways of taking action.

The idea to clean up Bomb Garh took shape in December 2018, when Stanzin Tsephel, a director at LEDeG, proposed working on solid waste management in Leh. Discussions began between the Urban Local Bodies, LEDeG and BORDA. They decided to clean the legacy waste site first before creating a new management plan, says Asma Yousuf, project manager at LEDeG.

When Ladakh became a Union Territory in 2019, the government announced a special package and approved a “cleaning of legacy waste” scheme. “People were facing so many problems. It was the people’s pressure that was on the government,” says Asma. LEDeG became the municipality’s technical partner, and new stakeholders joined the project.

The legacy waste challenge

Leh’s experience is not unique.

Across urban India, nearly 2,500 legacy waste dumpsites cover more than 15,000 acres of land. Under the Indian government’s Swachh Bharat Mission 2.0, launched in 2021, cities are expected to eliminate such sites through scientific waste management.

So far, only four in every ten legacy dumpsites have been remediated.

Experts say one reason for the delay is intense competition among contractors who bid for these projects. To win contracts, companies often quote very low rates.

They then cut corners in the biomining process, which is a method that involves excavating old dumpsites, mechanically segregating waste, recovering reusable materials such as soil, plastic and metal, and stabilising or safely disposing of the remaining residue.

Compromises during the biomining process reduce the quality and value of the material recovered. As a result, projects become less financially viable, even as fresh waste continues to accumulate faster than old waste can be cleared, creating a repeating cycle.

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How Bomb Garh was cleared

Through a joint effort by LEDeG, the Municipal Committee of Leh and technical experts, the city remediated its legacy waste: decades-old municipal solid waste that had accumulated without treatment.

The process began in 2022 with an assessment of what lay beneath Bomb Garh. LEDeG quantified the waste by category: soil, stones, cloth, paper, food waste, plastic, glass and metal. The government then invited proposals from waste processing agencies to remediate the site. Pune-based solid waste management consultants, Gayatri Eco Consultants, was appointed for six months to conduct studies on the Bomb Garh site. They submitted a detailed project report that estimated 1.32 lakh cubic metres of waste and recommended biomining as the appropriate method.

While legacy waste remediation typically combines mechanical segregation with biological treatment using microorganisms to break down organic matter in the landfill, Leh’s approach was purely mechanical. According to Asma, the waste contained negligible organic content and did not require bio-enzymes. The government subsequently appointed PH Jadhav to carry out the cleanup using trommel machines.

Three trommel machines were installed to segregate waste by size, says Leh Municipality’s executive officer, Stanzin Rabgais. “Nearly half of the excavated material consisted of soil and stones,” he says.

Around 18 workers were engaged in the process. Eight of the workers operated excavators, since the process was largely mechanised.

Pradeep explains that trommel machines separate larger plastics but leave behind microplastics in the soil. “We must avoid the situation where we require trommeling in the first place,” he says, arguing for strict segregation at source to prevent mixed waste.

Finally, excavation and remediation work began in June 2022.

The geography of Leh adds a major constraint in this task. Sub-zero temperatures and heavy snowfall from November to March limit municipal work to roughly six months a year. Machinery had to be transported in parts and reassembled. A transformer and diesel generator were installed to power the site. Although the physical cleanup took about a year, the project spanned nearly two years in total, and went on until November 2023.

What is left behind

By November 2023, most of the legacy waste had been cleared, except Refuse Derived Fuel (RDF), a type of non-recyclable waste processed into fuel that can be used in cement kilns, waste-to-energy plants, and other industries (steel, iron, paper mills), either burned alone or co-fired with coal.

Transporting RDF to cement plants in other states was beyond the contractor’s scope, so this material still remains at the site. While the municipality has incinerated a portion, it continues to explore long-term disposal solutions.

According to a compliance affidavit filed by the Union Territory of Ladakh before the National Green Tribunal in August 2025, 61,637 tonnes of legacy waste have been remediated at Bomb Garh. Out of this, roughly one-tenth (5,500 tonnes) is RDF that remains at the site, says Stanzin Rabgais.

What changed

The most immediate change was visual.

In her previous role at another nonprofit, Asma recalls taking students to Bomb Garh for a field trip. “I used to wonder how such a beautiful place like Leh had this in the public vicinity. It was very hard to see. But now it’s already clean,” she says.

Pradeep Sangwan, founder of the Healing Himalayas Foundation, which works on waste management in Himalayan states, says, “When I first saw Bomb Garh, it was during an event. The next time I visited for a sustainability summit, the change was significant. It was a very happy moment.”

The cleanup has also reduced the stray dog population at the site. “You could not go to Bomb Garh alone earlier. Even stepping out of a car was risky. Hundreds of dogs would start barking,” says Stanzin Rabgais. At the time of visiting the site, this reporter could only see a few dogs.

What worked and what’s next

In Bomb Garh, the sustained pressure from the public pushed the administration to act.

There was also government backing for the people’s push, in addition to continuous follow-ups and monitoring done by LEDeG.

Asma explains: “Sometimes the interest is not there, and the work gets delayed. But here, the project helped the administration give an answer to the public.”

To prevent another buildup of waste, a Material Recovery Facility was also set up in Skampari in 2020. Segregated waste collected door-to-door is composted or prepared for reuse and sale.

Meanwhile, work at Bomb Garh is ongoing. The site now has a compound wall, gate and CCTV to prevent fresh dumping. Under National Green Tribunal guidelines, the administration plans to plant 8,000 saplings. Fewer than one-fifth had been planted by 2025, using treated wastewater. A new slaughterhouse is under construction. Authorities are also considering a construction and demolition (C&D) waste facility at the site.

Pradeep says Leh should take pride in what it has achieved but cautions: “Once legacy waste is remediated, don’t let fresh waste become legacy waste.”

Asma adds that RDF treatment and land reclamation must be built into project design from the outset, with contractors clearly responsible for disposal.

Asma also says that a baseline study and customised solutions are a must. “Sometimes, many contractors and consultants come to small towns and say, in our state, in our town, this is going on, it can be done here too. No, you have to do a primary study from the ground.”

Additionally, local infrastructure matters as much as cleanup. Without waste treatment facilities, Stanzin Rabgais warns, open dumping returns.

Pradeep adds that mountain regions require tailored policies given their geography and climate. Although national waste management rules and Extended Producer Responsibility (EPR) norms exist, implementation in the Himalayan states remains uneven. Last year, Ladakh issued warnings to major brands for evading EPR obligations.

For cities confronting similar dumpsites, Leh’s experience suggests that public pressure, administrative will and sustained monitoring can clear decades of accumulated waste. But without systems to prevent new dumping, the cycle can begin again.

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“Instead of using rat poison, get a cat to check a rat infestation…that is essentially what bio-control is,” says Dr Varanashi Krishna Moorthy, a microbiologist. “It is close to nature’s own solution.”

Dr Varanashi’s analogy captures a central problem in modern agriculture - related to pests and diseases in crops. Crop diseases are biotic stresses caused by pathogens—bacteria, fungi and viruses—that thrive when ecological balance breaks down. Chemical pesticides remain the most common response, but they are systemic and disrupt the health and ecology of the soil.

Bio-control, by contrast, relies on living organisms to keep pathogens in check and works within the ecosystem rather than overriding it.

We were speaking with Dr Varanashi and Dr Ashwini Krishna Moorthy, soil macrobiologist — at Surya Kanti, one of the cottages in the 100-acre Varanashi Farms in Adyanadka, a village on the foothills of the Western Ghats, about 50 kilometres south-east of Mangaluru, close to the Kerala border. Dr Varanashi inherited the land from his maternal grandmother, Thirumaleeswari Amma, a descendant of the Chakrakodi family.

In 1991, after attending a workshop on alternative farming systems, Dr Varanashi began converting the estate into a regenerative farm. By then, chemical farming at Varanashi Farms had already begun to show its limitations: a flush of vegetative growth without corresponding yields, alongside rising pest and disease pressure in arecanut, cacao, paddy and black pepper—the farm’s main commercial crops and staples of the region.

The problem was particularly acute in cacao. In and around Adyanadka, cacao crops are routinely attacked by two fungi—Phytophthora parasitica and Fusarium—which cause young fruits to blacken and fall off. During severe years, such as the rapid outbreak in 2024, nearly 60% of the cacao crop turned black and dropped at the flowering stage.

To address this, Dr Varanashi shifted focus from treating the plant to strengthening the soil. “The enemy of your enemy is your friend,” he says, explaining the logic behind bio-control.

Through continuous soil analysis carried out at Varanashi Farms since the early 1990s—such as tracking micro- and macro-nutrients, organic matter, organic carbon content, electrical conductivity and soil pH—he identified four “good guys” or good microorganisms that consistently co-existed in healthy soils.

When present in higher numbers, Trichoderma, Pseudomonas, Bacillus megaterium and Bacillus circulans, were found to suppress the “bad guys” or the disease-causing pathogens.

“This is not a hundred-per-cent solution, but it helps save about 80% of the crop,” Dr Varanashi says.

Unlike chemical compounds, these natural agents need time to multiply and establish themselves in the soil before they can counter pathogens, which spread rapidly and can devastate cacao plantations within weeks.

Putting bio-control to work

For bio-control to work, beneficial microorganisms must be isolated from the soil, tested, multiplied and then reintroduced along with compost and mulch. It is a slow, labour-intensive process, but a critical one.

Around three months after the monsoon and the annual manuring cycle, Dr Varanashi and his team dig vertical pits about a foot away from selected trees, choosing spots exposed to adequate sunlight. Soil samples from these pits are taken to the laboratory for analysis. Samples are drawn from a depth of 20 centimetres and 40 centimetres, and tested for nutrient content, acidity or alkalinity, and carbon-holding capacity. From a plot of up to six acres, as many as six samples may be collected.

Once microorganisms are multiplied under sterile laboratory conditions, they are introduced into the soil. For this, about 250 grams of soil is sliced from the side of each pit. The microbe-rich soil is then mixed with compost and mulch and returned to the ground. Freshly cultured strains, Dr Varanashi says, are more active and effective in competing with pests and pathogens.

The application process, referred to as inoculation, by analogy with vaccination, involves spreading about 30 grams of Trichoplus around the tree bed twice a year: once before the monsoon, typically in March along with irrigation, and once again after the monsoon. Repeated inoculation over time, Dr Varanashi says, improves soil fertility and builds resistance to recurring disease attacks.

The compost used in Trichoplus is also developed on the farm. Made by converting waste streams into stable, carbon-rich soil systems, it improves the availability of secondary nutrients such as nitrogen, phosphorus and potash. Its production relies on a microbial starter culture developed at the farm, known as the Varanashi composter.

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Support systems

Inoculation alone is not enough. At Varanashi Farms, pest and disease control depends on an integrated approach that combines biological inputs with cultural practices.

Adequate irrigation is essential for inoculation to be effective. To reduce exposure to fresh disease attacks, cacao plants are also pruned thoroughly in August, as the harvest season draws to a close. Pruning improves air circulation, limits the spread of fungal spores and reduces conditions that favour infection.

Additionally, cacao at the farm is not grown as a monocrop. Instead, it is inter-cropped within a diverse agroforestry system that more closely resembles a natural forest.

Inter-cropping disrupts pest cycles, prevents diseases from spreading rapidly across the farm, and allows resources such as sunlight, air and water to be used more efficiently. As a result, crops grown this way tend to show greater resilience than those cultivated in monoculture.

Within this multi-layered ecosystem, cacao is better able to withstand climate-triggered diseases such as stem canker, fruit rot, black pod rot and wilting disease.

Farm hygiene is maintained without removing mature trees. New plants are introduced only by filling gaps with saplings rather than by transplanting or cutting existing trees. In regenerative farming, trees are treated as long-term infrastructure.

Large plantations in the region typically prioritise arecanut, given its relatively stable market prices. At Varanashi Farms, cacao has remained a focus despite its vulnerability to disease. Organic dried cacao beans fetch around Rs 1,000 per kilogram, compared to about Rs 350 for conventionally grown produce, allowing the farm to offset risk through quality rather than volume.

For a resilient plantation and sustained yields, nourishment is as important as disease control. While the farm’s compost addresses most nutrient requirements, Dr Varanashi and his team also inoculate water bodies with effective microorganisms. Once every two months, microbial inoculum from the lab is mixed with jaggery and added to the farm’s seven irrigation ponds. When this water is used for irrigation, microorganisms gradually enter the soil.

Another key input is Arbuscular Mycorrhizal Fungi (AMF), a symbiotic soil fungus applied directly to plant roots, including those of weeds. Through its extensive underground mycelial network, AMF redistributes nutrients across plants, suppresses disease, improves soil structure and enhances microbial activity. It also accelerates the breakdown of organic matter, fallen leaves and bark, allowing nutrients to return to the soil.

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What does a healthy ecosystem look like?

At Varanashi Farms, the answer stands in the form of a 65-year-old cacao tree. Cacao trees typically live for about 25 years. Planted by Dr Varanashi’s father, the tree is now tilted, its thick trunk resting almost horizontally on the ground, resembling a grandmother in repose. It is the star-attraction in the farm and holds proof that a well-maintained agroforestry ecosystem promotes longer lifespan and tree health. Here, the dry leaves crunching underfoot tell a different story. Beneath them lies a layer of mulch covering black, porous soil alive with organisms, Dr Varanashi explains. Elsewhere, outside the farmed area, the soil is red in colour.

Water, too, behaves differently at the farm. Everywhere there is the sound of trickling or gushing water. While Dakshina Kannada district receives an annual rainfall of about 3,912 millimetres, Adyanadka gets nearly 1,000 millimetres less. The surrounding region faces chronic water stress as rainwater runs off steep slopes, while extensive arecanut cultivation has further depleted groundwater levels.

The impact is visible in the harvest. In 2022, the farm recorded a peak cacao yield of 4.5 tonnes. In 2025, production was close to that level at 3.95 tonnes—around double the output reported by many other farmers in the area.

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Soil is the currency here

Repeated soil tests at the farm have shown high levels of microbial activity and organic matter, findings that have also formed the basis of several doctoral studies. A soil biome study conducted between 1996 and 1998 analysed 60 soil samples over three years from arecanut and cacao basins at the farm and found dense leaf litter functioning as both mulch and manure.

Compared to forest floors, plantation basins at Varanashi Farms showed significantly higher populations of humifying macro-organisms, including pill millipedes (Arthrosphaera sp.), black millipedes (Jonespelites sp.), red millipedes (Spirostreptus sp. and Julus sp.), and earthworms: all indicators of active decomposition and nutrient cycling.

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The incessant fight over evil

Each spell of rain brings renewed pressure. Disease-causing pathogens thrive in wet conditions, often overwhelming beneficial microorganisms in the soil and weakening their ability to support nutrient uptake. When pathogens destroy food reserves stored in plant roots, beneficial microbes can die off as well. With climate change extending monsoon periods, heavier and more prolonged rainfall has meant longer and more frequent disease attacks.

In such conditions, regenerative farming becomes a matter of timing and judgement—understanding soil cycles, microbial activity and the needs of the moment.

For many farmers, however, economics determines what is feasible. Chemical fertiliser costs around Rs 5,000 per bag but is sold at a subsidised price of about Rs 500 and requires only 250 grams per plant. Organic manure costs roughly Rs 1,200 per bag, receives no subsidy and needs to be applied at nearly two kilograms per plant. For small landholding farmers, the expense can be prohibitive.

“The struggle is not knowing how to do it, but how to keep doing it,” says Sundara Naik, a small farmer from Alike village in Adyanadka, one of the 1,800 farmers trained under the Moodambail Movement, a collaborative initiative by the state and central government in 2004 to bring back regenerative farming practises.

Alongside farming, Sundara Naik works as a driver to supplement his income, yet continues to invest in his land. On the way down, he pauses to show jasmine plants grown with poultry manure. “I make at least Rs 500 every day selling the flowers,” he says.

Why intervene at all?

Nearly 95% of a plant’s requirements come from sunlight, carbon dioxide and water; only about 5% comes from the soil. Most of what plants need is already present underground. What they require are microorganisms, the “cooks”, that make these nutrients biologically available. Care for the soil, Dr Varanashi argues, and it will take care of the crop.

Regenerative farming, he says, is a long-term commitment rather than a quick fix, but it is achievable when its principles are understood and applied consistently. At 65, Dr Varanashi visits the farm daily, supervising work and fine-tuning processes. Under his guidance, his son Partha Varanashi, a molecular biologist and international swim coach, has taken on outreach and education. Since 2014, more than 500 volunteers from around the world visit the farm each year to learn about soil microbiology and regenerative agriculture.

Beyond cultivation, the work now extends through training, outreach and the production of organic inputs. Still, Dr Varanashi says regenerative farming will become truly sustainable for most farmers only if bio-fertilisers and organic manure are made affordable. He remains optimistic. “Once voluntary carbon credits are fully established in India, regenerative farming will become more viable and eventually become the only way to farm,” he says.

This story is published as part of the Hands of Transition initiative, which connects communities leading the transformation of food systems in India. Officially launched in 2025, Hands of Transition brings design, storytelling, and ground-up action together to ensure that the people most affected by climate and food insecurity are also the ones shaping the solutions, as both messengers and drivers of change.

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Farming cycles move on, whether bodies can or not.

Naserul Gaffar Sheikh, aged 30, knows this well. He farms paddy and vegetables on a small plot of land in Aarath village in Jammu and Kashmir’s Budgam district. The land was inherited from his father, and he continues to cultivate it despite a 60% locomotor disability in his left leg caused by the result of post‑polio residual paralysis.

Tasks most farmers perform without thinking, such as climbing on and off a tractor, walking repeatedly across waterlogged fields during irrigation, come at a physical cost. But the work does not pause and so Naserul has learned to adapt.

On his tractor, an extra metal step is welded beneath the driver’s seat, making it easier for him to climb up and down. Behind the tractor, a heavy iron leveller, known locally as a mudge, is fitted to spread irrigation water evenly across the fields.

Neither of the tools came from a factory. Both were built by a local welder after watching Naserul struggle.

“My leg used to slip,” he says. “Every time I climbed, it hurt. This step changed everything.”

Before the mudge was added, uneven water pooling forced Naserul to crisscross his fields several times during irrigation, which was an exhausting task with his weakened leg. Dragged across the soil, the leveller now breaks clods and distributes water in a single pass. This has nearly halved the irrigation cycles and saved three to four hours of labour during peak watering days.

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The cost of installing the two modifications, between Rs 20,000 and Rs 30,000, including materials and labour, was hard for Naserul to bear alone. Farmers in the village pooled money to pay for it, recognising that it will make it easier for Naserul to continue working on his field.

Climate change and disability : A tormentous combination

In Aarath and across Budgam, farming has become more physically demanding as erratic rainfall, prolonged dry spells, and reduced snowfall have hardened soils and stretched irrigation cycles. Fields that once held moisture longer now require repeated passes to level water and prevent runoff, increasing the strain on bodies already pushed to their limits.

For Naserul, the adaptations he relies on are not innovations in the abstract but responses to necessity. They are small, local solutions that reduce labour and allow him to remain on the land as climate stress reshapes everyday farming.

“We don’t choose this land,” he says. “We inherit it. And then we learn how to live with it.”

Like Naserul, these farmers often adapt quietly and locally, in the absence of formal agricultural support.

Institutions such as the Composite Regional Centre (CRC), Srinagar, and the Voluntary Medicare Society (VMS) have begun to bridge some of these gaps by providing prosthetics, mobility aids, and rehabilitation services.

Dr Ishtiyaq Ahmad Mir, a soil scientist at the Krishi Vigyan Kendra Srinagar explains that such low-cost adaptations align closely with climate-resilient farming because they directly respond to erratic rainfall and harsher seasons. Levelling tools like the mudge spread water evenly, reducing waste and repeated labour during dry spells.

By pooling money to build these tools, farmers share costs and risks, strengthening their collective ability to withstand climate shocks, he adds.

“Composting, levelling, mulching and efficient water use reduce repeated labour,” Dr Ishtiyaq says. “They improve soil moisture retention and reduce stress on farmers.”

Learning to live with the land

For some farmers, adaptation takes the form of reorganising time rather than tools.

In Sudergund village in Kupwara district, about 75 km northwest of Srinagar, Aijaz Ahmad Chopan farms two to three kanals (one kanal equals around 5,400 square feet) of paddy and a small vegetable plot inherited from his father, who died in 2018. Living with a 70% disability in his arm after losing his elbow to bone cancer, Aijaz manages the land alone.

“I can’t move fast,” he says. “So I plan for slowness.”

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For others, mechanisation becomes a way to compensate for bodily instability.

In Kanhoma village in Budgam district, Gowhar relies on his tractor to navigate both his fields and his disability. He acquired a locomotor impairment in 2002 after an accident, and soon after his father fell ill, leaving him to manage the farm alone. His modified New Holland tractor, fitted with handcrafted metal studs for traction, has become essential. Where his prosthetic foot slips in marshy soil, the machine holds steady, allowing him to plough, sow and harvest without fear.

Across these cases, the logic is consistent: tools, time and processes are adjusted to reduce physical load in the absence of official support.

When adaptation reduces labour

In the absence of farming systems designed for limited mobility, disabled farmers across central Kashmir have adjusted practices that directly reduce labour, water use and physical strain. Research and field data suggest these responses are effective.

Studies in semi-arid regions show that composting and mulching can improve soil moisture retention by 15-20% compared to untreated plots, reducing the number of field visits required for irrigation. The Sher-e-Kashmir University of Agricultural Sciences and Technology recommends both practices in its crop contingency plans to manage drought-like conditions caused by rainfall deficits.

Seed-saving practices further reduce labour risks. Traditional rice varieties such as Mushq Budji have demonstrated yield stability of 2.5 to 3 tonnes per hectare even under blast disease pressure, while hybrid yields decline. For farmers with limited mobility, fewer crop failures translate into fewer replanting cycles and less wasted labour.

Soil testing offers another measurable benefit. At the Krishi Vigyan Kendra Srinagar, farmers submit soil samples for analysis of pH, nutrient levels, organic matter and texture. The resulting soil health cards specify fertiliser type and quantity, enabling many farmers to reduce fertiliser use by 20-30%.

For disabled farmers, fewer fertiliser applications mean fewer trips to the field, less bending and lifting, and greater certainty that limited labour is being used efficiently. Avoiding even a single journey can conserve energy needed for irrigation or harvest.

Filling the institutional gap

The CRC in Srinagar, is a government-run institution under the Ministry of Social Justice and Empowerment. Operating through national schemes such as the Assistance to Disabled Persons programme, and in partnership with Artificial Limbs Manufacturing Corporation of India (ALIMCO), CRC identifies disabled individuals through outreach camps and direct registrations, conducts medical and social assessments, and distributes prosthetics, wheelchairs and mobility aids across districts in Kashmir.

Follow-up rehabilitation and guidance allow many disabled farmers and rural workers to remain active on their land.

Alongside this state-led model, the Voluntary Medicare Society (VMS), a Srinagar-based civil society organisation founded in 1993, provides complementary support. Working independently but in coordination with government departments, banks and universities, VMS assesses disabled individuals beyond medical criteria, factoring in social and economic conditions.

Funded through CSR partnerships, bank facilitation and small zakat (from personal donations) pools, it offers prosthetics, rehabilitation and livelihood support, often stepping in where formal agricultural policy falls short. In recent years, it has collaborated with SKUAST-Kashmir to explore agriculture-based livelihoods for disabled farmers.

For many farmers, this support is a lifeline. Abdul Rasheed Bhat, aged 52, from Kulgam, who lost vision in his right eye, says “CRC helped me in everything I needed. They guided me step by step and ensured I could continue working”.

Ruqaya Akbar, aged 35, from Kunzar in Baramulla district, who lives with 100% locomotor disability, says “CRC and ALIMCO supported me in every manner and at each step of life, mentally and materially, by providing wheelchairs and other essentials I needed most.”

She later went on to form a disability association in Baramulla, where she now serves as its president.

At a CRC outreach camp held in Srinagar in February 2024, more than 230 assistive devices were distributed to 140 beneficiaries, indicating the scale, yet also the limits, of current institutional outreach.

Where adaptation meets its limits

Farmer-devised modifications work because they are locally designed, low-cost, flexible and rooted in lived experience. A welder replaces an engineer. A compost pit replaces chemical fertiliser. A mudge replaces repeated labour.

But they are difficult to sustain or scale without support. Tool modifications are paid for out of pocket, placing them beyond the reach of many farmers. Local welders are not trained in ergonomics. Krishi Vigyan Kendras lack disability-specific outreach, and NGOs cannot cover every district.

As climate stress intensifies, even “efficient” systems demand more labour. Farmers recall that transplanting paddy once took two days per plot and erratic rainfall and drying canals now stretch the work to nearly a week.

“This model works because the government, community and NGOs come together,” said Dr Bashir of VMS. “But awareness is still our biggest challenge.”

As evening settles over Budgam, Gowhar stands by his field: uneven, stubborn, still alive. “The land remembers us,” he says. “So we must remember it back.”

For disabled farmers in Kashmir, that remembering is practical rather than symbolic. It means reshaping soil, metal and time to fit bodies the system overlooks.

This story is published as part of the Hands of Transition initiative, which connects communities leading the transformation of food systems in India. Officially launched in 2025, Hands of Transition brings design, storytelling, and ground-up action together to ensure that the people most affected by climate and food insecurity are also the ones shaping the solutions, as both messengers and drivers of change.

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In 2006, when Dibakar Jani, aged 44 years, mortgaged a one-acre patch of land for three years for an “experiment” in his village of Dayanidhiguda in Odisha’s Koraput district, many thought he was “crazy”.

A third-generation farmer from the Paroja Adivasi community, Dibakar was one of 11 farmers in the village who agreed to try a new method of rice cultivation that promised higher yields while using less water.

The method, known as the System of Rice Intensification (SRI), was new to Dayanidhiguda, where growing rice, a water-intensive crop, has long been a challenge.

Agriculture here is largely rain-fed, irrigation facilities remain underdeveloped, and erratic rainfall linked to climate change has made cultivation increasingly uncertain.

Despite coming from a family of farmers, Dibakar did not own any agricultural land. When Pragati, a local non-governmental organisation that has been training marginal and small farmers in the region since 1992, introduced the experiment, he mortgaged land to take part in it.

Dibakar recalls, “The villagers did not believe that higher yields were possible using fewer seeds, less water and only organic manure.”

But, soon they noticed that the plants were stronger, healthier and promised better yield.

“On the day of the harvest, when we swung our sickles, the entire village gathered to see the unusually bumper yield.” Dibakar says. “That is when they began to believe that producing more is possible by using less.”

SRI: A different way of growing rice

Developed in Madagascar in the 1980s through a process of trial and error, SRI is a cultivation method that seeks to increase yields while reducing water use and dependence on chemical inputs. Its fundamental principles include transplanting younger seedlings at wider spacing, minimising water use, using mechanical weeders, and relying on organic formulations for seed treatment and to improve soil health.

“SRI is a resource-efficient cultivation method,” says Dr Sunita Dandasena, a scientist at the Krishi Vigyan Kendra (KVK), Sunabeda in Koraput. “It promotes the use of locally available resources such as farmyard manure from livestock and traditional seed varieties. This not only preserves agrobiodiversity but also strengthens household economies,” she says.

Her observations show higher concentrations of micronutrients such as zinc, iron, copper and manganese in rice grown using SRI compared to chemical-intensive farming.

One of the most striking differences in SRI from conventional practices is seed use. Under the traditional broadcasting method, farmers scatter seeds over ploughed dry soil before the monsoon. Each acre requires about 25-30 kg of seed while the SRI method uses only 2 kg.

Before sowing, seeds are treated with beejamruta, an organic formulation made from cow dung, cow urine, anthill soil, limestone and water. The treatment protects seeds from pathogens, improves germination and strengthens root and shoot growth, which allow plants to absorb nutrients and water more efficiently.

Seedlings aged eight to 14 days are transplanted in straight lines at wider spacing — typically 25 cm by 25 cm. “This allows better root and canopy growth, as plants have greater access to nutrients and sunlight,” says Tapas Chandra Roy, Block Agriculture Officer (BAO), Kundra block, Department of Agriculture and Farmers’ Empowerment (DA&FE).

Younger seedlings, he adds, produce more tillers (the stems that bear the rice grains), leading to higher yields.

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“We plant only one seedling per hill (the spot where seedlings are transplanted) and do not keep the field continuously flooded,” says Asmati Naik, a farmer from Chitra village in Kotpad block. “We only keep the soil moist.”

While the absence of standing water leads to increased weed growth, farmers manage this by using hand and roller weeders, which uproot the weeds and also aerates the soil.

These weeds are not discarded, explains Surendra Gadaba, aged 56, from Chitra village, who has practiced SRI for nearly two decades. “We leave them in the field, where they decompose into manure and improve soil fertility.” Such practices enhance soil aeration and support beneficial aerobic organisms, Tapas explains.

Soil fertility under SRI is managed in a similar way, by relying on biological processes rather than chemical inputs. Farmers apply traditional formulations such as farmyard manure and jeevaamruta, a microbial culture prepared by fermenting cow dung, cow urine, jaggery, pulse flour, anthill soil and water.

About 200-250 litres are applied per acre around 15 days after transplanting. “Jeevaamruta enhances soil fertility by increasing beneficial microbes and earthworms, improving nutrient uptake and crop growth,” says Dr Sunita.

Farmer Surendra shares that applying jeevaamruta has revived the soil in the region which in turn has strengthened the plants. “Each plant now produces more than 35 tillers, compared to just seven to ten earlier,” he says.

“With reduced plant competition and better soil nutrient retention, SRI creates a healthier soil ecosystem and more resilient crops,” he explains.

Today, over 3,000 farmers across about 5,000 acres in Borigumma, Jeypore, Koraput, Kundra, Nandpur, Semiliguda and Lamataput blocks cultivate more than 70 traditional rice varieties using SRI.

In Koraput, the traditional broadcasting method typically yields between seven and 15 quintals per acre. In contrast, farmers who practice the SRI method, produce between 14 to 25 quintals per acre depending on the variety of paddy.

“Earlier, we earned around Rs 25,000-30,000 per acre. Now, under SRI, our earnings have increased to Rs 55,000 to Rs 75,000,” said Hari Paroja, aged 48, a farmer from Pujariput village in Jeypore block. Paddy was earlier grown mainly for household consumption, with little surplus to sell. “Now rice farming has become profitable,” he added.

Dasamani Pujari, a farmer from Bhurshi village in Kotpad block, says SRI has also reduced dependence on credit. “We no longer borrow money from village moneylenders to buy chemicals and pesticides,” she says.

She uses the SRI method to cultivate indigenous aromatic rice varieties such as Kalajeera and Gobindobhog. “We only apply organic manure and jeevamruta to nourish the soil. When the soil is healthy, it feeds the plant naturally, and we get good yields. Our crop matures 10-12 days earlier than in conventional methods. The grain quality improves with less chaff,” she adds.

The limits of SRI

SRI is both knowledge- and labour-intensive and needs hands-on training and sustained effort. “As agriculture here is largely rainfed, water management becomes critical amid unpredictable rainfall,” said Pradeepta Kishor Sethi, Team Leader of Pragati, noting that farmers are trained to create and maintain drainage channels.

Bhagaban Jani, who has been practicing SRI for the past 12 years in Pujariput village of Jeypore block, says, “From preparing the nursery beds to transplanting, weeding, and managing water, the work never really stops.” Much of this work is shared by his wife and two sons, “but for families that have no support to share the workload, SRI becomes very difficult to sustain,” he adds.

Even gaps in technical knowledge among extension workers or facilitating organisations can limit adoption, says Murali Adhikari, CEO of Jiavik SRI Farmer Producer Organisation, who has worked with tribal farmers in Koraput for over a decade.

“SRI requires close monitoring, especially in the initial stages,” he explains, adding that frequent field visits by extension workers are essential to guide farmers and gradually build their understanding of the method’s agronomic principles.

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Why SRI matters beyond yields

For generations, tribal communities in Koraput preserved a wide diversity of rice varieties, adapting cultivation to local soils, rainfall and seasons. But, much of this genetic wealth was lost with the spread of single-crop farming during the Green Revolution.

Although the region was later designated a Globally Important Agricultural Heritage System site by the United Nations’ Food and Agriculture Organization, having once cultivated more than 30,000 indigenous varieties, many of them disappeared with the adoption of high-yielding seeds and chemical-intensive farming.

“About 20 years ago, we replaced our traditional paddy with hybrid varieties,” says Dayanidhi Khora, aged 62, a farmer from Maliput village in Nandapur block. “Initially the harvest looked good, but costs kept rising. Our soil became hard, pest attacks increased, and hybrids could not survive irregular rains.”

As the farming practices narrowed to a few commercial varieties, several indigenous rices such as laiseri, kaberi and ratanchudi, once valued for their resilience, aroma and taste, vanished from the fields.

Traditional seeds, which farmers could save and reuse year after year, were replaced by hybrids that had to be purchased every season, Dayanidhi adds.

“These indigenous rice varieties are a genetic treasure of this region,” says Debabrata Panda, Assistant Professor, Department of Biodiversity and Conservation of Natural Resources at the Central University of Odisha, Koraput. Evolved over centuries, these varieties are adapted to local conditions, he explains, with many able to withstand drought, floods, pests and poor soils. His research shows that varieties such as basubhoga, dudhamani, koraput kalajeera and machhakanta tolerate both drought and flooding, while sapuri and muktabali can withstand salinity.

With climate patterns becoming increasingly unpredictable, such traits are gaining renewed importance. In recent years, irregular rainfall and extreme weather have repeatedly damaged crops in Koraput. In July 2025, heavy rainfall submerged more than 5,000 hectares of paddy fields in the Jeypore sub-division, leading to widespread crop losses.

It was in this context that SRI emerged not only as a way to improve yields and soil health, but also as a means of creating space for traditional rice varieties to return. By reducing input costs and improving productivity, the method has made it viable for farmers to grow indigenous rice beyond small household plots.

Pragati, along with farmers in the region, is now actively supporting this revival. “During the Kharif 2025 season, we promoted koraput kalajeera under SRI across 2,000 acres,” says Prabhakar Adhikari, chief functionary of Pragati. The aromatic variety, known for its short, oval grains, received a Geographical Indication tag in 2024 for its nutritional and therapeutic value. The organisation has also supported the cultivation of aromatic varieties such as gobindobhog and jhilli.

Beyond local benefits, SRI also has implications for climate mitigation. By avoiding continuous flooding and reducing chemical inputs, international studies have shown that the method can lower net greenhouse gas emissions by nearly 30 percent compared to conventional rice farming, while reducing emissions per kilogram of rice by more than 50 percent.

For Dibakar, whose experiment was initially met with skepticism, the change has been tangible. Once landless, he now owns two acres of agricultural land and cultivates traditional paddy under SRI on his own fields. Higher yields and improved incomes have enabled him to build a pucca house and secure his family’s future – a shift visible in several other households of his village.

This story is published as part of the Hands of Transition initiative, which connects communities leading the transformation of food systems in India. Officially launched in 2025, Hands of Transition brings design, storytelling, and ground-up action together to ensure that the people most affected by climate and food insecurity are also the ones shaping the solutions, as both messengers and drivers of change.

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Mariamma, who’s almost eight months pregnant, lives in Sengunram, a small hamlet near the forests, in the Tiruvallur constituency, close to the Tamil Nadu border, over 50 kilometres from the state capital Chennai.

For an ultrasound, she has to walk two kilometres to reach the nearest bus stop, where the bus passes by only three times a day. On a good day, it shows up on time, and she finds a seat to make the hour-and-a-half journey to the nearest government medical college, where she can get a free scan. More often than not, she makes the journey standing on a crowded bus.

A timely scan isn’t assured at the overbooked hospital. If Mariamma can’t get one, she will have to return the next day, all over again.

“I had to run around for three days to get a scan when I was pregnant with my second child. They kept asking me to come back the next day,” she said.

Mariamma’s journey is a common one for the tribal women in Sengunram and other hamlets spread across Tamil Nadu. According to central government data for 2022-2023, the latest statistics available, there are 385 state-run Community Health Centres (CHC) in rural Tamil Nadu, staffed with only 220 radiographers authorised to conduct imaging services. The 2011 census data, which is the most recent population numbers available, suggests that there is only one radiographer for nearly 1,69,230 rural residents in Tamil Nadu.

Prof. Jagriti Gangopadhyay, a researcher in medical sociology and an associate professor at the Manipal Centre for Humanities, said that a lack of awareness, inadequate infrastructure and facilities, and limited transportation are the most significant barriers to equitable access to maternal care in rural India. “Transportation is a major problem because in most villages, the hospital is at least two hours away.”

Making services accessible

This accessibility problem is precisely what Pretty Lil Hearts (PLH), a pregnancy-focused nonprofit based in Tiruvallur, has set out to solve — at least in Tiruvallur district.

After years of providing food to the poor as a largely self-funded initiative by founder Leo Akash Raj, the organisation gained traction during the COVID-19 pandemic as a free taxi service for pregnant people, taking them to and from hospitals for checkups or emergency care, or across the state when public transportation was frozen across the country.

Since 2021, the largely volunteer-run organisation has also been providing nutritional support, funding pregnancy-related scans, and organising physiotherapists, inclusive education programs and counselling for women living with disabilities in Tiruvallur, on the outskirts of Chennai. “This exposure led me to realise the amount of assistance our pregnant women need, especially those who are in the margins,” says Raj.

The organisation still runs some of those errands, but it has dedicated itself to making prenatal healthcare facilities accessible and free for the tribes in rural parts of Tiruvallur district, which is home to more than 17,500 women from the scheduled tribe, according to 2011 population data.

Can imaging services be sustainably offered for free?

In August 2025, PLH started their first scan centre in Uthukottai, a town on the Andhra-Tamil Nadu border, approximately 60 km from Chennai, with financial support from a Bengaluru-based charity fund. The centre offers eight different kinds of diagnostic imaging services— including the general ultrasound, colour doppler, obstetric scans and anomaly tests to evaluate the health of the foetus— free of cost to differently-abled and tribal pregnant women.

To balance and sustain itself financially, the centre offers subsidised imaging services to the general public and provides free services three days a week. The reports are handed out immediately, as the center is less-crowded and better planned than a government hospital.

To facilitate their travel to and from the centre, the nonprofit has mobilised free autos run by volunteer drivers for transport within an eight-kilometre radius.

Tamil Nadu offers several services for maternity care, including ambulance services, monetary support, and nutritional support for pregnant people — schemes that have resulted in the country’s second-lowest maternal and infant mortality rates by state.

However, ambulances aren’t always accessible in rural areas, and despite the state government’s efforts to provide monetary support for pregnant mothers, a majority of those cash benefits are spent on other necessary items, says PLH founder, Leo Akash Raj.

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How many scans does a mother need?

The World Health Organization (WHO) recommends a minimum of one ultrasound scan before 24 weeks of pregnancy, to confirm the pregnancy and estimate a due date, while many countries have a standard of two to four, even five scans to monitor growth and check for major structural abnormalities.

Dr Uma Ram, director & consultant OBGYN at Seethapathy Clinic & Hospital, says that ultrasounds and other scans play an integral role as a risk prediction tool for the mother and the foetus. She generally recommends a minimum of three or, if possible, four scans, even in the case of a low-risk pregnancy. For a high-risk pregnancy, it could be six or even higher.

“Ultrasound tells us not only whether this baby is small, but also whether the blood flow to the baby is being impacted.” She explains, “And with the help of ultrasound, when we follow up with these babies which are not growing well, we can appropriately time when to deliver them.”

In 2018, Raj met 11-year-old Blessy, who had been born with squamous cell carcinoma, an incurable and lethal form of cancer that caused pus-filled lesions across her body. “When I asked her mother why we couldn’t do anything for her, her mother told me that had she gone for her regular scans, Blessy could have been diagnosed even before birth.”

Blessy’s mother had not been able to afford a scan, Raj says, adding that in the tribal sector, which is dependent on daily wage labour, institutionalised pregnancies are expensive and scans even more so. “If the mother requires higher-level imaging, that can drive the costs up even further,” he says.

Blessy, with whom Raj had grown quite close, died three months after her 12th birthday. He considers her life and death as the motivation behind opening the free scan centre.

The free scans are becoming popular..

“A local medical officer told us that if we managed to provide five scans to tribal women in a month, that would be an achievement because of how long it takes to foster trust within the community,” Raj says, referring to the vulnerable and often isolated scheduled tribe communities in the area.

The centre is equipped to provide up to 40 scans a day. The overarching goal is to ensure availability for timely scans for pregnant women from tribal communities and to urge regular pregnancy-health checkups.

But how do they do it..

Raj patiently explains how they keep the process smooth and clutter-free to ensure that the women coming in for the scans don’t have to wait long - either for the scan or for the report: “There’s a lot of backend work that goes behind this, but the underlying key really is pre-booking and pre-planning,” he says.

It all boils down to this: The scan centre gets the database of women among the differently-abled and tribal communities who are currently pregnant and need certain scans— from the government sector, usually the Anganwadis that closely work with these women.

This database also includes the eligibility information for these women regarding the various kinds of scans they are prescribed. Then there’s a third-party volunteering organisation that works closely with the Anganwadis and primary healthcare centres (PHCs) to scrutinise this database on a routine basis - verifying whether the women are from the targeted communities of scheduled tribes and villages or differently-abled, and the scans they need, and in which week.

“Once this data is verified, the volunteering organisation books the appointments for the scans with us at the clinic much in advance. Usually, no scan for pregnant mothers happen on an emergency basis; and even if there’s an emergency case, we have the bandwidth to work around it given our organised ways.”

There’s another way. Raj goes on to share the example of Mala, an expecting mother, who got an anomaly scan that very day when UpBeat visited the centre at Uthukotai.

The anomaly scan has to be done at a particular range of time during a pregnancy. Accordingly, Mala’s doctor at the PHC called the clinic one and a half weeks ago to book her appointment for today. “So we knew she’s due for a scan today, and accordingly her transportation, scan slots etc were kept ready,” Raj beams. When Mala was ready to step out for the scan, she found the auto waiting at her doorstep. At the clinic, she was done within 10-15 minutes, collected her reports, and was ready to be dropped home.

There’s a third way too: The clinic sets up camp at the PHCs so that clinic volunteers and the doctors can closely collaborate. “The PHCs in the locality has doctor visitations on Tuesdays and Thursdays; so our volunteers set up camp at the PHCs on Thursdays or Fridays with a list of data on pregnant mothers that have been provided to us by the PHCs along with information on when they are due for each of the required scans.” Because radiologists are very busy and not readily available, staff at the scan centre call them to set up dates and appointments in an optimised way.

“This is very scalable and doable,” says Raj, and he resolves to take this service to other remote locations.

The biggest hurdle to achieving an entirely blocked day for the scan center has been awareness and outreach — educating the public on the necessity and benefits of timely scans and urging them to avail these facilities.

However, the running costs of such an endeavour can be high. The centre offers scans to the general public at a lower cost, using the proceeds to cover rent, the doctor’s fees, and the staff’s salaries at the centre. “We are providing scans that normally would run for Rs 2500, at Rs 1000, for locals. For the tribes, it’s free.” The nonprofit bears the cost for operations, Raj said.

Going that extra mile, literally..

Vijay Kanth, a lead volunteer with Pretty Lil Hearts, helps coordinate the transportation for pregnant women in these communities. “Uthukottai is surrounded by villages of tribal people. There are only four or five primary health centres around the town, which means the women here have to travel up to 30km to get a scan, usually by bus or auto, while pregnant,” he says.

Ten pregnant women from these tribal communities that UpBeat spoke with when they came for their scans say that they felt the new scan centre and the nonprofit’s transportation efforts significantly eased their day, reduced their travel time, and made the process more comfortable.

Vanamohini, a resident of JJ Nagar is pregnant with her third child. “In the past, I had to spend the whole day waiting to get a scan at the government hospital in Tiruvallur, nearly 40km away from home,” she says. The new scan centre is barely 15 minutes away by auto, also provided for her by the nonprofit.

“This centre has been very useful. Especially since we have to think about our children, if there’s someone at home, we could leave them behind, but if not, we have to take them with us. It’s very tough for them to travel,” she adds.

These facilities can still be more accessible, Raj thinks, adding that there are no mobile or movable scan centres in the country because of well-founded concerns around foetal sex-determination and female foeticide. “We wish to be able to take ultrasounds and doctors to pregnant mothers, instead of making them travel to a scan centre,” he thinks out loud.

A vehicular ultrasound, however, is currently illegal in India. Raj contemplates filing a Public Interest Litigation (PIL) to create some regulation without the blanket ban, sometime in future.

That will be another story.

Why this story made it here?

We were drawn by the novelty of the service - ultrasound scans are expensive. Although necessary, there are conflicting opinions on how many one needs during pregnancy. What becomes important here is the context - we are speaking of a community of people, women from scheduled tribes in remote hamlets of Tamil Nadu, who live with malnutrition, growth issues, and many health and environmental challenges as if these are normal.

What do you think?

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If you want to lend Raj a hand, feel free to connect with him and validate the above story for yourself. He will be happy to show you around. But remember to come back here and tell us all about it.

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In 1973, India inaugurated its first all-women police station, the Vanitha Police Station, in Kerala. Trivia has it that the then PM had flown in to Kozhikode for the event, and happened to hand over her pen to the station’s first sub-inspector, M Padminiamma, when the latter was fumbling for one before signing the inaugural register.

Speaking to a prominent daily for the 50th anniversary celebrations of the police station, in October 2023, Padminiamma says that the main intention behind the all-women police station (AWPS) was to improve women’s access to justice in a very male-dominated system. “This was a formidable barrier, particularly for those who lacked educational empowerment,” she’s reported to have said.

What are AWPS?

All Women’s Police Stations (AWPSs) are specifically designed to be the first point of addressing crimes that typically affect women - the Indian Penal Code calls them VAW (Violence Against Women) and lists attempts of acid attacks, domestic violence, dowry harassment, sexual assaults etc under this category.

AWPSs are supposed to be fully staffed by women and were created to provide a safe and secure place for reporting abuse, without fear or intimidation. Unlike conventional police stations, AWPSs are built to be survivor-centric. Their all-women teams are trained to handle sensitive cases with empathy and confidentiality, ensuring that procedures like interrogation or frisking are carried out in a supportive environment.

AWPSs aim to make the justice system more accessible, offering women not just a place to file complaints, but a rare sense of safety and trust within the law enforcement system. This approach quickly gained traction, and by 2022, 745 of these stations, mostly in urban areas, were spread throughout India.

Establishing AWPS increased reporting of complaints

These stations are now more than just places to report complaints. Women can talk without fear of intimidation since female officers handle cases involving sexual assault, domestic abuse, and other gender-sensitive concerns. Numerous survivors have benefited from the program, which has also sparked similar initiatives in other nations, including Brazil, Argentina, Peru, the Philippines, South Africa, and Uganda.

In 2022, the Home Ministry mandated that every state and union territory set up a minimum of one all-female police station in every district.

In 2018, a collaborative research titled Gender, Crime and Punishment: Evidence from Women Police Stations in India, attempted to examine how far AWPS helped in improving reporting of gender-based violence (GBV) and influencing case handling, as measured by arrest rates, femicide incidence, and women’s labour supply, which were long known to be constrained by safety concerns.

The findings were striking. The evidence published showed that reports of violence against women increased immediately and persistently after a city established a women’s police station, by almost 29% on average.

Additionally, they discovered that recording of offenses against women increased by 22% as a result of the creation of AWPS. Increased reporting of domestic abuse and female kidnappings were the main causes of this spike.

According to Anupama Tandon, Associate Professor and Head of the Department of Economics, St. Bede’s College, Shimla, who is researching AWPS in Himachal Pradesh since 2021, found that complainants, especially women and girls, generally feel more comfortable talking to female police officers, ‘surrounded only by women.’

“In a general police station, the head may be a woman, but the person responsible for recording the FIR or entering data could be a man. This setup can make it uncomfortable for victims, as everyone can hear them. In contrast, an all-women police station has women in every role, from recording to data entry, which helps complainants feel safer,” she adds.

Tandon focused her data collection on domestic violence, child abuse, molestation, eve-teasing, and missing women, which she considers a critical parameter. Each district has only one AWPS but several general ones. By comparing per capita rates across stations, Tandon found that the AWPSs performed much better, particularly in tracing missing women.

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Compared to Himachal, AWPS in Kerala and Tamil Nadu are performing notably well. They cater to larger populations and, importantly, have expanded into rural areas too. This wider reach has made a significant difference, Tandon believes. She couldn’t refer to any data.

Mangai Natarajan, Professor in the Department of Criminal Justice at John Jay College of Criminal Justice, City University of New York, examined Tamil Nadu’s All-Women Police Stations in depth in her 2008 book Women Police in a Changing Society. Her research found that these stations have expanded and strengthened the role of women in policing, better addressing the needs of both female victims and offenders.

The Cornell study shows that victims prefer filing complaints at AWPSs, if these are available, or avail self-services such as helplines. As a result, there are modest improvements in arrest rates for female kidnappings –by 15%, simply because treatment of policing such offences also increased.

Women don’t know they have a choice

When Tandon initially started looking into AWPS, she thought about the cost and the main motive behind opening these women’s police stations. “Why not just strengthen traditional police stations?” She wondered.

She discussed this in her class and asked her students.

“The young women in my class had no idea that AWPSs existed. In Himachal, almost 90 percent of the population is rural. These students come from urban areas. Yet they didn’t know, not even those who lived close to an AWPS” says Tandon.

Himachal has 11 AWPS, all located in urban areas. Most women Tandon surveyed said they simply went to the nearest police station, highlighting proximity as a key factor that drove their decision. “We need such stations in rural areas,” she says. “No one will travel 50 or 60 kilometers in hilly terrain just to reach a women’s police station,” she adds.

The caste factor

According to a 2021 study conducted by The Reach Alliance, a group of international institutions, the majority of people in need of women’s protection services in India are still not receiving them. The obstacles go beyond remoteness or inadequate infrastructure.

Even in cases when services are available, women are frequently discouraged from requesting assistance due to ingrained gender norms, cultural expectations, and caste, class, and religious hierarchy.

Very few domestic abuse cases are reported anyway

Due to widespread distrust of law enforcement, only 3.5% of women who experienced domestic abuse in 2015 sought police assistance. Furthermore, even while AWPSs have boosted reporting, it’s still unclear if this has resulted in additional inquiries or legal actions. In 2017, only 1.63% of all cases were settled out of court.

Former IPS officer from Maharashtra, Meeran Chadha Borwankar, points out that AWPSs were relevant at a time when there were very few women in the police. “But with women now making up more than 12 percent of the force,” she argues, they should be spread across all field jobs. “There is no study to show that AWPSs perform better, at least I haven’t come across one. But there is a study on women’s help desks in Madhya Pradesh police stations, and those show good results,” she says to UpBeat in an email interview.

She stresses that expecting a female victim to travel 15–20 kilometers to reach an AWPS is unfair. Cases, she says, should be registered at the nearest police station. Instead of sidelining male officers, Borwankar believes they should be sensitised to handle crimes against women.

AWPSs face challenges during rescue operations, recovery of streedhan property, or arresting male accused persons, explains an officer-in-charge of an AWPS in West Bengal, wishing to stay anonymous. “Both men and women have their rights,” she says, adding, “A female police officer must be present when a woman is arrested, just as a male police officer is required when arresting a man. Without male staff, it becomes impossible to conduct medico-legal exams of male accused or even to produce them before the court.”

Despite being called an AWPS, some were actually headed by men, Tandon mentioned in her research. In two or three stations, “they said no female head has been appointed. So yes, these kinds of problems were there,” she notes. Most stations barely have permanent personnel - roughly two or three out of 20 staff members.

Improve perception of women police

In a research published in the International Journal Of Social Science and Economic Research (IJSSER), Amisha Sharma, a public policy enthusiast and inter-disciplinary researcher, argues that seeing women carry out law and order roles can be an empowering experience due to stereotypical assumptions of feminine traits, yet these same traits can come in the way of society’s perception about the efficiency of a woman police officer.

Affection, sympathy, and sensitivity can be construed as liabilities in law enforcement duties, she writes. As a result of this skewed perception, women in the police force sometimes attempt to overcompensate in order to match up to the hypermasculine subculture (page 6203). Hence, much work should be directed towards improving this perception not only among the society as a whole but also among the police force and women police officials.

Did you know about AWUPs? Did you know what they did?

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“In 2020, when Covid-19 hit, our youth leaders – who educate young people, especially women on sexual and reproductive health (SRH) – had to pause their routine visits to the villages. We started receiving phone calls, sometimes frantic ones, asking for guidance, especially on safe abortion practices. That’s when we thought – why not a chatbot,”’ says Anisha Aggarwal, senior director, strategy and development, Ipas Development Foundation (IDF).

Since 2001, IDF has been working with national and state governments to improve access to the sexual and reproductive health ecosystem, with a special emphasis on encouraging choice-based contraception and holistic care for women undergoing abortion. IDF attempts to go that extra mile — in the remotest of villages — where access to such information or care is not easy.

IDF launched a youth-based program in Assam, Madhya Pradesh, Jharkhand, and West Bengal, where they trained and supported youth leaders to spread information on SRH within the community and connect any women needing help to public health facilities. However, as the pandemic occurred, Anisha shares that they decided to launch Disha Didi, (translates to “a sister who guides” in English), a WhatsApp-powered chatbot built on human-centered design (HCD).

In the beginning, Disha Didi was developed as a pilot program to support young women aged 15 to 25 in the villages of Jharkhand and Madhya Pradesh. Disha Didi works towards four objectives: To deliver accurate and culturally sensitive SRH information, to guide the user on available healthcare facilities, to anonymously counsel on sensitive topics, and to provide support for making decisions related to reproductive choices.

Didi answers questions that women hesitate to ask

IDF’s extensive work over the years had enabled them to build a bank of 30,000 questions, allowing the bot to handle a wide range of queries. From clarifying fundamental concepts like puberty, menstruation, reproductive infections, pregnancy, contraception and abortion, to busting locally sensitive myths, Disha Didi also offers practical advice by connecting the user with one of the four doctors at the backend.

To keep the chatbot easy-to-use and accessible round-the-clock, IDF consciously hosted it on WhatsApp, the most common app in the country.

As per a 2022 World Population Report by the United Nations Population Fund, about eight women die from unsafe abortions each day. Significant reasons behind unsafe abortions have been stigma and denial of services by health providers, which Disha Didi specifically tries to address. The report indicates that vulnerable and disadvantaged populations, including young women aged 15-19, have been at the highest risk of dying from an abortion-related complication.

To ensure that the chatbot addressed local myths and queries, it was developed in close collaboration with community members. “We leveraged the experience and knowledge of our youth leaders who are representatives of the communities we serve. We co-created the question bank with them, and tested the language of the responses as well as the user interface with them. Even the name of the chatbot was suggested by them,” says Anisha

.

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When a user opens the chat, a menu with select topics and questions is what greets them. However, the preset options are just one level of interaction; the user may also connect with a human counsellor through IDF’s in-house SRH helpline for more in-depth discussions.

To date, approximately 30,000 unique users have accessed the chatbot, and it has responded to over 72,000 chats, averaging 2.4 interactions per user.

Disha Didi works along with the youth leaders

By the time the pandemic ended, IDF had integrated Disha Didi into the youth leaders’ work who would share the WhatsApp number to encourage young girls and women to seek answers in complete privacy and confidentiality. When the user wanted to know something the app couldn’t address, like connecting with a nearby healthcare facility, the youth leader would step in.

Moumita Sarkar, senior regional director, responsible for the implementation of Disha Didi and the sexual reproductive health awareness program in the 24 South Parganas district, shares, “Child marriages and teen pregnancies are far too common in the Sundarbans region which is part of this district.” As this is a cyclone-prone region, accessibility to the mainland is cut off for several parts of the month. “This makes people here far too reliant on traditional methods of abortion. The prevalence of myths and ignorance regarding sexual reproductive health complicates things further.”

While community workers like ASHAs (Accredited Social Health Activists) focus on mother and child health, IDF youth leaders work towards conducting awareness sessions in schools. Such sessions are limited to every two months except when an individual seeks contact with the youth leader. Moumita Roy Das, a youth leader in the Sundarbans region, reaches out to as many as 2,400 women through her sessions on SRH education and awareness.

Disha Didi has been instrumental in teaching SRH

“Pre-chatbot, when I would interact with girls or women participating in our meetings, I found that many didn’t possess as much knowledge about sexual reproductive health. But after they got Disha Didi’s number, there was a marked difference. Not only are they more aware, they are also far more proactive and open-minded in seeking abortion services,” she says.

“An abortion is a complex issue. Many a times husbands and in-laws have a big role in the decision-making,” explains Soumi Chakraborty, program specialist at IDF, who explains that the app has been translated into Bengali to maximise accessibility.

Not only are these women becoming more aware, they are also feeling empowered in multiple ways. “Married women, especially girls aged between 18 to 25 years have become more vocal about their rights”, explains Moumita (the programme head). “There is a behavioural shift in these girls. Lately we have seen young adolescents talking about their rights in front of the panchayat. Just recently a sexual abuse case occurred in a school here and they wanted to report it. This wasn’t the case earlier.”

Disha Didi’s popularity has been catalysed by the spread of technology. “About 80% girls and women have first-hand or second-hand access to a smartphone. The West Bengal government’s Nabanna scholarships support higher education of girls. Some have used the annual sum of Rs. 10,000 to buy smartphones,” says Soumi, adding that even if they don’t possess their own smartphone, most have second-hand access to that of a parent’s or friend’s.

Disha Didi is just one cog in the machinery

If a woman fails to convince her spouse or in-laws on an abortion, it is the youth leaders who step in.

“Disha Didi is mostly for informative purposes and the youth leaders manage the social aspect of the issue. It is the youth leaders who ensure that women choose safe abortion practices; they counsel the family and the couple, as well as connect them with a health facility where they can get safe abortion done. If needed, the youth leader also accompanies them at the health centre.”

The chatbot helps the youth seek answers to questions they would be embarrassed to ask an on-ground youth leader. “In villages in Jharkhand and Madhya Pradesh, boys are also using Disha Didi,” says Anisha.

“Even if the user doesn’t get complete information, the chatbot helps answering questions like, ‘Am I thinking on the right track? Should I be talking to my youth leader a little more about it?’” explains Anisha. She stresses that Disha Didi does not ask for any private information and intends to keep user identity private.

Machine learning and AI need a humane foundation

Since the best large language models are still prone to hallucinations, IDF was mindful of how Disha Didi was created in the first place.

“In 2020, AI was just coming up and it sounded exciting to explore a technology that will learn on its own and autonomously give out a lot of answers. But as an organization, we were very particular that we don’t want our users to be getting any inaccurate answers. Now AI becomes more and more accurate only if you have a large number of queries training the chatbot. This question of letting a wide number of users access the chatbot to gain unverified information created an internal conflict within us,” says Anisha.

To address this, IDF switched to a preset menu in 2023. The chatbot can only handle simple queries that one may have. “Let’s say when you’re panic-stricken, you are likely to ask very extreme questions. You will have to go to the counsellor. Again, the chatbot is not very conversational.”

To make it more interactive, Anisha shares that they have included hyperlinks and links to YouTube videos; their intended audience is not inclined to read text-heavy responses. “At the end of the day, the chatbot cannot help you get a safe abortion or even point to the nearest abortion provider, which some apps can,” she shares.

There’s a wider scope to reach more young people

Disha Didi’s usability is restricted to suggesting to the user to ‘go to a doctor and to the nearest health facility.’ “But can the chatbot assist somebody in that process directly? No, because that is also not completely legal for us to do,” says Anisha.

Disha Didi also fails to recognise typed queries or greetings that may be written in a hybrid kind of language, i.e. Bengali in Roman script. The app is also limited to regions in West Bengal, Jharkhand, and Madhya Pradesh, as IDF has limited resources. Additionally, the country’s linguistic diversity, with as many as 22 national languages, poses a challenge.

As this restricts the chatbot’s applicability to certain language speakers, the chatbot is unable to broaden and assimilate diverse responses, which in turn affects the bot’s ability to learn, adapt and address complex inputs. While IDF is working on enhancing the bot’s ability to recognize and respond to complex inputs by incorporating continuous user feedback, the NGO is clear that the chatbot is only effective in tandem with on-the-ground human presence.

How does this story make you feel? Do you think we can thoughtfully use AI to ease access to sensitive information - in other geographical as well as knowledge areas?

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Disha Didi can be accessed by sending a message on WhatsApp to this number - +919310059988

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It was the summer of 2024, and some parts of India felt hotter than ever. Bhagyashree*, 32, a housekeeper at a bank in Ahmedabad, Gujarat, suffered a heat stroke on her way back home. She had to be hospitalised, and as a result, missed seven days of work, losing around ₹3,500 in wages. In addition, she had to spend ₹400 on medical treatment, a significant amount for daily wage workers like her.

Conditions like these are rising in hops and jumps as we almost touch a global warming of 1.5°C - we are somewhere between 1.3°C and 1.4°C now. It is estimated that at 1.5°C, almost 14% of the world population will be exposed to severe heat waves at least once every 5 years. At a global warming of 2°C, 37% of the word population will be affected. Major part of this impact is borne by wage earners, daily labourers, vendors; the homeless.

In most of India’s informal urban settlements, like where Bhagyashree lives, the summer heat is unbearable. Bhagyashree’s home has tin roofs; poor ventilation trap heat inside their homes, making living conditions harsh.

An Asian Development Bank study from 2022 records that houses in lower-income settlements are overcrowded, not particularly designed for hot climates, and made of low-cost materials that conceal heat. Most such households cannot afford air-conditioning; using a ceiling fan helps only until the temperature is about 45°C with 10% relative humidity or about 40°C with 60% relative humidity.

All of these mean, summers bring additional expenses– higher electricity bills, cost of extra water, cost of applying lime coatings to roofs, cost of loss of income.

What is a heat insurance and how might it help

To cover these expenses and any loss of income triggered by climate-driven extreme heat, several organisations across India have launched a parametric heat insurance program that presently covers 276800 women.

“Volunteers go door to door to raise awareness about climate risks and their impact on livelihoods,” explained Bhavana Maheriya, Program Manager at Mahila Housing Trust (MHT), a grassroot organisation that equips women to improve their overall living conditions. In 2024, MHT partnered with Global Parametrics, Digit Insurance, and Howden India to extend insurance coverage to 26,800 women in the cities of Ahmedabad, Surat, and Vadodara.

The previous year, Self Employed Women’s Association (SEWA), a trade union centre for women workers in the informal sector, in partnership with Climate Resilience for All, Swiss Re, and ICICI Lombard, had already insured over 21,000 women across five districts of Gujarat. SEWA has since scaled up to 34 districts across Gujarat, Maharashtra and Rajasthan, covering 2,50,000 women in 2025.

In 2025, more entities joined these forces: Jan Sahas, a community-centric organisation focused on the well-being of migrant workers extended heat coverage to their members in cities of North India; Bajaj Alliance, a private insurance company, introduced the product to the general public in the commercial market.

How does the insurance work?

UpBeat spoke to representatives from SEWA and MHT. While the two organisations may adopt different methodologies and technologies, the underlying idea for implementation remains the same.

Historical data around daily temperatures from the last few years are analysed; trends such as the maximum temperature and how many times it has occurred in the city are observed. Based on these data, the insurers arrive at a threshold temperature for each city where the insurance schemes are operational.

Dr. Sahil Hebbar, Senior Coordinator at SEWA shares - “A threshold temperature is determined using this historical data, in consultation with our partners. It is selected such that the probability of it being breached is once in two or three years.”

The women who buy the insurances are generally those with whom the NGOs have worked for a number of years through other interventions, such as cool roofs or microfinance. Specially designed games used during focus group discussions plus various awareness programs help women understand how heat affects their health, productivity, and income.

The women are then introduced to the concept of heat insurance and asked whether they would be interested in such a scheme. They are also asked how much they would be willing to pay as a premium. The responses typically ranges between ₹200 and ₹500, explains Bhavana. The NGOs accordingly set the women’s contribution between ₹300 and₹350.

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At SEWA, grassroots leaders scan the bank passbook and Aadhaar or PAN card of the women who applied for buying the insurance; the documents are then submitted to ICICI Lombard, their insurance partner. The premium amount is ₹705, with ₹300 paid by the buyer and ₹405 paid by Climate Resilience for all, one of the partners of the program.

For MHT, Howden India fills in for the second part of the insurance premium after women submit their bank account details along with their Aadhaar or PAN card. ₹352 is deducted directly from their accounts as a partial premium. “All the women enrolled hold an account with the credit cooperative owned by MHT,” Bhavana says.

How much heat is too much heat?

Each city has its own threshold temperature, which stays constant over the years. In Ahmedabad, if the temperature crosses 43.7°C for two consecutive days, each insured woman receives ₹750. If the higher threshold of 44.1°C is breached for two consecutive days, the payout is ₹1,250.

The beneficiary can receive both payouts once per season, with the maximum benefit capped at ₹2,000. Vadodara and Surat have thresholds of 43.6 degrees Celsius and 37.8 degrees Celsius for two consecutive days, respectively.

Whom are these insurances helping?

Payout— the amounts the women receive if the temperature reaches the threshold and they are forced to stay at home— are determined based on an assessment of additional expenses incurred during the summer months.

A white paper published by MHT says that – on May 21 and 22, 2024, the temperature in Ahmedabad crossed 43.7°C for two consecutive days. As a result, payouts were made to around 2,000 women in the city.

A total premium of $1,15,000 was collected from 26,000 women in Ahmedabad, Surat and Vadodara, in 2024. The total payouts made that year were $18,750 to the 2,000 women in Ahmedabad, the white paper says.

Bhagyashree was one of the beneficiaries.

Additionally, in 2024, temperatures triggered in 17 out of 22 districts that SEWA were servicing; 46,339 members received a total payout from SEWA amounting to $350,859.

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The insurance operates between the months of April and June. Applicants must resubmit their bank account and Aadhaar or PAN card details and pay the premium to avail the scheme in the following year.

Women use the payout money for various purposes, such as to invest in their livelihoods by buying fertilisers, equipment, livestock fodder, or to meet health expenses, Sahil added. “It is convenient because there is no surveyor or middle party involved to assess any damage.”

What happens when the temperatures aren’t breached?

While temperatures in Ahmedabad breached the threshold last year, they did not this year. Both Surat and Vadodara saw no threshold breaches in either year.

“This year, a day of extreme heat was often followed by a day of rain, which meant we could not meet the criteria of two consecutive days of temperature breach,” explained Bhavana from MHT. “We received many complaints that the heat was unbearable, yet no payouts were received.”

Selling the heat insurances to women who traditionally have little or no access to formal financial systems or insurance is already a challenge.

Sometimes the data entry process too is fraught with errors, such as incorrect bank details or identity card numbers. Members don’t receive payouts till these are corrected. “At least 10-15 members suffered due to this in both 2024 and 2025,” Sahil adds.

Another challenge lies in data discrepancies.

MHT relies on data from Aerify, a UK-based temperature monitoring system, to set their thresholds. Even though the Indian Meteorological Department’s (IMD) data might seem to be more reliable, it’s behind a paywall and we don’t have the funds to access it,” says Bhavana. MHT claims to have found a two to three-degree difference between the two datasets. “If we had used IMD data, the thresholds would likely have been triggered in those cities,” she says. MHT is keen on ways to collaborate with IMD in future.

Can the program run year after year?

As of now, the insurance premium is heavily subsidised, but this may not be possible to achieve year after year.

Without subsidies, the premium can rise to ₹700, which in many cases is higher than a day’s wage. Moreover, payouts are not guaranteed every year. “We hope that as women begin to see the benefits of the insurance, their willingness to contribute will increase, and they will eventually cover the full premium themselves. It’s a long-term behavioural change,” reflects Bhavana.

“It’s not going to be financially sustainable if it remains just an insurance product,” echoed Sahil. “If the insurance doesn’t trigger, and it’s not designed to trigger every year, members will start questioning the benefits.”

What might make this insurance support work?

Sahil adds: “We need to look at building a corpus that can be invested wisely, with the interest accrued used to keep the program running sustainably. The model could also scale rapidly if it’s linked with government health schemes.”

What is needed is an insurance-plus model that integrates climate-health responses, early warning systems, adaptation and mitigation measures, and even mental health support. There’s a need for a bouquet of services that ensure members continue to receive value and are encouraged to stay invested in the program, even when payouts aren’t triggered.

“The idea is to find a sweet spot where the insurance companies don’t go bankrupt, and the value of the insurance is received in the community,” he says. “If the community receives the other services, they are less likely to be discouraged when the payout does not occur.

Despite MHT’s presence in ten Indian states, expansion has been slow. “We haven’t been able to collaborate with financial institutions in other cities, which has limited our ability to scale,” said Bhavana.

Parametric heat insurance does not feature in the heat action plans of any Indian city.

Meanwhile, in Ahmedabad, Bhagyashree used her payout from last year to pay this year’s premium.

** Bhagyashree, like many others in our country, goes by one name.

The heat insurance scheme seems to be a good start to support our daily wagers. How else can the work force be supported when the temperatures soar or extreme weather phenomena, like flash floods and cyclones, disrupt our livelihoods and daily income?

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A. Mohanasundari, 39, confidently navigates the congested streets close to Ayanavaram, in Chennai. The feeling of freedom, from being able to work on her own terms, adds a lightness to her being.

“The first day I took my vehicle to the auto stand, the men told me to leave, telling me that this wasn’t a woman’s job. Every morning now that I turn on the meter, I remember the rejection and it never fails to strengthen my resolve to work harder, “she says.

For over 15 years, Mohana has struggled to establish herself as an entrepreneur, first as a beautician and later as the owner of a fast-food stand. When the pandemic hit, she shifted gears and took up driving.

But a persistent gender bias in Chennai’s transportation system subjects women drivers to routine harassment. This was wreaking havoc for Mohana and for many other women auto drivers like her.

In April 2024, Mohanasundari and 45 women auto drivers, many of whom were single mothers, founded the Veera Pengal Munnetra Sangam (VPMS), translated as “association for the progress of heroic women,” to create a strong space for themselves, in Chennai. Mohana assumed the role of the president of VPMS.

Soon, other women gig workers in the transport and food industry started joining in. “Most of us are single parents with daughters. Driving allows us to safely pick and drop our school-going children on time without relying on public transport,” Mohana explained.

Why build a cooperative?

Vijay calls himself a community organiser. After completing a certificate course in Cooperative Development & Management from the St Mary’s University in Halifax, Canada, and between working with a US-based tech firm, first in the US and now from Chennai, he thrives on planning, strategizing and building enterprises. Together with two other enthusiasts, he founded the Alliance for Community Empowerment (ACE) in August 2023 to formalise this goal.

While in the US, Vijay financially supported the Association for Non-Traditional Employment For Women (ANEW), a Chennai-based organisation that trained women in driving commercial vehicles, among other things. When he relocated to Chennai almost three years ago, he visited their facility at the first opportunity, and realised that though the organisation helps get women drivers their licenses after the training, they cannot really help them set up their businesses.

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“Soon after, I happened to board a woman-driven auto, and started talking to her. She told me about all the problems they were facing from the male drivers and in building their presence,” he said. Over time, he met more of them and heard similar stories. “I felt I could do something about this,” he says, and asked them to meet for a brainstorming session in January 2023. “Eight of them turned up at my home eager to take things forward,” Vijay says.

A cooperative is a community of dreamers

The women already had a solid WhatsApp community, as they were trying to join forces and look after each other. “We have a mix of experienced and new drivers. Some have been driving for 25 years and others taught themselves,” says Vijaya Lakshmi, a VPMS member.

The women started meeting every month, sometimes twice, to learn, explore, and network. On May 1, 2023, around 25 of them decided to register VPMS as an association under the Society Act of 1933, with the help of Vijay and ACE. “I remember the date very well because it was the International Labour Day. Afterwards we all went out to have lunch,” Vijay remembered. Finally, on April 4, 2024, the formal registration happened.

“My role was only to provide relevant information on the various possibilities for the organisation. I wanted to help find a long-term, structural solution that would enable them to achieve their objectives,” Vijay added. “It’s they who decide.”

The women eventually realised that while the Society Act has very progressive bylaws that are empowering for the individual, it doesn’t allow them to take on business opportunities or contracts as a group.

“They got together again to find clarity on their visions for VPMS, detailing the outputs, leadership aspects, operations and functions within the organisations,” he adds. Gradually, they decided that registering as a cooperative is the best way forward, as that empowers them as a group and gives individuals freedom to work with other organisations.

Once that was decided, the women needed more clarity to execute their plans. Vijay and ACE organised a rigorous training over five Saturdays to help them understand the various aspects of running a cooperative. Next, they formed smaller groups and worked with experts to fine tune those aspects. “Some studied bylaws, some worked on the business plans and the rest learnt more of the leadership roles,” Vijay describes.

This entire exercise lasted until December 2024, seven months since forming the association and a total of one and a half years of exploration and building a dream. From confusion, chaos, and existential crisis, a group of women were emerging who were cautious yet hopeful, proud, and confident, ready to leap.

“Since they earned a steady monthly income, the 30 core members invested Rs 3000 each, which helped with the registration, starting their cooperative bank account, and gave them the entrepreneurial strength to bid to large organisations for long-term transport gigs,” Vijay explains.

What can a cooperative achieve?

From 45 in May 2023, VPMS is now 400 members strong. Members better understand their needs and possibilities of their cooperative; Almost 70 are core members paying the union fee each month.

VPMS members can access shared ride opportunities arranged through WhatsApp, group contracts, and fair pricing negotiations. The cooperative offers emergency funding, legal support, and collective lobbying for difficult situations, such as in cases of harassment, legal concerns, or car issues.

Members receive instructions in driving, financial literacy, and insurance enrollment from time to time. VPMS has a full-time lawyer to handle their legal matters. New drivers join the cooperative through VPMS’s outreach programs or via current members.

Since they present themselves as a single entity, VPMS can collaborate with various organisations, enroll in insurance programs, such as Kalaignar and Post Office Insurance, and operate a circular loan scheme that increases in value from ₹10,000 to ₹50,000 contingent upon timely repayment.

Additionally, members can now share needs collectively, be they asking for government assistance or negotiating with the Chennai Metro Rail Limited (CMRL) and Chennai Unified Metro Transportation Authority (CUMTA) for dedicated auto stands for women drivers.

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What’s there to learn for us?

In this whole scheme of things, the strength of unity among the women is key.

In May 2024, ACE organised a five-day storytelling camp for 60 auto drivers. Through various creative exercises, the women looked at their lives and struggles, wrote poetry and songs based on these experiences. They revised, rewrote, and performed those. If the women knew each other before, this exercise brought them closer, in a tighter bond.

Vijay believes this exercise was instrumental in the team winning first place in the COOP Pitch 2024 competition at IIM Kozhikode, organized by the International Cooperative Alliance-Asia Pacific (ICA - AP), in October, last year. Emerging as the winner from 70 entrants from around India, the cooperative took home Rs. 50,000 in prize money, national recognition, and year-long mentorship.

We still hear - women drive autos?

“Many passengers would be surprised and some would even ask us, do women even drive?” says Leela. Driving at night is no longer as safe as it was 20 years ago. “There are issues with street lights, some neighborhoods have very narrow roads,’ she adds. There aren’t proper restroom facilities; stigma, abuse and societal pressures still exist.

“Parking at auto stands is still a major challenge as male drivers insist that those spaces are exclusively theirs,” says Mohana. Parking their autos when accompanying their families to hospitals, malls, or restaurants due to a lack of designated spaces is another challenge.

The success of VPMS is equally a story of grit and right mentorship. Vijay and his partners at ACE are mastering ways to formalise and unite marginalised labour into cooperative societies, preparing them for entrepreneurial success. ACE continues to help VPMS recognize and address gaps, navigate access to loans, contracts, and formalities, utilize government schemes, and create a brand for themselves.

VPMS is waiting for the government departments to send back their approved registration documents, which will seal the existence of the cooperative. When that happens, VPMS will be the first cooperative in the transportation sector in Tamil Nadu that is owned, managed and run by women.

Now the way forward includes a continued focus on wealth generation for the collective, and building a strong social recognition through using social media.

This is a work in progress, a forever journey.

What do you think of this story? What else could the women drivers have done? Can this be a solution for championing women drivers on Indian streets?

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Abandoned by her father even before she was born, Sandhya Sardar is still waiting for justice at her home in Kankandighi village in West Bengal’s Mathurapur - II block, about three hours by road from Kolkata. Tentatively around 45 years old now, Sandhya never managed to go to school or find formal work.

She sustains herself and her mother who has suffered a cognitive impairment after a stroke seven years ago by selling off portions of their government rations, plucking saag from around her house, and catching puti mach — small freshwater fish abundantly found in the Sundarbans, the riverine region where she lives.

Since 2000, Sandhya and her mother have been fighting a court case against the man who abandoned them to remarry. In those initial days, the Sramajibi Mahila Samiti led by the West Bengal-based apolitical trade union of Paschimbanga Khet Majoor Samiti (PBKMS) tried to bring the two parties– Sandhya’s mother and father– together to work out a middle ground where the man would pay them a one-time maintenance for sustenance.

The court, in 2010, ordered the man to pay a maintenance of Rs 1600 per month for Sandhya and her mother. Inclusive of arrears, the amount came to some Rs 20,000 per year, which the duo had received just once. No other financial relief, no further payment ever.

Every time the women complain to the court, arrest warrants are issued against the man. He prefers to serve jail time instead of paying up although he has the means to take care of Sandhya and her mother.

“We would often wake up to a severed cow head, and human excreta around the house. When my mother pursued the case with the help of the samiti, he beat her up badly and threw her in the pond,” Sandhya’s eyes well up as she says. She leans on her mother at their mud house which has no electricity, as the elderly woman twirls a stick, pauses from time to time to ask questions about the past or to affectionately pat Sandhya’s head.

A few weeks ago, when Sandhya had to attend the court hearing in the Diamond Harbour session court, almost two hours from their village, she had to borrow Rs 120 from a neighbour.

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What is salishi?

Arbitration or salishi as it is locally called is often used to work out negotiations between two parties in rural Bengal. The mahila samiti has 550 confirmed members who conduct salishis in 12 of the state’s 23 districts.

Typically seen as part of the local governance system, it is prevalent across India, where political parties, community elders, apolitical trade unions, and NGOs resort to this form of mediation as an alternative, and often as a complementary form of the judicial system.

Legal processes in India are often lengthy, and people frequently seek quicker resolutions. According to government data available till March this year, over 4.6 crore cases are pending in lower courts, over 62 lakh across High Courts and over 80,000 cases at the Supreme Court in India.

How effective is this mediation?

For all these years, the mahila samiti fought the legal battle on behalf of Sandhya and her mother, giving them the confidence to not give up on the decades-long battle. The samiti intervened every time the man harassed and threatened the duo, continuously following up with the police on the case. Yet the samiti failed to mediate in this case as the man refused to take any responsibility of Sandhya and her mother.

The mahila samiti might have failed to settle Sandhya’s case but that doesn’t stop people from thronging the PBKMS office in Raidighi, a prominent village near Kankandighi, where Geeta Mudi (60) has been conducting mediations for decades.

Geeta says that salishi has helped foster an ecosystem to support women who are facing everyday challenges in living a dignified life. Salishi works not only for marital disputes and domestic violence cases but also for property disputes and community issues such as that of the illegal sale of alcohol in the area. “Women are always living in fear. Domestic fights start after husbands come back home drunk. The girls in the village are scared to go to tuitions in the evening,” says Geeta.

Women from the samiti attempt to shut down the illegal liquor shops that have mushroomed in the region by staging protests, disrupting sales at the shops, and regularly visiting the district administration with requests to take action against those selling liquor. They also try to create awareness among the police, district officials and young men in the village on the consequences of alcohol abuse and its linkage with domestic violence. “We are trying hard to fight the open sale of alcohol in the villages,” Geeta adds.

Sunil Bhandari (name changed), 35, has been living apart from his wife for three years now after he beat her up badly once. He suspected her of having an extramarital affair. “I would be away working in Kolkata for four days a week. When I would return home, people would fill me up with rumours about my wife’s possible affair. On one occasion, there was a young man who had come to meet her, and I beat them up both. She fell and injured her waist. The next day I took her to the doctor, and since then she chose to stay with her parents’” says Sunil.

Between April 2024 and March 2025, the PBKMS’s Sramajibi Mahila Samiti received 240 cases of which 178 cases were resolved, and in six cases, the two parties resolved issues between themselves - a dirty, greenish register kept the records. The association charges Rs 100 for the application fee for registering a complaint.

At least 70 percent of the cases with the mahila samiti pertain to domestic violence within marriages. The National Family Health Survey - 5 suggests that 32 percent of married women have faced domestic violence at some point in their marital lives. Besides being beaten up, emotional and sexual violence are other common forms of violence. And yet only 14 percent of women have sought support and fought against it.

What does justice for women mean?

Feminist historian Uma Chakravarti points out it is important to understand the complex realities of gendered experiences under which women seek alternative forms of justice. “When we talk about mahila samitis granting restorative justice or finding a middle ground for domestic violence cases, the context in which women seek justice needs to be understood,” she says.

Women are engaged in reproductive labour in their married households. When they face abuse, returning to their paternal homes isn’t usually viable. Instead, what they seek is safety within their married households, which is why they approach the samitis,” adds the historian.

Neutral does not mean we side with the wrong

Now looking for reconciliation, Sunil has been visiting his in-laws’ place repeatedly. But Namita Halder, a PBKMS activist who has been mediating in domestic violence cases for over two decades now, informs Sunil that she visited his in-laws’ house independently during fact-finding, and the wife is not yet willing to return. Namita explains to Sunil the repercussions of his abusive act and how his being an alcoholic has also affected his wife’s trust towards him.

“Men visiting the mahila samiti and looking for reconciliation is a welcome change. We try to stay neutral in such cases but it does not mean we support the wrongdoing. We are with the one who is suffering, and strive to find the right balance,” says Namita.

For Jayanta Kumar Pandit, 46, a veterinarian, the purpose of the visit to the samiti office was to find a way to handle his alimony case. He says he is not in a position to pay more maintenance to his wife, as directed by the court. The samiti advises him to pay up the pending amount while the case goes on.

Vigilance and accessibility are key

While the mahila samiti feels salishi helps them bring down the severity of the domestic violence, the samiti doesn’t abandon the cases once they reach reconciliation and women agree to return to their husbands’ households. Instead, the samiti forms committees in the villages from where the cases were reported and keep vigil on the women’s well-being.

Kaninika Bose Ghosh, the state secretary of the All India Democratic Women’s Association (AIDWA) – the women’s wing of the CPIM(M) says “Women come to us for resolutions. Our lawyers have successfully negotiated and brought peace in many cases of marital dispute.”

Which way does the balance tilt?

While salishi serves its purpose as a community-based support system, it comes with its set of limitations, which the activists and unions recognise. Media reports show how community-based negotiations often held by village elders in kangaroo style courts are detrimental for women’s rights.

In salishi, mediators do not take any moral high ground. Neither do they hand out punishments. They try to find a middle ground and ensure some stability for the women seeking solutions.

The mahila samiti never take criminal cases or those pertaining to rape and murders. Namita points out: “Our stand is clear. There will be no arbitration in cases of rape and murder. We will only stand with the victims and survivors in these cases to file police complaints, and follow the course of law.”

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She was only 13 when she was abducted on her way to school in West Bengal’s 24 North Parganas district. A boy who had been stalking her drugged her and took her hundreds of miles away - to Gujarat.

For months, Deeksha* (name changed) endured relentless abuse at the hands of her stalker and two other men. The violence left her so physically weakened that they occasionally summoned a nurse to treat her injuries. It was during one such visit, when the men briefly left, that Deeksha pleaded for help. The nurse alerted her family, and the police traced her location. She was rescued and brought home.

But the ordeal didn’t end with her rescue. Back in her village, Deeksha was met with silence and stigma. “My parents didn’t let me stay, fearing the society would never accept me,” she recalls. At a shelter, she discovered she was pregnant. With support from a local NGO, Basirhat Initiative for Rural Dedication (BIRD), she underwent an abortion, and her parents were counseled about trauma and acceptance.

Climate change is worsening India’s trafficking records

The Sundarbans, a fragile mangrove delta spanning India and Bangladesh, is one of the most climate-vulnerable regions in the world. Rising seas and increasingly severe cyclones are eroding livelihoods. Families that once depended on farming or fishing now face shrinking incomes and chronic poverty.

In this vacuum, traffickers exploit desperation.

Girls are lured with promises of jobs or marriage and taken across states or across borders. According to Sundarbans police records, nearly 3,700 women and girls went missing in 2023, and over 2,100 of them remained untraced by the end of the year. By mid-2024, nearly 3,000 additional cases had been reported, as per the latest figures available from law enforcement.

“Trafficking is one of the biggest problems in our area right now. More and more girls and young women are being trafficked, and it’s mostly because of climate change, poverty, and lack of awareness,” says Bikash Das, a founding member of the Basirhat Initiative for Rural Dedication (BIRD).

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India officially has 788 Anti-Human Trafficking Units (AHTUs), which are task forces composed of officials from the police, the Women and Child Welfare Department, and other departments, as well as representatives of the NGOs working in the area and legal counselors. These units are supposed to rescue victims and build databases on traffickers but most are under-resourced.

The response: A safety net

In such trafficking-prone villages of West Bengal, BIRD has become a rare lifeline. What began over 15 years ago as a small effort by local volunteers has grown into a trusted network that families now turn to in moments of crisis. At the heart of this network is Bikash, who started volunteering when he was 14. “We have grown up seeing these problems. I knew I wanted to help, but soon realized it was too big to face alone. That’s why we built an organization,” he says.

BIRD works along the Basirhat border and in the Sundarbans focusing on three areas : prevention, rescue, and rehabilitation of trafficked victims. The team works closely with panchayats, police, Border Security Forces, and AHTUs to protect minors from being trafficked. They offer bridge courses for school dropouts and encourage them to resume education or pursue vocational training.

BIRD volunteers counsel families on the harms of child marriage and child labour, about traffickers’ false promises about jobs and marriages, and convince parents to keep their daughters in school. Those rescued are guided toward safer paths and sustainable livelihoods. Survivors are offered legal support, emotional counseling, and help in accessing government schemes and receive rightful compensation - all small but vital steps toward rebuilding lives ruptured by exploitation.

How BIRD really works

Their work often starts with a whisper, a tip from a neighbor, a worried parent, even a girl’s sudden absence from school. Acting quickly, BIRD members coordinate with the police and, when necessary, step into perilous roles as decoy customers to pull girls back from traffickers before they vanish.

At railway stations and bus stops, BIRD staff and volunteers run quiet but constant vigilance hubs. Many rescues begin here, with a keen-eyed volunteer noticing a young girl led away by a stranger.

In a landscape where official systems often fail, BIRD’s blend of swift intervention, community trust, and continuous vigilance has made it one of the few bulwarks against trafficking. Such actions are made possible by close community integration. “When a girl goes missing, families first come to us, not the police,” Bikash says. This trust allows BIRD to act quickly, often before cases escalate.

Not built in a day

This trust took time to build - by being present, by listening to families, by returning to check on the survivor from time to time after a rescue.

Bikash works alongside schoolteachers and local leaders, offers support to parents who lost children, and shows through action that he’s there for the long haul. His willingness to take risks– from confronting traffickers to joining raids – convinced communities that he is an ally fighting for their daughters’ safety.

For example, in 2024, BIRD intervened in the planned marriage of a 16-year-old whose family had lost their home due to Cyclone Yaas. The parents, facing crippling debt, saw marrying their minor girl off as an escape route. BIRD provided emergency relief and persuaded the family to re-enroll their daughter in school.

Evidence of change

BIRD estimates it has rescued or prevented the trafficking of more than 500 girls since its founding. While official data is patchy, local police confirm that collaboration with NGOs like BIRD has been critical in dozens of rescues. “If there is specific information from any NGO, we conduct the raid and a rescue operation jointly,” explains a former police inspector from West Bengal’s AHTU, who wishes to stay anonymous.

After her rescue and rehabilitation, Deeksha, still reeling from the trauma of being trafficked and raped, was about to be forcibly married by her parents. She was 17 at the time. She sought BIRD’s intervention to stop the wedding. Today, she is back in school, training to become a nurse. “Now I fearlessly share my story in the community. What happened to me shouldn’t happen to anyone else,” she says.

Deeksha now works with BIRD, mentors young girls and leads awareness efforts in her own community. “If something happens in my community, I step in, listen, and take action. With BIRD’s support, I help others get justice, too,” she says.

Challenges and limits

“We often receive threats from traffickers because we push for their punishment and try to secure compensation for victims,” says Bikash. “Political pressure allows trafficking to continue without much action being taken. Whenever we step in, we are met with resistance and constant questioning about why we are there, which makes it hard to carry out our work. If we insist, the political pushback only grows stronger.”

Funding remains precarious too; grassroots groups like BIRD often depend on small donations and inconsistent project grants.

Nor can they address root causes alone. Climate-driven poverty, lack of livelihood opportunities, and porous borders continue to fuel trafficking networks. This gap between systemic drivers and individual interventions underscores why, despite rescue efforts, survivors remain vulnerable to falling back into trafficking networks.

He stressed on the urgent need for stronger government support to create sustainable rehabilitation pathways that can truly help survivors rebuild their lives.

What we learned

Despite all hardships, BIRD’s model shows how anti-trafficking efforts can work when anchored in local trust. Its vigilance hubs, partnerships with law enforcement, and survivor-focused counseling create a low-cost, community-embedded system that can be adapted and replicated in other high-risk regions.

Already, similar grassroots–state collaborations are emerging in Nepal’s border districts and Bangladesh’s coastal belts, proving the approach can travel across contexts.

“The lesson from the Sundarbans is that prevention works best when local communities are empowered to be first responders,” says Amrita.

Does this article convince you that thorough vigilance, working together with the local law enforcement groups, education and mainstreaming can help incidences of trafficking in other vulnerable districts too?

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Do you know of other ways that can help prevent trafficking? Or rescue women and children trafficked for labour, bring them back into the society, help heal the trauma?

“The first time I heard the word impure was in relation to my body. I had my first period and I was only 14,” recalls Priyanka Budhathoki, now a communications specialist. “I was sent to my aunt’s house and was forced to hide for seven days. I lost my self-esteem.”

When Priyanka had her first period, sometime in 1997, chhaupadi was a common practice in Nepal. It is a socio-religious practice that requires menstruating women to stay in isolation, often in a separate hut, called ghot; it bars them from entering kitchens and temples, participating in auspicious events, touching pickle bottles and water sources, sleeping on beds, even having nutritious foods and dairy.

Milder forms of chhaupadi might still be prevalent in certain remote regions. A study as recent as in 2022 found that of the girls surveyed, 17.8% missed school for their entire cycle, every month. “Over the years, I met girls who were forced to stay out of school just because they were on their periods,” Priyanka says.

Breaking the silence..

These collective experiences compelled Priyanka to team up with journalist Shristi Kafle, in 2020, and launch Nepal’s first menstrual health podcast, Period Kaa Kura, which loosely translates to ‘Period Talks’. The podcast challenges myths, confronts taboos, and encourages dialogue around menstruation in the Nepali society through candid conversations.

The podcast debunks menstrual myths through personal stories shared by guests and listeners, and creates space for diverse voices. Priyanka believes that change begins by normalising our periods as a biological function. “We aren’t against tradition. But if our culture is dehumanising us as women, it is our right to stand up against it,” she says. 

In the first episode, Shristi and Priyanka share their first period experience. Shristi speaks about how she was kept isolated in a room that she couldn’t exit, and was barred from seeing her brothers and father. “I would think a lot—what’s wrong with me, what’s wrong with my body. I was fearful about what’s happening inside my body,” she opens up in this episode.

Work done so far..

In the past five years, Period Kaa Kura has grown to 90 episodes. But the starting was tough.

Priyanka remembers that a big deterrent was their own fear and anxiety about speaking on the topic. “Before worrying on what the society will think about the podcast, we had to battle our own minds— dealing with years of internalised shame,” she says.

It didn’t help that people sarcastically asked, “How many episodes would you be able to produce on such a topic? There won’t be many things to speak about after 10 episodes.”

It’s now proven that there’s much more to discuss about menstruation and menstrual health. The podcast has covered a wide range of topics—including endometriosis, menopause, menstruation among people with disabilities, cerebral palsy and periods, hygiene practices, and more.

How do we measure success?

“After all these years, listener feedback makes us feel that we might have been able to erase some of the belief behind period making women dirty. This is very important for us,” says Priyanka.

She mentions an instance where a mother from Kathmandu celebrated her 10-year-old daughter’s first period. The mother’s decision to choose joy over isolation despite pressure from family, and openly discuss menstruation with her daughter and the father reflects a growing confidence and openness around the subject.

While such stories may not be a direct result of the podcast alone, the founders believe Period Kaa Kura has played a crucial role in challenging the long-standing stigma.

“When mothers and daughters start breaking the silence together, when they choose celebration over shame, that’s exactly the kind of shift we’ve been trying to encourage,” shares Priyanka.

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An episode titled No more period tax please, streamed on August 3, 2021, became significant as the duo touched upon how much money women spend on buying products like sanitary napkins in a year and a lifetime. Sanitary pads were considered luxury products, and were levied a total of 18 per cent tax in Nepal. In this episode, the speakers explains why sanitary pads should be considered essential healthcare products, much like medicines and contraceptives.

Later that month, two law students filed a writ petition to the Supreme Court of Nepal to challenge the taxes. In June this year (2025), after four years of legal battle, the Supreme Court ordered removal of taxes on sanitary pads, making them more accessible for women.

In another episode, Period In the Dark, a blind woman recounts her experiences of navigating her periods. Other episodes talk about menopause and menstrual health, in general.

There’s room for more..

Over the years, multiple research and data have revealed how women’s pain is not taken seriously and how women have lesser access to medication and treatment. The absence of a Nepali word for endometriosis—a disease in which tissue similar to the lining of the uterus grows outside the uterus, causing severe pelvic pain— considerably trivialises it.

“A complex disease such as endometriosis often gets reduced to just period pain. This shows how deeply silence is built into our culture, and how hard it can be to bring nuance into the conversation,” says Priyanka. The vocabulary of women’s health, across languages and dialects, needs research, documentation, and expansion; women’s pain need to be acknowledged, seen, studied, and treated well.

There’s also concern on the sustainability of the podcast. “It is a personal initiative with no external financial support. That means we’re constantly navigating ways of continuing the production of episodes, distributing them, and reaching new listeners without dedicated resources,” the duo says.

Even after five years of the podcast, the stigma sometimes makes it hard to find guests. In places where silence around menstruation is still deep or where chhaupadi is still practised—starting conversations can be nearly impossible. In such contexts, alternative tools such as graphic resources like Menstrupedia, or its Nepali counterpart, Kumari’s Adventure With Her Moon Cycle, small group talks on menstruation, and conversations at home become essential.

Period Kaa Kura being a digital program, accessible online from anywhere on the globe, has helped Nepal counter period taboos by connecting with listeners and making them a part of the discourse from anywhere in the world. Delivered in Nepali, it is easily accessible to those with limited reading materials or literacy. Priyanka acknowledges the work of the organisations that do the heavy lifting on the ground, or contributes creatively on various other aspects of menstrual health.

Despite challenges, the podcast is moving forward.

“Listeners write to us, stories find their way in, and voices that were once silent step up to speak. That community energy is what sustains Period Kaa Kura and makes us believe the conversation is only going to get louder,” Priyanka signs off.

Culturally sensitive education around sexual and reproductive health is being offered through various forms of art and media. Are these working? Do we need more such initiatives? What do you think?

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