If any forest flower exposes the contradictions of India’s development model, it is Mahua (Madhuca latifolia). For generations, this pale, fragrant blossom has been the heartbeat of tribal life, deeply entwined with food, medicine, memory, ritual, and community cohesion among communities such as the Munda, Santhal, Ho, and Oraon of Jharkhand, and the Kondh and Saora of Odisha. It is more than a forest product; it is a living chronicle of identity, resilience, and tradition.
Yet, in the past two years, as Mahua has dazzled global markets, the very communities that nurtured it for centuries have been largely excluded from every structure of profit.
In 2022, 7.5 tonnes of food-grade Mahua flowers from Chhattisgarh were exported to the United Kingdom, making international headlines. By 2023, Madhya Pradesh had signed a 200-tonne export deal with a British company.
Governments hailed these deals as triumphs of tribal-led prosperity; yet, for those who actually climb the trees to gather the flowers, the reality has remained starkly different.
While Mahua’s global fame has soared, the domestic collectors who have nurtured it for generations remain trapped in grinding poverty.
Prices have risen from Rs 30-35 per kilo to Rs 100-110, hailed as historic gains; yet, for harvesters, Mahua provides only 10-20 days of seasonal income, contributing barely 10-15 per cent of a family’s annual earnings. Jagged forest paths, broken roads, and limited access to official procurement centres force most collectors to sell their hard-won flowers to middlemen for Rs 45-60 per kilo. The trees themselves grow on tribal land, but the profits flow to government offices, forest federations, transporters, traders, and private exporters.
Lalita Munda of Gumla recalls climbing tall Mahua trees at dawn, returning home with aching shoulders and blistered hands, only to sell her flowers to a middleman for Rs 50 per kilo, while traders and exporters earn hundreds per kilo abroad. Sanjay Oraon from West Singhbhum spends days in the forest during the scorching summer, his children missing school, earning just enough to feed them one meal a day. Meanwhile, Kondh women in Kalahandi, who ferment Mahua liquor for local rituals, find that rising prices have made sacred traditions unaffordable, forcing them to watch outsiders profit from what is their lifeblood.
The contrast is stark—while traders and corporations reap the rewards, those who ensure the flowers survive receive only scraps, underscoring a cruel two-tier economy of abundance for outsiders and scarcity for the custodians of the forest.
The sudden rise in Mahua’s market value has shaken the very foundations of Adivasi life. For indigenous populations in Odisha, Jharkhand, and parts of West Bengal and Bihar, Mahua liquor is far more than a drink—it is sacred, integral to festivals, harvest ceremonies, and intimate gatherings that bind communities together. Laxmi Kondh, who climbs Mahua trees before dawn in Kalahandi, recounts returning home with aching shoulders, only to find that she cannot afford the sacred drink for her children’s harvest festival. Bhola Munda in Gumla spends days in the forest under the scorching sun, his hands blistered, while the rising cost of liquor makes even village celebrations impossible. Rekha Santhal of Dumka watches as the rituals she has cherished since childhood fade, replaced by cheap, adulterated substitutes she cannot trust.
Where one litre once cost Rs 70-90, it now fetches Rs 200-250, with retail prices across states climbing even higher. Tribal collectors, often unaware of multi-tonne export deals signed in distant cities, continue their arduous harvests with innocence and hope, only to see the rewards of their labour vanish into far-off markets. Families dependent on seasonal agriculture or daily wage labour find that ceremonial consumption has become a luxury beyond reach.
As genuine Mahua liquor disappears from local tables, adulterated substitutes—hastily brewed with sugar, yeast, and chemicals—flood village markets. Fatalities in Madhya Pradesh, Maharashtra, and Chhattisgarh stand as grim testimony to a system in which cultural heritage has been priced out and replaced by dangerous, profit-driven alternatives. A drink once prepared with care, reverence, and dignity is now reduced to lethal imitation, leaving those who nurtured it powerless and bereft.
State policies have not merely failed Mahua—they have actively deepened the crisis through a mix of inconsistency, bureaucratic apathy, and misplaced ambition. In Madhya Pradesh, the much-celebrated 2021 “Heritage Liquor” initiative, projected as a breakthrough for tribal women’s empowerment, has collapsed under its own weight. The flagship brand Mond gathers dust on shelves, while micro-distilleries in Alirajpur and Dindori stand silent—crippled by faulty equipment, licensing hurdles, and administrative delays. Self-help groups, once promised economic independence, now recount stories of betrayal: meagre earnings of Rs 13,000-14,000 over two years, unpaid dues, and eventual disbandment. Migration to Gujarat has become a survival strategy, and crores of public funds have dissolved into a cautionary tale of policy without grounding.
In Chhattisgarh and Jharkhand, the story is less dramatic but equally devastating—a slow erosion rather than a sudden collapse. Chhattisgarh’s procurement system, despite announcing an MSP of Rs 30 per kilo, remains erratic and unreliable, forcing collectors into long waits or distress sales to middlemen at throwaway prices. In Jharkhand, where nearly 200,000 tonnes of Mahua are produced annually and a significant share of rural households depend on it, the absence of even basic infrastructure—procurement centres, storage facilities, or market linkages—has left tribal gatherers exposed and powerless. Here, the state’s silence is as damaging as active failure, allowing exploitative private traders to dictate terms and erode already fragile incomes.
Maharashtra completes this pattern of systemic neglect by framing Mahua within restrictive excise categories, effectively enabling corporate appropriation while sidelining the very communities that have sustained it for generations. Reforms have tinkered at the margins, but the core issue remains untouched: the absence of tribal-controlled value chains. Across states, a stark contradiction emerges—Mahua is celebrated as a symbol of heritage and development in policy narratives, yet on the ground it continues to anchor a cycle of vulnerability. What is projected as progress remains, for tribal collectors, an illusion—where dignity is deferred, security is uncertain, and empowerment exists only in official rhetoric.
The absence of mechanisms to balance prices and protect cultural use from global market pressures is the most glaring failure. Governments promote Mahua as a premium export while criminalising local consumption through restrictive licensing, raids, and punitive policing. Export figures are prioritised over people, and markets over culture. Mahua is exalted abroad but treated domestically as a law-and-order concern. Policymakers offer no explanation for this contradiction. While Adivasis may hold cultural rights over Mahua, their economic rights remain fragmented, tightly controlled, and marginalised. As global demand rises, future export contracts will inevitably follow; yet, if local communities are priced out, Mahua’s boom threatens to hollow out the social and cultural fabric that has sustained it for generations. This is not empowerment—it is dispossession masquerading as celebration.
Even as the export of Mahua beyond India has begun to gather pace, reports of a steady decline in Mahua flower production over the past 12-13 years have pushed forest-dependent communities—especially Adivasis—into deep distress. In Madhya Pradesh, where tribal communities traditionally sold Mahua to the Girijan Cooperative Corporation and the Madhya Pradesh State Minor Forest Produce Federation, the trade has remained sluggish for the past two years. Experts attribute this downturn to climate change and the shrinking population of Mahua trees. Shifts in the flowering season have severely affected yields, with production dropping by nearly 25 per cent over the past decade. Erratic temperature patterns—warmer days coupled with colder mornings and nights—have disrupted flowering cycles.
Across Bihar, Madhya Pradesh, Odisha, and Andhra Pradesh, minor forest produce contributes between 10 and 55 per cent of household income, while nearly 80 per cent of forest dwellers depend on forests for 25-50 per cent of their food needs. Women remain central to this economy. Yet, the complex web linking collectors, middlemen, and markets continues to disadvantage Adivasis. With no storage facilities, they are forced to sell Mahua at low prices to repay debts, only to buy it back later at higher rates for their own consumption.
As export demand rises, a pressing question emerges: will Adivasis retain access to their own Mahua? In Kaimur and Rohtas districts of Bihar, nearly a hundred tribal villages have been denied permission by the forest department to collect Mahua for over four decades—raising fears of similar restrictions elsewhere. Last year witnessed neither quality production nor active markets. With reduced sales but persistent household needs, the question remains—will Adivasis be able to afford Mahua at rising prices, or will they sink deeper into cycles of debt?
Solutions exist, but they demand political will and administrative clarity. Export and domestic consumption must be governed by distinct price regimes, ensuring that global trade does not cannibalise local cultural practices. Community-based processing units, run by tribal cooperatives and women’s collectives, can enable value addition at the source rather than in distant industrial hubs. Legalisation, accompanied by safeguards, should replace criminalisation, allowing Mahua liquor to be treated as a traditional food product rather than contraband. This would reduce adulteration, strengthen quality control, and protect lives. Above all, tribal collectors must be central to the value chain—not marginal participants—sharing equitably in the economic benefits of the flower they have safeguarded for centuries.
Mahua is more than a commodity—it is a living repository of culture, identity, and resilience. India stands at a crossroads. The global rise of Mahua risks severing its local roots. International applause is hollow unless the benefits reach the communities living under the Mahua tree. Development cannot be measured in tonnes exported, contracts signed, or headlines flashed in the media. It must be measured in justice delivered, dignity restored, and the sustenance of cultural life. The flower, the forest, and the people who nurture them cannot be treated as mere collateral in the pursuit of profit.
Ultimately, Mahua’s story is a story of power—who holds it, who loses it, and who deserves it. India must decide whether Mahua will remain a commodity captured by markets, leaving its custodians alienated and impoverished, or whether it can become a source of rightful prosperity for those who have protected and sustained it for centuries.
Mahua’s future must be one of justice, dignity, and inclusion, or the cultural and economic betrayal will endure long after the flowers have left the forest.
Amarendra Kishore is an independent journalist residing in Delhi
Views expressed are the author’s own and don’t necessarily reflect those of Down To Earth