The mountains are losing their food — and their future

One winter afternoon in the Garhwal region of Uttarakhand, I found myself crouching beside a forest trail, gathering small green buds with a group of villagers. Just hours earlier, we had been walking along the banks of the Yamuna river, where people spoke of fertile paddy fields that once thrived there but now lie abandoned because of an upcoming dam project.

The buds along the trail, they told me, were Basingu (also known as Basoi) — a wild vegetable that appears only for a few winter months. Within minutes, everyone had joined in, filling scarves and bags. I followed their lead, unsure at first, but quickly absorbed into the rhythm of foraging.

Later that evening, after hours of soaking to remove its bitterness, the buds were cooked into a simple meal eaten with millet rotis. It was unlike anything I had eaten before — earthy, nourishing, and deeply satisfying.

That meal stayed with me. Not just for its taste, but for what it revealed.

In the mountains, food does not come only from farms or markets. It comes from forest edges, from plants that grow quietly alongside crops, from knowledge carried in memory rather than written down. It comes from a system that has evolved over generations to survive uncertainty — harsh winters, difficult terrain, and unpredictable harvests.

Over the next few weeks, I began to notice this system everywhere.

Amidst all the new-found focus on cash crops, the hunger for traditional food still lingers in the hearts of people. For locals, these vegetables and wilds are the main source of nutrition, minerals and vitamins — something they treasure the most. Many of these vegetables are dried and preserved for hard days. Women are the biggest contributors of nurturing and preserving the local food system and the productive economy with backbreaking work that are often invisibilised.

In one home, I was served Kandali ka Saag made from Bichhu Ghaas (stinging nettle), a plant I had only ever known as something to avoid because of its sting. Here, it was transformed into a nutrient-rich dish, valued for its ability to “clean the body” and sustain people through winter. In another village, I watched as women collected Singri — tiny radish pods — laughing as they filled their baskets. The pods made their way to be a delicious dish for lunch the same day. I also observed women drying some to store for the months ahead.

Food here was never just about the present. It was always about preparing for what might come next.

Come spring and the mountains start to regain its greenery and colours in abundance — almost in a desperate move from a dry and harsh spell of winters. The dead looking trees and shrubs spring back to life and one such delight is the pink flowers of Saknai that grows wild in Uttarakhand and make their way to the mountain kitchens — may it be Raita, fritters or very tasty juice.

Guryal is yet another flower bud that becomes a culinary delight with the onset of spring. Growing wild, this flower buds of Kachnar trees are high in demand as one of the seasonal delicacies — used for curry, raita or fritters. Guryal is a great source of nutrition and works as an anti-inflammatory.

As I moved through villages, I began to see how deeply seasonal and rational this food system is. Spring also brought the majestic Semal flowers, buds of which are transformed into a tasty curry called Semal ke Dode in kitchens; hillsides offered wild figs that found their way into cooling raitas; the bright red blooms of Buransh were turned into juices rich in nutrients. For local communities, Buransh holds great significance for its medicinal and culinary significance. It is rich in antioxidants, potassium, calcium, iron, and Vitamin C that helps in digestion and immunity. In the monsoon, pumpkin leaves and flowers were foraged and cooked, while the pumpkins themselves were dried and stored.

Nothing was wasted. Everything had a time, a purpose, and a place.

In many homes, I saw bundles of dried vegetables — sukotri — carefully stored for lean months: pumpkin, Bichhu Ghaas, Semal buds, Guryal. This was not just a culinary practice. It was a way of living with uncertainty — of ensuring that even when the land could not provide fresh food, the household would not go hungry or fall back on unhealthy food from the market.

The large citrus fruit Chakotra is another winter delight in Uttarakhand. Grown in almost all backyards, they are available in abundance in the season — also they are sold in outside markets such as in Delhi, Kolkata, Mumbai. A storehouse of Vitamin C and fibre, a bowl of Chakotra ka Saan (Chaat) can drive away all tiredness and fatigue within minutes. In local practice, it is usually consumed sitting in the winter sunlight for better effect.

Timru, another wildly grown tree, is also known as Pahadi Neem for the benefits it offers. The twigs are used as toothbrush while its leaves are used in cooking local fish, as the locals believe that it helps in digestion. It is also used in one of the local festivals just before the onset of Monsoon called ‘Maun Mela’ on Aglad river where the powder of Timru leaves, barks and seeds are used to numb the fish. Maun Mela is an annual cleansing-of-river festival that brings people from all walks in the region together for a day-long fishing activity. Besides, the aromatic seeds are used as a condiment, adding a citrusy, numbing flavour to food, famously used in Sichuan pepper blends, and the fruits and seeds are used as a natural, traditional insect repellent for houses and grain storages. 

The more I observed, the clearer it became: this was not just a food culture. It was a system of resilience.

And yet, I also saw how fragile it has become.

Across Uttarakhand, traditional multi-crop farming is giving way to market-driven agriculture. Farmers spoke of the growing need for cash income, and with it, the shift towards crops that promise quicker returns.

Maize, for instance, is now widely cultivated and often preferred because it brings better market value. But in conversation after conversation, I was told how this shift has come at the cost of indigenous millet farming — crops that once formed the backbone of local diets.

Millets required less water, adapted well to mountain conditions, and provided high nutritional value. They were deeply embedded in both farming systems and food habits. Their decline is not just an agricultural change; it marks a loss of diversity, nutrition and resilience.

What replaces them may be more profitable in the short term, but it also makes communities more dependent — on markets, on external inputs, and on increasingly unpredictable climate conditions.

This contradiction stayed with me.

Because everything I had seen — from foraging wild greens to drying vegetables for winter — pointed to a system designed to reduce risk. A system built on diversity, seasonality and local knowledge.

And yet, that very system is being replaced by one that often increases vulnerability.

Climate change is already making itself felt in these mountains. People spoke of erratic rainfall, changing winters, and subtle shifts in seasons. One of the most telling signs came from conversations about Buransh. The flowers, locals said, were blooming earlier than before — a small but significant change in the rhythm of the ecosystem.

When seasons shift, food systems shift with them.

And when food systems weaken, so do communities.

What is at stake here is not just the loss of traditional foods. It is the erosion of a way of living that has, for generations, allowed communities to adapt to fragile environments.

It is the loss of nutritional diversity in a country already grappling with malnutrition. It is the loss of biodiversity in ecosystems already under stress. And it is the invisibilisation of the knowledge and labour — especially of women — that sustain these systems.

At a time of deepening climate crisis, the lessons from Uttarakhand’s food systems are urgent.

Diverse cropping, seasonal diets, wild foraging and preservation practices are not outdated traditions. They are scientifically validated pathways to resilience. Such practices align with what climate researchers now identify as low-cost, community-led adaptation strategies — systems that enhance resilience without external inputs.

Policy frameworks — from India’s National Mission on Sustainable Agriculture to global climate adaptation strategies — increasingly emphasise the need for agroecological approaches, crop diversity and local knowledge systems.

Yet, these approaches remain under-supported in practice.

As I left the mountains, I kept returning to that first meal of Basingu and millet rotis.

It was simple. It required time, knowledge and effort. It could not be easily replaced by something bought off a shelf.

And perhaps that is precisely the point.

In a time of climate crisis, resilience will not come from uniformity or speed. It will come from diversity, from local knowledge, and from systems that are rooted in place.

The food systems of Uttarakhand still hold that wisdom.

The question is whether we will recognise their value in time — not just as tradition, but as a pathway to a more sustainable and resilient future.

Mamata Dash is a climate justice and systems-change leader with 27+ years of experience bridging grassroots movements and global philanthropy

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