P Narayanan Unny, the farmer and conservationist who brought global attention to Navara, Kerala’s rare medicinal rice, passed away on the night of December 11 at his ancestral home in Karukamanikalam, Chittur. He was sixty-seven.
His death closes a remarkable chapter in the story of traditional rice cultivation in Kerala, for no single individual shaped the destiny of a grain as profoundly as he did. From the quiet banks of the Shokanashini river in Chittur, which forms part of Palakkad’s storied rice bowl, Unny fought a long and patient battle to rescue Navara from the edge of disappearance and return it to a place of dignity in fields, homes, and Ayurvedic traditions.
Navara is not an ordinary crop. It is a two-thousand-year-old rice variety that carries medicinal value, ritual memory, and cultural depth. Yet by the 1990s, it had shrunk into a faint agricultural whisper. Hybrid varieties had taken over. Pure seeds had vanished. Farmers no longer saw value in a fragile rice that yielded little and demanded intense labour. Fields once rich with red paddy lay silent. Even the agricultural research stations held no uncontaminated stock.
It was into this moment of near loss that Unny stepped when he returned to Chittur in the mid-nineties. At that time, he was a marketing professional in Kozhikode with a stable career in the computer industry. The death of his father and the slow decline of the family’s 125-year-old farm forced a turning point. The Land Ceiling Act and shrinking farm holdings had already reshaped agriculture in Palakkad. Many families had abandoned native rice varieties for market-friendly hybrids. Yet Unny chose a different inheritance. He decided to rebuild a farm that had lost its earlier abundance and to revive a grain that had lost its place in the larger agricultural imagination.
His work began quietly. He started by searching for pure Navara seeds. Very few farmers even remembered them. Some offered mixed seeds that carried traces of hybrid contamination. Others had abandoned the variety altogether. At last, he gathered a handful of grains and planted them in fifteen cents’ worth of land. It was an act that required patience and humility. Some seeds sprouted. Some failed. Some produced stalks too weak to hold. But season after season, he saved the few clean grains until a small but reliable stock emerged. What followed was a slow expansion of confidence. The purified seeds were planted across his twelve-acre farm, which gradually transformed into the largest Navara cultivation area in the state.
What set Unny apart was not only the scale of conservation but also the method. Navara is a delicate rice with a sixty-day life cycle. It bends easily, breaks easily, and falls prey to pests that flourish in Palakkad’s humid climate. Chemical pesticides were never an option because Navara is used in Ayurvedic therapies like Navaara Kizhi, and purity is central to its medicinal value. This left him with only one path. He experimented with biological controls. Tulsi and marigolds lined the bunds. Neem mixtures were prepared. Traditional fermented fish solutions were sprayed. These helped, but only mildly. When the pests continued to defeat every known practice, he responded with a method that became a signature of his farm. He trained workers to sweep the paddy with butterfly nets every morning and evening. The nets glided over the red stalks as if brushing them with care. The workers combed the fields by hand until the pests were removed. It was perhaps the most labour-intensive pest control technique in the country, yet it succeeded. For Unny, this was a lesson in the kind of attention traditional crops demand and deserve.
As the years passed, the Navara Eco Farm evolved into a living school of biodiversity. Birds returned. Butterflies multiplied. Small mammals returned to the fields. The soil regained texture and depth. Students, scientists, agricultural officers, conservationists, documentary filmmakers, and chefs began visiting Chittur to understand what Unny had built. The farm slowly turned into one of the most important sites in Kerala for agrobiodiversity education. He introduced visitors to dozens of rice landraces that once flourished in the state, including Jeerakasala, Gandhakasala, Palakkadan Matta, and Pokkali. Each held a story of taste, resilience, and cultural significance. Yet Navara remained his central mission because it stood at the intersection of ecology, health, and heritage.
The medicinal strength of Navara was well known in the Ayurvedic tradition. The grain is used in poultices for muscular injuries, in warm boluses for rheumatic pain, and in porridges for convalescence and immunity building. During the Malayalam month of Karkidakam, when families traditionally undertake body cleansing and rejuvenation, Navara porridge has been a staple. The grain contains nutrients that differ from those in polished commercial rice. Its red bran carries antioxidants, and the texture suits therapeutic preparations. For centuries, it was cherished as a healing food, a fact that modern markets had forgotten until its revival.
Unny understood that for Navara to survive, it needed more than cultivation. It needed identity and protection. He worked with farmers, millers and agricultural institutions to secure a Geographical Indication that tied the rice to Palakkad. The registration gave Navara a legal and cultural anchor. It also gave farmers a reason to stay with the crop despite its low yield and high labour cost. The GI tag became a sign of authenticity for consumers seeking traditional foods. It also opened the possibility of niche markets abroad.
By the early years of the last decade, the recognition of Unny’s work began to extend beyond the state. The Protection of Plant Varieties and Farmers’ Rights Authority honoured him for conserving a traditional plant genome. His meticulous documentation and farm practices were shared at biodiversity conferences. A Spanish film crew spent weeks in Chittur filming Navara's journey for European audiences. A cluster of farmers began preparing Navara flakes and powder for export under the guidance of the Union Commerce Ministry. Unny presented the story of Navara at conferences that brought together scientists and policymakers. His voice remained gentle but firm. He argued that native grains were not romantic relics but future foods, especially in an era of climate stress and nutritional insecurity.
Yet the farm remained vulnerable. Wildlife began to reclaim the region. Wild boars ravaged the fields. Peacocks pecked at tender plants. Labour costs rose. Climate shifts threatened planting schedules. The economics of Navara cultivation rarely improved. Still, he persisted. He believed that every grain saved was a line of history preserved. He believed the soil repaid those who honoured it. He believed that modern agriculture needed the wisdom of older systems to remember its purpose.
Navara’s place within Kerala’s rice heritage was strengthened through his efforts. The state’s landraces have always carried remarkable qualities. Jeerakasala and Gandhakasala bring fragrance to ethnic cuisines. Pokkali survives in saline waters where other crops fail. Palakkadan Matta is central to the region’s food culture. Navara stands apart because it is medicinal and ritualistic. It belongs to the treatment room as much as to the kitchen. It carries healing in every grain and meaning in every colour. Its revival was therefore not merely an agricultural act. It was an act of cultural restoration.
The legacy of P. Narayanan Unny rests on this understanding. He proved that the conservation of a single crop can reshape the imagination of an entire region. He showed that a traditional variety, once dismissed as uneconomical, could find new value in a world seeking healthier, more sustainable foods. He taught a generation of young farmers that rice is not only a staple but a story. He offered his fields as a space where biodiversity, traditional knowledge, and modern curiosity could meet without conflict.
His funeral in Chittur brought together farmers, local officials, students, and neighbours who had watched the slow miracle of his work. They spoke of his humility. They spoke of his conviction. They spoke of the red grain that now grows across fields where it had disappeared decades earlier. They spoke of the quiet pride he carried when the first bags of Navara flakes were prepared for export. They spoke of his deep attachment to the river, the soil, and the workers who became his companions in labour.
P Narayanan Unny, the keeper of Navara, has left the fields. But the fields he saved will continue to speak his name.