‘The Tiny Food Project: Alibag’ facilitated skill-building for three women self-help groups in the coastal villages of Alibag in Maharashtra. These field notes from The Locavore document what it took to gain the women’s trust, taste through myriad foods to understand what could succeed in the market, and create local products that stand out.
What if great food, done right, could create economic independence?
This was the question we went to Alibag with in November 2025, as The Locavore and Tiny Miracles collaborated to understand how women’s livelihoods could be linked to their immediate environment, enabling them to run their own food businesses. Tiny Miracles is a social enterprise that aims to provide livelihood opportunities to women from vulnerable communities in and around Mumbai, predominantly through the sewing of tote bags for large brands.
The villages of Narangi, Hashiware, and Ranjankhar are located in a unique corner of Alibag, bounded by a creek and mangroves on one side and a steep hill on the other. The economy is largely dictated by farming (rice, coconut, betelnut, fruit), fishing and fish-drying, and tourism.
The region is home to an incredible range of produce, including seasonal fruit such as jackfruit and mangoes like Rajapuri and Pairi; local rice made into bhakri and kheer; and abundant fish like jawala (small shrimp) made into sukat chutney, or karli (silver barfish) that is fried until crispy.
But there’s no branding for this produce, and no pathway from kitchens to customers. Our intention was to explore what’s possible: perhaps artisanal products for markets in Mumbai, perhaps home-style meals for tourists. Working with 60 women from three self-help groups (SHGs) in the villages of Narangi, Hashiware, and Ranjankhar, our six-month-long journey evolved from building trust, undertaking market research, and testing recipes, to finally creating the products.
“We sat with them, we ate with them, and we tried to listen more than we talked.” Nabilah Noorani, Projects Lead, The Locavore
When I first met the women in Alibag, I remember sensing hesitation in the room. They had already been doing steady work with Tiny Miracles for about three years, making bags that were then sold in European markets—it was stable income and they were good at it. The unfortunate reality was that the orders for bags would soon reduce as Tiny Miracles phased out their production in Alibag. The women would have to look at other sources of revenue.
While we were excited about the new project, the otherwise sunny day felt overcast, shrouded in a cloud of reluctance from the women we were going to co-create with.
For them, this new reality was more complicated. While they understood the reasons for the shift, there was a lot of emotional upheaval that we weren’t privy to. (Only much later did one of the women confess to me that she had cried for five days to her husband when the news broke.)
We left with questions of how we could earn their trust, and how they might see the potential in the idea of creating food products rooted in Alibag’s culinary traditions, and marketing them to an audience across India. We were clear that this was to be a participatory exercise—one where the women led the process, drawing on their instincts, knowledge, and appetites, while we supported them through frameworks, research, and exposure to wider food markets. More crucially, for me—how could we help them be excited? We chose to approach this daunting task through weekly sessions that comprised simple sharing and mapping activities like asking about their fondest food memories, the dishes unique to their region, and what they felt they prepared best.
The women from Hashiware shared how their mothers prepared khaproli (a spongy fermented pancake made with rice and lentils), and how they were taught to make the most of seasonal ingredients, for instance, sun-drying jackfruit pulp into thin sheets called fanas poli, often enjoyed as a snack.
In Narangi, we spoke at length about spice mixes, and how each household had its own variation. The women shared stories of haldiche vade (a leavened, deep-fried bread made with rice flour, wheat flour, jaggery, and spices), and its significance in ceremonies. The group in Ranjankhar recalled their memories of popti (a winter preparation of meat and seasonal vegetables slow-cooked in sealed clay pots), and even prepared some for us to share. As we mapped these interactions, a sense of ownership began to take shape. The women started voting for, and gradually shortlisting, the items they wanted to cook and sell as a collective.
When we carted in products from The Locavore’s Partner Producers—including Forest Post’s shatavari murabba and Sheila’s Pickles’ seer fish pickle—the women recognised the potential in their own food businesses. We organised tasting sessions with local products like peanut chutney, prawn pickle, and dink (gum) laddoo and witnessed the women taste, critique, and become more confident in their ability to create high-quality food items. We sat with them, we ate with them, and we tried to listen more than we talked.
I could feel them becoming more open to our propositions with each visit—their questions became louder, concerns more specific, and suggestions more pronounced. I knew they liked us when they started bringing foods we had discussed in the previous session, but still unfamiliar to us—repa pendi (tiny shrimp preserved with salt and served with bhakri), cooked aamras (mango pulp), khobra chikki (coconut sweet), and so much more.
For all the ‘trust building’ we had undertaken over the months, it was humbling to see what eventually worked best—a lunch outing to a restaurant in Alibag city.
Through our research, we came across Kasturi, a Konkani eatery founded and run exclusively by women. The founder, Suvarna Warde, spoke to us about her journey and lessons with the women we were working with. The women wore their best sarees, did their hair, and mingled with each other. We laughed and shared stories like no other time. Most memorably (and to my mother’s disdain when I relayed the experience to her), I received multiple iterations of the same golden advice—do not be in a rush to get married.
I began to feel much closer to the women, and I am certain they did too. We worked smoothly through the next steps—finalising the product, conducting capacity-building sessions, planning production, and ideating on the launch.
Looking back, we were fortunate to get a few key things right as we set out to build a relationship with the women: mapping their food memories in great detail, listening patiently to their concerns, gently nudging them to dream bigger, and spending consistent, regular time together. In our case, that time was most often spent cooking, tasting, and thinking alongside one another.
Throughout the project, I kept returning to the word ‘trust’. We weren’t just asking the women to trust us enough to co-create food products—our ask was far more significant. Their trust in us was tied to their livelihoods, their sense of agency, and their hopes of building more secure futures for their families, especially their children.
I have since learned that earning trust is an exercise in humility and patience. It is never owed, and one has no idea when things will fall into place and a shift happens. It’s a slow simmer, but delectable when finally earned.
“The knowledge the women had acquired through years of cooking, preserving, and feeding their families had value beyond their households.” Vedika Basu, Field Research Volunteer
What makes someone pick up a food product from a shelf, and what makes them put it back?
This was the question we wanted to answer through our tasting sessions in Alibag. We wanted the women we were working with to build a mindset where they instinctively thought about packaging, cost of production, and the supplies that went into creating a food item every time they visited a store. The first tasting session was planned with products sourced from four of The Locavore’s Partner Producers. We picked an assortment of pickles, murrabba, chutneys and spreads, sundried fruit candy, and traditional Indian snacks such as papads, rice sticks and millet rings. These items were selected based on the women’s skill set, and what they wanted to make. The women were divided into four groups—each assigned a Partner Producer.
Even though we gave the women a tasting matrix to record the products’ appearance, smell, taste, texture, label, packaging, and pricing, they were thinking about these categories without any prompts. The sessions quickly evolved beyond simple tasting exercises into conversations about packaging, branding, pricing, customer habits, and what makes a product feel “worth buying.”
As we arranged jars, paper packets, and tasting bowls across the tables in the three SHGs, an immediate sense of curiosity filled the room. The women handled each product carefully, turning the packets over to inspect the labels and window-patching. In Ranjankhar, before even tasting the millet rings, Rupali shared that she would hesitate to buy the product in a shop because the packaging did not create a strong first impression. That moment stayed with me because it showed how naturally they had started thinking like consumers and business owners rather than home cooks.
I was struck by how the women critiqued the products. They spoke with authority about texture, spice balance, oil content, and freshness. For example, they observed that Maaticha’s kokum chutney was sharp, and could be adjusted slightly with more garlic. They were most taken by the familiarity with the ingredients—and turning something local into something unique. Many spoke about how they would use it, from incorporating it to make solkadhi, to just having it with bhakri.
For Aamra, the women shared that their vegetable pickle would be great for children because it contained so many vegetables. We noticed how often they thought of their kids first as they discussed the products.
For me, the discussions on pricing were some of the most revealing moments. At first, many women felt the prices were unreasonable. In Hashiware, the women unanimously agreed that the murrabba and cashew butter were too costly for consumers in Alibag. However, Ahuti challenged this initial perception by noting that the products were packaged in reusable glass jars, which likely contributed to their higher cost. Her observation sparked a chain reaction among the group, prompting other women to identify additional factors that influence pricing. These included costs associated with attractive packaging, maintaining hygienic storage facilities, sourcing fresh ingredients, labour, and transportation. Such conversations occurred in the other SHGs too, where Manasi from Narangi strategically explained, “The labels are attractive; they have pictures of the vegetables used to make the pickles. It makes sense that the cost would be high.”
Even within the excitement of the tasting sessions, several questions surfaced across the three SHGs:
“How will we sell the final product?”
“Where will the market be?”
“Where is the demand for such products?”
“Isn’t the market saturated with foods like papads and pickles? How will we stand out?”
Kadambari from Hashiware expressed her worry about the physical toll the project might take on their bodies. Beneath these practical concerns was a deeper fear of failure and uncertainty about whether this opportunity would truly become a reality.
By the end of the day, I could see the women shifting their perspective of food from something home-cooked to a commodity they could turn into a real business. More importantly, many women seemed to realise that the knowledge they had acquired through years of cooking, preserving, and feeding their families had value beyond their households.
In Rajankhar, the women discussed how fenya—a steamed rice papad usually made during Maharashtrian weddings—could potentially be sold in markets with some refinement to the dish. Similarly, the women in Narangi remarked how most product labels were in English when many Indians couldn’t read the language properly. These observations made it clear that they were evaluating the products and the market as potential producers capable of making informed decisions.
The possibility of starting something that belonged to them suddenly felt more achievable.
“Once the tasting started, the atmosphere in the room turned electric, shifting from nervousness to joy.” Sameha Patankar, Culinary Research Volunteer, and Vedika Basu, Field Research Volunteer
Market research was something I’d be doing for the very first time. Understanding the space we would operate in, the products already being sold, the people we hoped to reach, speaking to business owners—it all sounded exciting but equally intimidating.
One of the first questions we faced was whether to focus on fresh or packaged food products. Fresh food was a natural option because cooking was already a part of the women’s daily lives; plus they possessed the skills, recipes, and confidence needed to produce these foods. Packaged food, on the other hand, offered practical advantages such as longer shelf life, easier transportation, and greater flexibility in where production could take place. As we explored business models that could fit around the women’s lives and create sustainable opportunities, both options seemed worth pursuing.
Our market research, conducted in February 2026, revealed that Alibag is largely tourist-driven, with several store owners estimating that over 80 percent of their sales came from visitors. This made us consider not just what the women could produce, but also what people were buying. Tourists were often looking for something they could consume on the go or carry home as a reminder of their trip, making shelf-stable products particularly appealing. This is what nudged us towards packaged foods.
Vedika and I visited multiple Konkan food stores across Alibag, including Naik Konkan Foods, which operated its own manufacturing unit. We also visited smaller establishments such as Manisha Konkan Foods and Shevde Foods, where products were often prepared by the owners themselves. We documented the products, their packaging, and the SHGs supplying them. The shelves carried everything from traditional mango, lemon and radish pickles, Malvani and Agri spice blends, and papads, to more innovative products like fish papads and flavoured vermicelli.
As we traced products back to their producers, we realised that many operated out of home kitchens, while others had grown into small family-run businesses. During one such visit, Manisha, the owner of Manisha Konkan Foods, explained that she was keen on stocking products that felt innovative. She led us to an instant puranpoli mix on her shelf, among the more unconventional products in the store. Conversations like these made it clear that store owners were looking for products that stood apart from the many pickles, papads, and spice blends already lining their shelves. This pushed us towards developing a product that felt distinct from what was already available.
We considered fresh products, but conversations around these made us hesitate. A woman working at Bhakri Point, a storefront selling flatbread said, “Bhakri banavna he kashtacha kaam ahe, kambar purna jaate, paise hi tase kamich miltat. Pan kay karnar? Kahich na kamavnya peksha bara ahe.” (“Making bhakris is labour-intensive. Your back is completely worn out by the end of it, and the money isn’t all that great either. But what can one do? It is still better than earning nothing.”) This reiterated what we had been working towards since day one: finding a product that was not only commercially attractive but also worthwhile for the women making it—one that rewarded their efforts more fairly.
To better understand existing products in the market, we conducted tasting sessions with the women from the SHGs. Using a tasting matrix that assessed factors such as packaging, appearance, aroma, and labelling, the women critically evaluated the products, pointing out issues and suggestions ranging from “the laddoos need more dink” to “the peanuts weren’t roasted long enough before preparing the chutney.” Aditi, from Narangi, even identified that the jawla used in a sukti chutney (a dried fish condiment) had likely not been stored properly because of the smell it had developed.
More than anything, the sessions made the women feel confident. As they evaluated the products, many felt that they could improve on what was already available in the market—whether by refining recipes, adjusting techniques, or using better quality ingredients. Foods they routinely prepared at home—such as spice blends, sukti chutney, and puffed rice laddoos—began to have the potential to stand alongside and, in some cases, even surpass those being sold commercially.
The last tasting session was conducted in March 2026, where the women from the SHG made delicious dishes like puranpoli, mango karbat (a raw mango condiment), gulgule (sweet fritters usually made with wheat, jaggery, and spices), and kothimbir wadi for everyone to taste and share feedback. This exercise would help us narrow down the final products for the project. I was especially excited because I was dying to eat Alibag’s local delicacies like sukat chutney, kurmure laddoos, sweet kairi pickle, and shengdana chutney. Once the tasting started, the atmosphere in the room turned electric, shifting from nervousness to joy. As everyone savoured the various chutneys, pickles, papads, and laddoos, ‘oohs’, ‘aahs’, and ‘wows’ could be heard across the room.
This session pushed us towards packaged foods over freshly made dishes. We realised that the women are more confident in making products such as papads and pickles, as these recipes have been ingrained in their culinary traditions over generations.
We presented our market research findings to the women and discussed both fresh and packaged food products. When we proposed fresh food, several women pushed back. Older SHG members raised practical concerns such as rent, travel, and the physical demands associated with preparing and selling fresh food. While deciding which products to pursue would take several more rounds of discussion and testing, there was consensus on one point: packaged foods made more sense.
What stayed with me was not the decision itself, but how it was made. The older women prioritised practicality, while the younger women spoke about scaling beyond local markets and catering to customers overseas. Despite approaching the question from different angles, they arrived at the same conclusion.
The process taught us that collaborative decision-making is not about everyone thinking alike; it is about making room for different perspectives, aspirations, and constraints to shape a shared direction.
“I was tasting with one question in mind: What does it take for something delicious in a home kitchen to become a product that can add value to someone else’s pantry?” Chef Thomas Zacharias, Founder, The Locavore
I had imagined this would be a fairly straightforward process: spend time with the women in Alibag, understand what they cook, identify a few strong products, standardise them, and think through how they might be sold. But every visit, every tasting, every conversation showed me it was far more layered. This wasn’t about choosing between pickles, papads, chutneys, or sweets. It was about confidence, risk, group dynamics, seasonality, family responsibilities, market access, pricing, packaging, and whether food could become a new source of income and agency.
That is also where The Locavore’s role became clearer. We attempted to bring a way of looking at food from many directions at once—as cooks, storytellers, people who work with food producers, and as a team that thinks often about what it takes for regional food knowledge to find a market without losing its essence.
By the time the final samples of the traditional dishes the women had prepared came to me in Mumbai, I wasn’t tasting them only as a chef. I was tasting with one question in mind: What does it take for something delicious in a home kitchen to become a product that can add value to someone else’s pantry?
Home preparations can be deeply personal. A little more jaggery because the mango is sharper this year. A longer roast on a meat preparation because that’s how someone’s mother-in-law did it. A handful of chilli added by instinct. That is the beauty (and flexibility) of home food. But a product asks for repeatability, shelf life, hygiene, storage, pricing, packaging, and trust. It has to travel. It has to survive heat and time. It has to be understood by someone who hasn’t been to Alibag, never met the women who made it, and never tasted these flavours before.
Among all that I tasted, two products stayed with me. The first was God Amba, a mango pickle brought by both Rekha from Ranjankhar and Pratiksha from Narangi. With just a slight difference in taste, both pickles had a brightness, sweetness, and acidity that comes from combining mango, jaggery, and spices like mustard and red chilli. With a thick, syrupy consistency, its flavour deepens as it ferments over time.
I could imagine it pairing well with bhakri or puranpoli, but also with curd rice, toast, cheese, or even as a glaze. That versatility made it exciting, but it also brought urgency. Mango season does not wait for project timelines.
The second was a sukti chutney that Mansi from Narangi had brought. For me, this was the real breakthrough, but not in the form it first appeared. What she had made was a dry chutney: dried jawla, garlic, chilli, and salt, roasted and ground into something intensely savoury and unmistakably coastal. Then something immediately clicked for the team: What if this became a Sukti Chilli Crisp? The traditional preparation already had depth and identity, the chilli crisp format simply made it more spoonable, versatile, and easier for more people to understand and use. It could go on rice, eggs, noodles, bhakri, vegetables, snacks—almost anything that needed heat, crunch, and that coastal umami.
One of the biggest learnings of this project for me has been this: traditional food does not always need reinvention; sometimes careful reframing can go a long way.
The shift I noticed from November 2025 to the last training session in May 2026, was significant. Questions and worries persisted, of course. But there was also more openness, more attention, and more willingness to imagine that this could become real. The conversation had moved from “Can we do this?” to “How do we do this properly?”
We were no longer only talking about flavour. We were talking about Khaoji mangoes, dried shrimp, jars, labels, food safety, storage, production days, pricing, and whether the women could take this on alongside the work they were already doing. This is where the project became most interesting to me—in the messy, detailed, slightly overwhelming space where something starts becoming real.
A beautiful recipe can create excitement. But a product creates responsibility: to the women making it, to the customer buying it, to the season, to the ingredient, to the story being told, and to the quality being promised.
The work ahead is still hard: Standardisation, sourcing, hygiene, packaging, costing, storage, and sales will decide whether this can move beyond a pilot attempt. But for now, we have flavours. We have direction. And we have two products that feel worth pursuing seriously.
‘The Tiny Food Project: Alibag’ is a social impact initiative led by The Locavore in partnership with Tiny Miracles, supporting women from three villages in Alibag to build food-based livelihoods rooted in local culture and collective strength.
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