In Nagaland’s Losami village, Neiwekha Akami is one of the last paddy farmers preserving aged rice.
In the shaded cellar beneath 58-year-old Neiwekha Akami’s home in Losami, a hill-village in Nagaland, the air is cool and faintly perfumed with the sweet, earthy scent of husk and aged grain. Against the bamboo walls stand more than 20 giant baskets made from bamboo and cane called Ebe Ebou. In the Khuzhale dialect—spoken by the Kuzhami people, part of the Chakhesant tribe—‘ebe’ means ‘paddy’ and ‘ebou’ means ‘storage’.
Each basket holds between 50 to 100 paddy tins—with each tin weighing around 10 kilograms—consisting of diverse local rice varieties: Tena (white rice) and Kezüni (red rice), sticky rice like Mekrürü and Tepfori. The baskets also store Echübe, or foxtail millet, which can be stored for much longer periods than paddy, serving as a crucial source of security when rice stocks run out. Many of the varieties preserved in the baskets, including some of the foxtail millets, have been stored for a 100 years.
This method of storing paddy in bamboo baskets, passed down through generations from Neiwekha’s grandfather, Muzelo Akami, to his father, Dichulo Akami, and now to him, has survived even as most villagers have abandoned it. Preserving paddy in these baskets requires significant space—such as the cellar that allows Neiwekha to store more than 20 baskets. Most villagers don’t have enough room in their homes to continue this generational practice. Some village elders, who still practise saving rice in limited capacities, continue to eat the aged grain by mixing it with recently harvested rice; however, space constraints and a rapidly modernising diet has ensured that the number of people aging paddy and eating it remains small.
A few decades ago, Neiwekha’s life looked very different. Having grown up aspiring to move away from agriculture, and toward a livelihood that offered more security and scope for a better income, Neiwekha spent two decades in his early career as a businessman trading timber. In the 1990s, the urgency of the climate crisis and the requirement for conserving forests was increasingly felt by village councils in Phek district, with The Forest (Conservation) Act, 1980 (FCA), which prohibited the clearing of trees in forests and use of forest land for non-forest purposes, and The Nagaland Forest Act, 1968, which applied strict regulations to timber felling and transportation, being progressively enacted in the region. The enactment of the FCA and subsequent redefining of ‘forests’ as any forested land in 1996, regardless of ownership, meant that areas previously privately owned or presided by communities were now protected from any deforestation efforts as well. Neiwekha therefore had to change course and return to farming—something he had practised since childhood alongside his father.
The first four to five years after the transition proved challenging for Neiwekha; he recounts the physical toll of shifting from managerial and desk work to the back-breaking physical labour that farming demands. Nevertheless, spending a childhood watching and assisting his father sow, harvest, and save rice meant that the practices of farming came back to him quite naturally, like muscle memory. Today, he is far more satisfied working the land with his wife, Tewepeu Akami, tending to lush paddy terraces, a thriving kiwi orchard, and rows of cabbage, tomatoes, beans and leafy greens, among other seasonal vegetables.
Losami’s humid summers (made comfortable by cool winds) and dry winters, have long supported both wet rice cultivation—rainfed terraces carved along the slopes, sustained by the monsoon—and the careful storage of grain in traditional cellars. “There is joy in the season beginning with the scent of damp earth and ending with the threshing sound of grain being sifted by hand,” Neiwekha tells me.
Returning to Paddy
It was during my work with Northeast Iinitiative Development Agency (NEIDA) as an Agriculture Officer, supporting both traditional and modern agricultural practices in Phek district, that I first heard about rice being saved in bamboo baskets for decades.
When I first visited him in August 2025, he insisted that I eat lunch before we got down to work. The meal began with traditional rice flour pancake, the name of which varies from dialect to dialect, made with mena (sticky rice) and eaten with ghee. We followed it with a meal of rice, meat, boiled leafy greens, and chutney. He then showed me around his field, where paddy was already growing, to be harvested in a month’s time. Talking to Neiwekha was so effortless, I had forgotten that I had never met him before. Although I come from a different tribe—he from Nagaland’s Chakhesang tribe, and I from the Meitei tribe—I was born and raised in Nagaland, and never once felt like I didn’t belong to the Naga people. Neiwekha embodied that spirit.
When I visited his home a second time, he went on to share what farming meant for him. With a smile, he said, “Kheti doh kuribo laage, jinda thakibole, etu para gao bhi bhal aro family sabole pare, aro mon aaram pai kheti kura doh.” (“Farming is necessary for life. Through it, I can take care of my health and family. But above all, farming brings me peace.”)
Neiwekha’s routine is determined by the time kept by his crops. Paddy is sown between April and May, cultivated through the rainy months of June and July, and harvested between October and November. Today, from his one-acre terraced wetland, he harvests around 200 tins of rice a year. Alongside paddy, he cultivates maize and fruit crops such as kiwi, banana, and mango, which are sown and harvested at different times throughout the year. He also grows seasonal vegetables like cabbage, okra, potato, and tomato, as well as spices like ginger and local garlic (Khüve), which he sells locally. Neiwekha and his wife share the labour, working together during planting, weeding, and harvesting, while also managing the household alongside the demands of the farm.
But to Neiwekha, the value of what he grows and preserves extends beyond livelihood. He remembers his father’s approach to their inherited knowledge. His father would often tell him, “Poisa doh theng thake, aro birai thake hoilebi chawool doh theng nathake etu karne ami khan logot thake.” (“Money has legs and it roams around, but paddy stays with the people.”)
Neiwekha’s ancestors tried many ways to store paddy—in hollow tree trunks, wooden containers, and other vessels. “But most failed, as grain quickly spoiled due to disease, pests or rodents,” Neiwekha said. The big bamboo basket—Ebe Ebou—proved to be the only reliable method. It could maintain the right moisture balance and prevent paddy from rotting. Sometimes, the baskets are also plastered with clay soil mixed with rice husk to help prevent pest infestation. The bamboo used to weave these baskets is often harvested seasonally, as mature bamboo tends to have a longer lifespan and is more resistant to both insect damage and decay.
Neiwekha’s ancestors tried many ways to store paddy—in hollow tree trunks, wooden containers, and other vessels. “But most failed, as grain quickly spoiled due to disease, pests or rodents,” Neiwekha said.
Preservation is a Way of Remembering
Neiwekha admits that he never thought much about preservation at first. “People may think it is foolish to preserve paddy for (so long),” he said with a laugh. But after his father’s passing, he chose to continue the tradition as a way of remembering him and honouring their collective legacy. Traditionally, preserving paddy served a practical purpose: a safeguard against famine and a way to barter with other communities. The paddy and the baskets act as security for the present and the future, not just for the family, but the community at large. But further, being able to preserve rice, as well as firewood, was a sign of wealth and prosperity in Naga households during Neiwekha’s father’s and grandfather’s generations.
Traditionally, preserving paddy served a practical purpose: a safeguard against famine and a way to barter with other communities. The paddy and the baskets act as security for the present and the future, not just for the family, but the community at large.
Rice varieties less than 50 years old, for instance, are given free to villagers with diabetes, who ask for it, who believe they are gentler on the body. Science offers one explanation: over time, rice undergoes starch retrogradation, a process that can slightly lower its glycaemic index. A doctor posted in Pfutsero, one of the most developed towns in Phek district, had been recommending that patients with diabetes eat rice preserved for many years. Word spread, and soon relatives, cousins, and friends began contacting him because they knew about his century-old paddy. While nutrient value does decline, and improper storage may invite fungal growth or toxins, in an Ebe Ebou, grains remain extremely safe. The baskets are kept dry, cool, and well-ventilated, allowing the rice to stay intact.
Close to the baskets stands a modern paddy grinder used to process threshed and dried rice, its surface polished smooth by decades of use. Household paddy grinders save paddy farmers the physically demanding and time-consuming work of transporting their grain to a rice mill for processing. In another corner are massive carved wooden drums called ‘chürü’, once filled with locally made rice beer during festivals. With grains collected from harvest seasons spanning a century, and paraphernalia essential to preservation and preparation methods that are no longer employed, Neiwekha’s cellar consists of stories of practices that are otherwise hard to come by.
Rice has always been the staple food of Nagas, and indeed for much of Northeast India. When people come to him for the old paddy rice, Neiwekha never asks for money. At times, visitors insist on paying a small amount, pressing it into his hands. More often than not, he distributes the rice freely among relatives, cousins, and friends, treating it not as a commodity, but as shared heritage. He hopes that his 25-year-old daughter, Weu Akami, will one day inherit preserving the family’s centuries-old store of traditional paddy. In doing so, she would challenge the belief that such legacies belong only to sons.
Konjengbam Ramit Singh is an agriculture and horticulture researcher working at the intersection of food systems, rural livelihoods, and indigenous knowledge in Northeast India. He currently serves as a Research Associate at the National Institute of Rural Development and Panchayati Raj (NIRDPR). He holds a Ph.D. in Horticulture from Nagaland University, with research focusing on crop diversity, traditional farming practices, and sustainable agri-based livelihoods.
We would like to thank Sentimongla Kechuchar and Nagato K. Aye for their support, and Prelo Wetsah and Webeko Akami for their help with translation from the Khuzhale. We are also grateful to Keletsino Mejura and the Phek team at NEIDA.
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