"Over there, that's the Niyamgiri hills," says my driver, Satpathiji, as we drive down undulating roads. Lush emerald green hills stretch out into the distance on all sides. They house densely forested slopes, deep gorges, and cascading streams. I am on my way to attend a confluence on indigenous foods at Muniguda in the Rayagada district in southern Odisha. The meet has been organised near the Niyamgiri hills, a significance not lost on those attending. These hills are home to the Dongria Kondh, whose traditional practices have helped nurture the dense forests and rich wildlife.
The Dongria Kondh have been in the news since 2014 after successfully fighting off Vedanta Resources. This company has been trying to mine their sacred mountain’s rich seam of bauxite (aluminium ore). At the centre of the struggle was the Dongrias’ sacred mountain, Niyamgiri—the ‘mountain of law’. The Dongrias worship the top of the mountain as the seat of their god and protect the forests and habitats there. Studies have shown that areas managed by indigenous peoples are the oldest form of biodiversity conservation, and often the most effective. The heroic victory gained the tribe worldwide attention, with the Western press dubbing them the ‘real-life Avatar’ tribe after the famous Hollywood blockbuster. Unfortunately, the hills are facing a renewed threat after the state government launched a fresh legal bid to dig up the Niyamgiri mountain and turn it into a bauxite mine.
At the confluence organised by Living Farms, an Odisha-based organisation working with local communities on issues like food sovereignty, people are milling around a colourful tent with several stalls heaving with all kinds of Indigenous foods. Glasses of mandia jau—a traditional gruel made of ragi (finger millet)—are being served. There are sweetmeats made of ragi, jaggery, and rice; many forest-foraged greens; fish from forest streams and ponds; yams and tubers—some as large as a leg of mutton.
Adivasi children in blue uniforms are busy jotting down names and descriptions of everything. They come from one of the few schools here that place value on Adivasi culture and food folklore. Most residential schools in these parts do not teach them about their culture, festivals, and foods. As a result, many of their mothers express concern that they have lost touch with their roots. They have forgotten the taste of ancient grains like mandua jau, and would rather have PDS ration rice than the rich varieties of millets grown by their folks. The irony of that hits you—urban folks are buying pricey, organic millets in cities, and they are star dishes at hipster cafes. Yet, in the land where it has been grown for centuries, where millets are part of folklore, where songs have been crafted and passed down for generations, millets are looked down upon by the next generation because their school hostels have got them used to generic rice and wheat, and even instant noodles.
In the afternoon, some of us visit the Muniguda market. We pick up mosquito repellents and nets as we’ve been told it is a malaria-endemic area. The shop selling nets also stock the distinctive saris worn by Kondhs—rich creamy white with borders in different colours. We pick up an assortment—red, red and black borders, dull orange, green, and maroon. The shopkeeper removes some gamchhas from the shelves in a riot of colour—brilliant blues with woven maroon borders, lime greens with reds, sunflower yellows with peach borders. On the way back, we come across people selling wild mushrooms that have been bought to be cooked for dinner.
In the evening, after a refreshing drink of malted ragi with tejpatta (bay leaf) and elaichi (cardamom), we set off for Korandiguda village in Rayagada district. Here, I meet Loknath Nauri, an Adivasi farmer in his sixties who grows 72 varieties of crops on a two-acre farm. He has been featured in various documentaries and media sites (such as on the news agency Inter Press Service and Ecologise’s series Weathering the Change) about how indigenous farming can combat the effects of climate change. Like his ancestors, Nauri can figure out how the weather will turn by observing and recording natural clues. For instance, he says, flowers on bamboo trees can mean a tough year. “The more the density of flowers, the more severe the drought we face,” he says. If the mouth of the nest of the black-hooded oriole faces west, the monsoon rains will come from the west to the east. “If rains come from the north and are accompanied by storms, I grow tall plants. If they come from the south, then there is no problem. If they come from the west, the hills will shield our crops; we will get no rain, only wind.”
As dusk falls, Loknath goes off to tether his cattle. We walk back to the car. The sky is lit up with stars. If you switch on the SkyMap app and point your camera at the sky, you can check out the constellations, says someone. But it does not work without the internet, points out another.
The next day, we have an early breakfast of little millet upma and delicious peanut chutney served on siali leaves. We set off to visit the weekly haat at Chatikona, where the Dongria Kondh brings goods to sell. I pick up a kapda gonda, an eye-catching, hand-woven, off-white chaddar with colourful motifs. Dhagiri (young Kondh girls) present these to their chosen Dhangara (partner) as a token of their love. The Dongria women embroider the motifs and patterns. The colours in the shawl are symbolic: red signifies blood and sacrifice; green represents their mountain ecology; yellow represents the origin of the Kondh. The three straight lines at the bottom represent social security and mark protection from evil forces; the axe shape design symbolises energy and power; the triangular motif represents the hills, the abode of their deity.
Back at the New Hope campus, Nokul Pirikaka, a Desiya Kondh from Zigri village, has set up a stall selling Kondh artefacts and jewellery. He makes jewellery from brass, white metal, copper, and silver. The anklets are the first to sell out as people swoop on the two tables. I pick up thick white metal rings that Adivasi women wear around their necks and a hairpin brooch.
Lunch is served. There are nine varieties of traditional rice, three vegetable dishes, and sambar. For dessert, we have payesh made with jhingoria, barnyard millet from Uttarakhand, and coconut shavings, raisins, and cashews.
I get up early the following day to visit a few Kondh villages. The ever-friendly Satpathiji drives me through the sunlight-dappled roads and hills. White clouds punctuate the brilliant azure sky. He narrates stories he has heard dating back to the days of the East India Company about the resistance the Kondh put up against efforts to destroy the hills. India’s most extensive bauxite deposits lie on this series of hills. In an essay titled Battles over Bauxite in East India: The Khondalite Mountains of Khondistan, anthropologist Felix Padel noted that British geologists recognized the special geology of this area at the start of the 20th century. T.L. Walker named their base rock Khondalite in 1902, “in honour of those fine hill men the Khonds,” since the mountains based on this rock (garnet-sillimanite-graphite schist) had almost exactly “the same boundaries as Khondistan.” In other words, the Kondh tribe (also called Kuwinga, Kondho, Kond, and Khond), now about a million, inhabit the region where India’s best bauxite deposits occur. Padel, a professor of sociology/ anthropology in India and author of several seminal books on tribal, mining, and environmental issues, lives in the area.
Satpathiji says that diamonds had been discovered in the Koraput district (in Doikhal) many years back. “Some men were digging around and stumbled across the deposits. They had no idea. But the Marwaris of Titlagarh soon cottoned on and became malamaal. Many people came after that, and the government had to get the army in to control the situation. They sealed off the area. Main bhi gaya tha bag pakad ke,” he laughs. “But I came back soon. Woh mar peet ka jagah tha. I did find a gomed [hessonite garnet] stone, and kept it in the house. One day, without telling me, my brother sold it. Many precious stones were discovered here, including a blue diamond.”
We reach the village of Khalpadar, nestled at the base of a hill. A group of Kondh women sit in a clearing, talking, singing, and exchanging stories. The song is a courting song sung by women to woo their men. It’s a song attached to a particular time of the year when the flowers of a particular gourd bloom in the forest, the mahua fills it with fragrance, and there’s a full moon. “The hills and the moonlight all combine to create a magical atmosphere. No one can resist it; you just have to dance,” says Landi Shikoka, her eyes twinkling. She is the bejuni of the village—the village priestess.
She talks about Dharani Penu, the earth goddess who controls the cycle of sowing and harvest. Many traditional songs are linked to the trees, plants, flowering seasons, hills and forests, and creatures that reside within. The women are in the mood now, reeling out song after song. They drape their hands around my waist, swaying to the rhythm as they sing, laugh, and makeup lyrics on the go. “You want to listen to our tales, Cuttack-Kolkata ka milaap.” Another song they sing is from the flowering season of the ridge gourd. The courting song is sung during the full moon when the women woo the men. The lyrics go like this: “The hills, the moonlight, the fragrance from the blooms, all combine to create a magical atmosphere. We have to dance.”
“Our relationship with our hills and jungles forms a core part of our identity and spirituality and is deeply rooted in our culture, language, and history,” says Jagannath Majhi, a member of the Kondh community. “Kondhs have a rich history of resistance to the British and now the government. The British, too, wanted to mine Khondalite. Lord Clive had come to this region. But he was barricaded by the Adivasis. Mitti ke handi mein ghusake le gaye they angrez usey (he had to escape hidden in a big clay pot). Khurda was the last place till where the angrez could come. The Kondh wouldn’t let them get anywhere near here. It is unfortunate how the urban people have stereotyped adivasis as backward.”
As I left, Majhi gave me a bottle of fragrant mahua oil as a gift. The foothills around the village are full of mahua trees. The mahua tree’s flowers are used to make liquor, jaggery, porridge, and curry. The leaves are dried and cooked as a vegetable dish or used as fodder. The seeds produce beneficial oil, and the cake residue is used as fodder. Kusum koli leaves are used for fodder, its fruits are eaten raw, the plant is used as firewood, and oil is extracted from the seeds. The seed oil is a mosquito repellent and treats certain skin diseases. I am embarrassed as I have nothing with me to give them. The women laugh, “Next time, get us rosogollas from Kolkata.”
By Rail: Muniguda is the only railway station. Trains arrive from Bhubaneswar, Visakhapatnam, Sambalpur, Raipur, Berhampur, Rourkela, Kolkata, Delhi, Hyderabad, Chennai, Tirupati, Mumbai, Ahmedabad and Bengaluru. I took the Koraput Express from Howrah.
By Air: The nearest airport is at Visakhapatnam, about 240km away. Bhubaneswar is 382km.