A Forest on My Plate

Devaki Nair and Manikandan R are Coexistence Fellows at the University of Transdisciplinary Health Sciences and Technology (TDU) and the Coexistence Consortium. Their project, “Echoes of the Ippimala Children,” seeks to understand and document the relationship that the Paniya community has with ‘nature’ or different components in their environment. This includes documenting the cultural practices, oral traditions, language, and ceremonies of this indigenous community who are located in the Western Ghats, primarily in the states of Kerala, Tamil Nadu and Karnataka. In this article, Devaki gives us a glimpse of these connections that were revealed to her through a meal at Manikandan’s home.

When I arrived in Gudalur a year ago, I was warned about the notoriously harsh monsoons that happen every year. Those warnings weren’t exaggerated at all. The weather was cold and wet. The absence of sunlight made everything feel dull and dark. However, our project carried on as usual, bringing warmth in ways I wasn’t expecting.

Due to the rains, many of our field activities, such as mapping and interviews, had to be postponed. Most days, we ended up at Mani Chettan’s home, discussing findings, writing reports, and planning how we’d move forward. One day in particular stands out, and it’s the food I had then that I’d love to share with you.

I’ve always been fascinated by different cuisines, various ingredients, and the history behind the food. Being Indian, the diversity in food constantly amazes me, making me wonder how each tradition and flavour evolved. Most people think of North Indian cuisine with its buttery naan, creamy curries, and flavourful chaat, or South Indian cuisine with soft appams, crispy dosa, and heavenly sadya. However, tribal cuisines are just as vibrant and unique, though lesser known. To me, the role ingredients play in each dish has always been essential. They’re literally the soul of the meal. What I had for lunch that day at Mani Chettan’s home opened my mind to how ingredients can define a plate of food.

Discovering Wild Ingredients

When I saw my lunch, I was surprised. It looked familiar, yet I sensed something was different. The leafy greens resembled the cheera thoran (stir-fried greens with coconut) my mother makes, and the curry looked like pumpkin erisseri (a pumpkin and coconut-based curry), which I absolutely love. I asked Mani Chettan what it was. He said the greens were karumudinge and the curry was a thaal curry. Since my knowledge of Paniya cuisine is limited, I was very curious about what these names and ingredients were. I decided to just start eating, trying to guess the ingredients and see if I could connect them to what I already knew.

The first bite of hot, steaming rice with the creamy yet spicy thaal brought an instant wave of warmth. The dampness of the monsoon seemed to disappear in that one morsel. The flavour was indescribable because I’d never tried anything like it before. The closest I could compare it to was an erisseri, but on a completely different flavour plane. I asked him what thaal was. He described it as the stem of the Taro plant (Colocasia esculenta)—collected from the wild. I was so excited; I’d never had wild Taro before! It was completely different from any vegetable I’d tasted before.

 Chembu (Thaal is the stem) (Colocasia esculenta - Taro, wild)

Through our interviews, I was beginning to understand  that green leafy vegetables, commonly called cheera by the Paniya community, were  an essential part of the community’s diet. The variety of greens collected from the forest seemed endless, and I was excited to try one that so many people had described to us. The karumudinge (Solanum nigrum) was familiar in a comforting way yet challenged my taste buds with its tender texture and beautifully spiced flavour.

 Karumudinge (Solanum nigrum - Black nightshade)

A protein dish is always a staple at Mani Chettan’s home. Usually, it’s a spicy chicken curry, but that day, it was a fish curry. I didn’t think much of it initially, but that changed as soon as I tasted it. I could tell instantly that the fish hadn’t come from some distant harbour but was caught fresh. I asked if it was store-bought, since Gudalur is so far from the sea that fresh fish isn’t usually available. He said, “This isn’t market fish! We went fishing yesterday and caught this. It’s called kenda (Carnatic carp, Hypselobarbus carnaticus).” I was thrilled to be eating fresh fish after so long, and knowing it was caught just hours before made it even better.

Fresh Kenda (Hypselobarbus carnaticus - Carnatic carp)

A Taste of the Forest

By my third bite, I found myself staring at the plate, realizing that, apart from the rice, all the main ingredients used to make this beautiful meal were gathered from the forest. I’d never had a meal where everything was sourced locally—that too from a forest! As I continued eating, I started thinking about the kind of nutritious food the community used to consume when everyone had access to forests, and how diets have changed as people have to rely more on government-supplied rations because of limited access today.

More Than Just Food

Through nourishment, a deep relationship forms over time between the community and nature that provides their food. For the Ippimala Makkal, the act of foraging leaves, collecting fruits, or catching fish brings them closer to their environment, intertwining their lives with the land they depend on. This connection has led them to observe, learn from, and respect nature, deepening their sense of responsibility toward it. With every ingredient they gather, they carry forward a wealth of stories—gems of knowledge about the plants and animals they rely on, which are passed down through generations. It is not just about gathering food but about maintaining a delicate balance, where survival does not come at the cost of nature but in harmony with it. Their practices reflect an unspoken agreement: to take only as much as needed and to give back by protecting the land that nourishes them.

Changes in dietary patterns within communities are rarely assessed, and socio-economic status is often gauged by land ownership, education, and livelihood opportunities. But to me, food and diet are equally significant indicators. The quality of ingredients and meals a community consumes shapes their health, growth, and overall well-being—not only physically but mentally and emotionally too. 

There might even be emotional comfort that comes from harvesting ingredients from nature, or in the communal effort of gathering food. It may bring memories of elders and a sense of nostalgia, or deepen bonds between parents and children while preparing certain dishes. 

For me, it brought a sense of warmth that kept me feeling cosy in the dreary monsoon season.