EVERYDAY LOCAVORES
“Our elders say, if you never put an axe to a mahua tree, it won't let a person go hungry”
—Kalabai Merawi, 45, Kannai village
By Nidhi K and Kiran Admache
9 September 2026
Around 2 am, Kalabai Merawi, 45, wakes her family to collect fallen gulli (mahua seeds) before they are picked by others. On merely four hours of sleep, she walks two kilometres with her husband, mother-in-law, and daughter to their fields in Kannai village, Madhya Pradesh. “I go to sleep at 10 or 11 pm and wake up soon after. That’s just how it is during this season,” she says.
During late June and mid-July, Kalabai’s family collect 60–100 kilograms of seeds, which gives them 30 litres of crude mahua oil, ensuring their household has enough cooking oil throughout the year. “Nothing from the seeds went to waste back in the day. Our elders say, if you never put an axe to a mahua tree, it won’t let a person go hungry.”
By 8 am, the family returns home with four to five bags of seeds, which are sundried and cracked. Kalabai’s family does not own the machinery to extract oil; they pay six rupees per kilogram to a nearby mechanical press. Rates have stayed low, increasing only by two rupees in the last five years. “We pay less because they are keeping the mahua cake [the residue left once oil is extracted],” Kalabai points out.
Earlier, this residue would also go back into their own fields as manure. “It works just as well against pests as anything we could buy [urea and DAP]. Now if we want [to use] it, we have to buy it back from the mill owners.”
Decades ago, the oil was only used within homes. However, due to rising prices of commodities, Kalabai’s family have started selling the surplus to markets. Now, it makes up one-third of their annual income.
Shrinking resources increases their dependence on farmwork and markets. “The whole forest was accessible during my grandmother’s and mother’s time. There were no restrictions by the forest department. There has been so much cutting in the past decades.”
The picking season was very short this year too—about a week or two. During this time, Kalabai is stretched between seed collection, domestic chores, and agricultural work for their paddy crop. “[Collecting seeds] is a back-breaking job, but I am used to it. We come back, rest for a bit, and then I start preparing food for us.”
Kalabai has been gathering mahua seeds for 25 years. For the Gond Merawi tribal community in Balaghat district, Madhya Pradesh, these seeds are a major source of livelihood. While Kalabai’s family own a few mahua trees, they also collect seeds from other trees located on the path, depending on their need for the season.
With hundreds of families reliant on an increasingly dwindling resource, Kalabai’s family need to reach the fields by 2:30 am and wait till daybreak before starting collection. The ground beneath is first swept clear of dried leaves so that fallen seeds aren’t missed.
Kalabai examines the outer layer of the seeds for toughness. “You determine the freshness of mahua seeds by pressing them gently between your fingers to check if they feel firm and crisp instead of damp or yielding,” she explains.
After returning home, the seeds are laid out to sun-dry on their roof. Following breakfast and some rest, Kalabai and her husband Asam Merawi carry the mahua seeds to the side of the road.
Cracking the seeds requires one person to stand on a flat stone and crush the seeds with their weight. Asam walks over the seeds with the stone, while Kalabai gathers the opened seeds.
Kalabai cracks any seeds that are still intact by hand. She says using a stone to hit the tip of the seeds is the easiest way to break them open.
Kalabai pictured with her mother-in-law. All parts of the mahua tree have domestic, medicinal, and cultural significance. “Before there was [electricity], this same oil is what we burned in our lamps,” says Kalabai. “[Mahua] is there at weddings, at births, in the liquor we serve when guests come over… we hold them close to who we are.”
Mahua cakes offer sizable profits to mill owners. Because buying it back is expensive, tribal farmers often have to rely on chemical fertilisers which are cheaper.
For Kalabai, farm work follows straight after coming back from the forest. Over the years, many trees have been cleared for paddy fields. Cattle populations have also declined, along with open grazing areas.
Due to erratic rains and a changing climate, mahua trees flower late and for shorter periods, leaving fewer quantities of seeds for collection. “When that happens, we buy oil from the market—that costs us more,” Kalabai says.
Kalabai uses mahua oil to cook seasonal and market-bought vegetables. She says they ate millets like kodo and kutki as children, but kids these days don’t enjoy it; they prefer rice instead.
Nidhi K is a Writer-Researcher fellow from Madhya Pradesh. She is an independent journalist from Mumbai who writes on travel, food, policy, public health, and the environment. A data nerd, she loves scouring databases to bring stories to the fore.
Kiran Admache is the Audio-Visual fellow from Madhya Pradesh. She is a Gond Adivasi filmmaker and engineer holding a Bachelor’s degree in Electrical and Electronics Engineering and is an alumna of the Green Hub Central India Fellowship where she learned documentary filmmaking.
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Additional Inputs
This story was produced in partnership with Network for Conserving Central India (NCCI). Read more about their work here.
Doc Society Climate Story Fund supports compelling independent media storytelling and impact strategies from around the world that can help audiences envision the just transition, and activate them to make these visions a reality.
This story is part of the Woman Farmer Project, a multimedia storytelling initiative led by The Locavore in partnership with the Doc Society Climate Story Unit. It aims to build a roadmap for successful collaborations between storytellers, grassroots organisations, and community distribution networks across India.