The grain that refuses to die: Of Sorghum and the Santal women of Mayurbhanj

In the heart of Odisha’s Mayurbhanj district, Santal women like Sumona Soren are keeping sorghum and memories rooted in seeds, stories, and sweets.

For the people here, food is more than nourishment. It is memory, heritage, and identity woven together. In Mayurbhanj, one of Odisha’s most tribal-dominant districts, where nearly 58 percent of the population belongs to communities such as the Santal, Ho, Kolha, Mankidia, Lodha, and Hill Kharia, the Santal tribe has long depended on sorghum, locally known as janjala.

This hardy, drought-resistant grain has endured droughts, floods, and famine. It has sustained families when rice and wheat were scarce. Yet for the Santals, janjala is not just food. It is a symbol of resilience and women’s wisdom.

In Sunaposi village of Bangiriposi block, 46-year-old Sumona Soren roasts janjala in an iron kadai over her chulha. The grains pop and release a nutty fragrance that fills her courtyard. As she stirs the molten jaggery into the puffed grains, her bangles clink softly. With swift, practiced hands, she shapes the mixture into warm, golden laddus, each one infused with memory.

“When the janjala ripens in our field, I feel safe. Even if other crops fail when rains are poor, this grain will still feed us,” she says, palms glistening with jaggery.

Behind her mud house, an earthen pot sealed with neem leaves holds janjala seeds, a quiet vault of heritage. “My grandmother taught me how to make these laddus,” she says. “She used to tell me, if you grow janjala, you will never go hungry. I did not understand it then. Now I do.”

On the dry red uplands of Mayurbhanj, where irrigation is limited and rainfall uncertain, janjala thrives. “Last year, our paddy failed,” recalls Sumona. “The rains came late and stopped early. But janjala stood tall. That’s why I call it the grain of hope.”

Once a staple in every Santal household, janjala cultivation is now declining as farmers switch to hybrid paddy and maize promoted by government schemes. “Traders don’t buy janjala,” Sumona explains. We grow it for our family, for food, not for money.”

In Santal culture, women are the custodians of seed. After harvest, they clean, dry, and store janjala in clay pots. Opening one such pot, Sumona smiles: “These are my grandmother’s seeds. Every year I save a little to plant again. I tell my daughter, don’t ever throw them away. We women guard these seeds like our precious possession. They are worth more than gold.”

The janjala laddu is more than sweet. It is a story that passed down generations. During Sohrai, the Santal harvest festival, women prepare janjala laddu as offerings to their ancestors. Shared after prayers, the laddus embody gratitude and continuity.

“When we make laddus, we remember those who came before us,” Sumona says. “It’s our way of thanking them and the land for life.”

Beyond its cultural value, janjala is rich in iron, fibre, and protein, nutrients often missing in tribal diets. In Mayurbhanj, malnutrition remains severe. According to the Poshan District Nutrition Profile (2022) by NITI Aayog, 46 per cent of children under five are underweight, 37 per cent are stunted, and 72 per cent are anaemic. Among pregnant women, 56 per cent are anaemic.

Sumona knows janjala’s worth firsthand. “When my children were small, I made porridge and laddus for them. They rarely fell sick. Rice fills our stomach, but janjala gives us strength,” she says. Her sons, aged 11 and 9, now prefer noodles and chips. But not for long. “Once they taste these laddus,” she laughs, “they forget all about those packets.”

Across Odisha, the Shree Anna Abhiyan (formerly the Odisha Millets Mission) is supporting farmers to revive finger millet with incentives and a Minimum Support Price. “Last year, we sold finger millet for Rs. 4,500 per quintal in the local mandi,” says Sumona. “But there is very little demand for janjala. That’s why many farmers have stopped cultivating it.”

She worries that with time, her grandmother’s recipes and the knowledge of janjala may fade away. “Our food is our story,” she says quietly. “If we lose this grain, we lose a part of ourselves.”

As evening settles, Sumona lights a small fire in her courtyard. The sweet, nutty scent of janjala laddu fills the air. Her family gathers, her husband, sons, and sister-in-law, watching as she rolls the warm mixture into golden rounds.

“Here,” she says, handing one to her younger son. “Taste this. It’s your grandmother’s recipe.”

The family bites into the laddus. “This laddu,” Sumona says, “taught me that sweetness can come even from hardship. That’s why we keep making it.”

In that moment, mother and sons sharing the same ancient taste, the grain that refuses to die lives on, carrying with it the strength, memory, and love of generations of Santal women.

Abhijit Mohanty is a Bhubaneswar-based independent journalist

Views expressed are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect those of Down To Earth