A Dalit Chief Justice in a Hindu Majoritarian India

Indira Jaising | 22 Nov 2025

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Over the past decade, the new normal has been an increasing decline in standards of judicial independence and integrity. As the 52nd chief justice retires, we reflect on his complicated legacy as a jurist, an administrator, and a Dalit chief justice in a withering democracy.

While evaluating the tenure of outgoing Chief Justices of India (‘CJI’), one is constantly looking for the gold standard against which to match it. And unfortunately, in the past decade, I have been unable to find that gold standard. Tragically, but truly, we seem to be stuck in a situation where the new normal is a further decline in standards of independence and institutional integrity rather than an ascending standard towards a legacy of judicial independence, judicial integrity of the institution, and a lasting constitutional jurisprudence. The task of evaluating becomes painful. 

Three chief justices of India have retired in quick succession of each other and it would be useful to look at their respective social backgrounds and “legacy”. The first of the three came from a Brahmin community - a dynasty judge - Justice D.Y. Chandrachud, the second came from a professional legacy - Justice Sanjeev Khana - who as we all know was chosen out of turn to be the Chief Justice of India, and the third belonged to a Dalit community, Justice B.R. Gavai. 

Looking for differences among the outgoing chief justices is normal and there are many differences between the three: some not so significant, some extraordinarily significant.  

In terms of tenure length, both CJI Khanna and CJI Gavai had short tenures and hence evaluation of their jurisprudential legacy would be difficult; opportunities were rare in that short period. It must be said though that during his short tenure CJI Khanna was much appreciated by many for the transparency he showed in making public the material available against Justice Yashwant Varma of the Delhi High Court when cash was found at his residence. He later recommended that the matter be carried forward by the Government to its logical conclusion by setting up an inquiry under the Judges (Inquiry) Act.  This single step enhances the stature of the Judiciary in achieving some form of accountability for misconduct within its ranks. 

On the judicial side, his order staying the filing of further suits relating to the Places of Worship Act put a halt to the build up of communal violence in the country and was no small achievement. A challenge to the validity of the Act is pending  and we will no doubt see it come to some conclusion during the tenure of the incoming Chief Justice. Under CJI Khanna’s tenure, three appointments were made to the Supreme Court -  among which was that of Justice Joymalya Bagchi, who was appointed out of turn with the apparent aim of selecting him to become a future chief justice - an emerging phenomenon we will come back to later. 

Although the tenure of CJI Gavai was also short, expectations from him were high given he was to be the only second Dalit chief justice in a Brahmin dominated court (with a Brahmin, CJI Chandrachud, who also came from the Bombay HC, having most recently steered the Court for a long tenure). 

That being said, I must avoid the temptation to evaluate CJI Gavai's tenure against that of CJI Chandrachud, on whose ‘legacy’ I have already written. I will make a bold attempt to not draw those parallels. 

The times we live in require us to primarily evaluate the functioning of a Chief Justice on the administrative side rather than on the judicial side. Attacks on the independence of the judiciary have come mainly from a majoritarian government attempting to pack the court with friendly judges. How have successive Chief Justices dealt with these challenges?

Added to this is the fact that  the tenures of Chief Justices are relatively, and generally, not long, in the case of CJI Gavai, being not more than six months of which about two months went in vacations. It is difficult, if not impossible, to leave a jurisprudential mark within this short period. 

We live in times where there are concerted attacks by the ruling regime against the judiciary, in particular against the very system of appointing judges by the collegium, the intention being to  give to the executive primacy in the matter of appointments. These attacks are brutal, straightforward and ideological. In their brutal form, we have seen comments from the former law minister Kiren Rejuju and the former vice president Jagdeep Dhankar who openly attacked the Collegium system as being one that needs to be abandoned. 

It appears that CJI Chandrachud was able to deal with these attacks through a process of negotiations where we saw the law minister lose his portfolio owing to consistent, caustic attacks against the judiciary. No government can afford to have such open confrontations with the judiciary where 90 percent of all court work relates to challenges to government work. We possibly saw the same thing happen with Dhankar, who not only attacked the collegium system but also the doctrine of basic structure of the Constitution of India, and ultimately saw an untimely end of his tenure during CJI Gavai’s chief justiceship. It may not be possible to establish a connection between these events but I would imagine that there exists a back channel of communication including seminars and conferences where the Judiciary and the executive have opportunities to voice differences between them at the policy level .

For all intents and purposes, it would appear that the two Chief Justices -  Justice Chandrachud and Justice Gavai - are incomparable from any point of view. Whereas, one was born into a  “legacy” family  whereby his father, once India’s longest serving CJI, seemed determined to ensure that his son became the Chief Justice of the country, the other came from a political background. Justice Gavai’s father was the founder of the Republican Party of India (Gavai) faction, a duly elected member of Parliament, and later the governor of Bihar, Sikkim and Kerala. Interestingly, it is possible that Justice Chandrachud was consulted by the CJI Ranjan Gogoi led Collegium in the matter of Justice Gavai’s appointment and he recommended Justice Gavai’s appointment.

No two people could have been more different from each other. One a Brahmin, the other a Dalit. In October, when a rogue lawyer threw a shoe at CJI Gavai, angered by his remark against Lord Vishnu earlier, it snowballed into a cascade of casteist harassment by the Hindu right wing. CJI Chandrachud, too, had been one of the most trolled judges of the Supreme Court. While CJI Gavai certainly established his reputation as being secular, CJI Chandrachud had made no secret of his Hindu pride on public platforms and in personal communications with the executive .

Yet, when one begins to compare outcomes for the institution, how different they were from each other is a question that historians will have to answer in the days to come.

Tragically, but truly, we seem to be stuck in a situation where the new normal is a further decline in standards of independence and institutional integrity

Undoing a past ‘legacy’

To some extent, CJI Gavai’s tenure was marked by an attempt to undo decisions taken by CJI Chandrachud, which in a manner of speaking, had come to represent his style of functioning. Given the disappointments that we had faced with CJI Chandrachud, CJI Gavai’s decisions early on his tenure, including symbolic ones, such as reinstating the Supreme Court’s old logo gave the appearance of being measures which were intended to undo an undesirable legacy. That same month, he dismantled  the Rs 2.6 crore air-conditioning and glass panels in the corridors. It was also under his tenure that the Supreme Court wrote to the Centre for the immediate repossession of the CJI’s official residence where CJI Chandrachud had overstayed. While these were welcome decisions, to what extent were they truly an undoing of CJI Chandrachud’s legacy, especially in terms of  long-term impact on the functioning of the judiciary?

What is the long term impact of Justice Gavai’s tenure  on the institutional integrity of the court? 

For one, as an administrator, CJI Gavai’s role in implementing the 200 point roster system for reservation of SC and ST employees in the Supreme Court, three decades after the R.K. Sabharwal judgment is one that could leave a lasting memory. However, not only is it to be followed up with rigorous implementation, it was also a missed opportunity to bring reservations in promotion within the Court - something Dr K.S. Chauhan had advocated for. 

Did the Gavai Collegium leave a damaging legacy?

The primary means, however, of studying the long-term legacy would be in terms of understanding how the Collegium functioned under him, and the judges he appointed during his tenure, across India’s 25 High Courts, and the top Court.

High Court appointments

Let us begin with the High Courts. Some analysts have pointed out that some of the premier High Courts in the country have been ‘disturbed’ by appointments made by CJI Gavai’s Collegium in very significant ways. Taking the Delhi High Court (‘HC’), for instance, owing to an alarming frequency of judicial transfers (something the Delhi HC Bar Association, in a September letter to CJI Gavai noted to have caused ‘unease’), except for Justice V. Kameswar Rao, none of the five senior most judges of the HC are from Delhi. This has resulted in a destabilizing of tradition in the manner of administering the HC since the Collegium judges are not familiar with either the functioning of the bar or of the HC.

One of the institutions of the Delhi HC which has been impacted by these changes is its Mediation Centre. The Mediation Centre of the Delhi HC was probably the longest running mediation centre and had the reputation of being a role model. Knowledgeable sources now argue that the legitimacy of the Mediation Centre has been substantially reduced and neglected .

Although bulk appointments of judges have been made to the High Court of Bombay, many argue that under CJI Gavai's tenure, due care has not been taken to ensure that competent people are appointed. While some argue that the increase in numbers itself leads to access to justice by fast-tracking hearings in Court, others point out that an incompetent judge only adds to arrears. That apart, at least two of the judges appointed had adverse intelligence reports, and were appointed despite clear knowledge of these adverse reports for the sole reason that they were recommended by the Collegium headed by CJI Gavai. 

CJI Gavai has also faced rightful criticism for the Collegium under him having recommended and appointed his nephew, Raj Wakode, as a judge of the Bombay HC. It is no solace to learn that CJI Gavai recused himself from the Collegium in relation to Wakode’s appointment, neither is the claim made by his brother that Wakode is more of a “distant relative”, keeping in mind the full extent of the chief justice’s position as ‘first among equals’, and the empirical proof of widespread nepotism in India’s judicial appointments. 

In another instance, the Bombay HC Chief Justice, under whose tenure a circuit bench was set up in Kolhapur (a longstanding desire of CJI Gavai), was duly appointed to the Supreme Court in August 2025. Justice Alok Aradhe did not do much else to qualify him for the appointment over many others (Justice A.S. Oka, also from Bombay HC was compelled to write an article pointing out that due process of law was not followed in the setting up of the Bench.) 

Notably also, judges from the Bombay HC, such as Justice A.S. Chandurkar, were elevated to the Supreme Court by bypassing senior women judges who had a legitimate claim to being appointed to the Supreme Court, including Justice Revati Mohite Dere.

It is often said that the Bombay HC is well represented in the Supreme Court. This is a misunderstanding. The truth is, it is Nagpur that is well represented in the Supreme Court of India.

For all intents and purposes, it would appear that the two Chief Justices -  Justice Chandrachud and Justice Gavai - are incomparable from any point of view. 

Supreme Court appointments

Five judges were appointed under CJI Gavai’s tenure to the Supreme Court, and none incorporated greater gender, caste or religious diversity to the bench. Each of these appointments were cleared in an average span of only 2.6 days since the date of recommendation. I would argue that it is now a given that the sooner the executive clears a file for appointment of a judge to the Supreme Court, the more evident it is that the person is acceptable to the ruling party. 

By far, the most damaging decision taken by the outgoing Chief Justice is the appointment of Justice V.M. Pancholi to the Supreme Court, handpicked to become the Chief Justice of India, similar to Justice Bagchi’s appointment by the Khanna Collegium. One of the biggest issues that emerges from this discussion is that ‘Kaun Banega Chief Justice of India?’ has become a lottery - a lottery whose outcome can be fixed only by the Collegium in consultation with the government. The chosen one will now be the Chief Justice of India with no other criteria to recommend him. For instance, The Leaflet’s data analysis shows that while appointing Justice Pancholi, CJI Gavai’s collegium overlooked many potential chief justices who were not only more senior to him, but could have improved the Court’s gender, caste, religious and regional composition.

The other truly dangerous precedent set by Justice Pancholi’s appointment is that the decision of the Collegium was not unanimous. If indeed a person can be appointed by the Collegium without the decision being unanimous, it would be a matter of time before individual members of the Collegium could be split along ideological lines, where the majority decides. Then, we will begin to see minorities within minorities. The sole woman judge in the Supreme Court, Justice B.V. Nagarathna, was also the sole judge to dissent on Justice Pancholi’s appointment, having the conviction to place on record her objections. Perhaps in this entire saga, Justice Nagarathna’s show of integrity and courage was the only redeeming factor. But even she did not , in her dissent, mention that successive Chief Justices had not corrected the gender imbalance in the appointment of judges to the Supreme Court of India. 

Also notably critical about the Gavai collegium was its subservience to the executive on the issue of transfers. While the memorable example of Justice Atul Sreedharan’s transfer to the Allahabad HC showed the continuing timidity of the Collegium, the Gavai collegium interestingly stated explicitly that the decision was being taken “at the government’s request.” If there were any scope of being transparent about the immense pressure from the executive that the judiciary is functioning under, this was a show of that, and the Collegium gave us a glimpse into its own withering independence. 

Although bulk appointments of judges have been made to the High Court of Bombay, many argue that under CJI Gavai's tenure, due care has not been taken to ensure that competent people are appointed. 

The dangerous legacy of intra-court appeals

A further dangerous precedent that we have seen during the tenure of CJI Gavai is what could fairly be described as ‘intra-court appeals’. These consist of multiple instances where the Court either recalled or overruled decisions of other judges through constitutionally suspect mechanisms. At least three such instances pertained to decisions by the bench of Justice J.B. Pardiwala: first, in early August, when Justice Pardiwala’s bench directed that an Allahabad HC judge not be given the criminal roster until retirement (for allowing criminal prosecution in a civil case), CJI Gavai “requested” the bench to recall its adverse directions, which it did. Later, that same month shortly after Justice Pardiwala’s bench passed a problematic order to clear out Delhi’s stray dogs to relocate them to shelters and pounds, CJI Gavai, as ‘master of the roster’, referred the matter to a larger bench, which on August 22, modified the earlier order. One could argue that both these decisions ironically ended up with the same result that was being sought to be corrected:  the deviation from judicial norms of functioning. The third, and most recent of such incident would be when a Constitution Bench led by him on Presidential Reference overruled the commendable judgment by Justice Pardiwala setting timelines for the President and Governors to act on bills passed by state legislatures using the Supreme Court’s power under Article 142. While the issue had obtained constitutional quietus, the Union succeeded in re-litigating its cause and the Court left India’s federal structure precarious.

There were other instances beyond those concerning Justice Pardiwala. Earlier this month, after a split verdict was delivered where Justice Sanjay Kumar wrote a strong verdict directing formation of an SIT, consisting of equal number of Hindu and Muslim officers to investigate the lynching of a teenage Muslim boy, CJI Gavai’s bench, on a mere mentioning by the Solicitor General, stayed Justice Kumar’s direction. In late July, a special bench led by Justice Gavai recalled a May judgment by Justice Bela Trivedi which had rejected a resolution plan by JSW Steel for Bhushan Power and Steel Ltd. 

Few things reflect the devastating legacy of this regression jurisprudence than CJI Gavai’s decision earlier this week to recall, on a review petition, the Supreme Court’s progressive Vanashakti judgement, delivered by Justices Oka and Ujjal Bhuyan in May, which had struck down a 2021 EIA notification that allowed ex post facto grant of environmental clearance. The Vanashakti decision had been a welcome aberration to the Court’s consistently declining environmental jurisprudence. Justice Bhuyan’s dissenting note that the majority’s decision was “backtracking” on the Court’s own sound environmental jurisprudence carried a note of caution that must reverb with us.

Perhaps in this entire saga, Justice Nagarathna’s show of integrity and courage was the only redeeming factor. 

Was there a coherent jurisprudential legacy?

CJI Gavai adjudicated over at least three politically, constitutionally significant matters. With the can of worms of the Places of Worship Act challenge temporarily put under cover, CJI Gavai extensively heard arguments on the Waqf (Amendment) Act, finally delivering an interim judgment in September. While the judgment stayed certain problematic provisions, it did not engage with several strands of issues that were raised, including the amendment’s abolition of the evidentiary concept of Waqf by User that the Court allowed to stand. Many have argued that the interim judgment accepts on face value certain misinformed narratives pushed by the State, such that Waqf is widely an instrument of encroachment by Muslims. Second, CJI Gavai’s bench commendably issued procedural safeguards against the egregious practice of investigating agencies like the ED summoning lawyers representing their clients, providing some relief to the bar. And third, CJI Gavai’s bench struck down the Tribunal Reforms Act, 2021, which allowed disproportionate power to the executive in the Search and Selection Committee that selected tribunal members - a move that bides well for judicial independence. He also left a track record of granting bail when the arrest itself was illegal for want of reasons communicated to the accused and stood thereby on the side of liberty .

However, by and large, one can conclude that the functioning of the Supreme Court lacked judicial and administrative discipline. It may even be pointless evaluating the legacy of CJI Gavai from the jurisprudential lens for the simple reason that his tenure was too short. Judging from the perspective of his performance in his parent High Court - Bombay High Court - there can be no doubt about the fact that he has a clarity of thought, simplicity of writing in his judgments and ability to deal with complex issues within manageable legal frameworks. His judgments continue to be leading judgments in the High Court of Bombay and no one can doubt his intellectual abilities. 

The question that remains, however, is whether they were put to use in the Supreme Court? Or even, whether his tenure was too brief to be able to answer that question? 

However, by and large, one can conclude that the functioning of the Supreme Court lacked judicial and administrative discipline.

A Dalit chief in a Hindu majoritarian India

What then is the difference between a judge who takes pride in his Hinduism - Justice Chandrachud and a Dalit judge who is secular - both of whom steered a constitutional court in a Hindutva State? Perhaps little in terms of safeguarding the independence of the judiciary or resisting executive pressure in the matter of appointment of judges. The ideological judge is here to stay.

The last thing I think I would like to say is that often a judge has to be judged not just by his tenure on the bench, but also by what he does post-retirement, which is the real giveaway. One has to await and see whether Justice Gavai enters the political fray as a major player. There are indeed very few options for a person who retires as the Chief Justice of India.  Arbitration, though an available option, is often unsatisfying to ambitious people, especially for those who are politically ambitious or see their role as public intellectuals’.

Sixty-five is no age to retire and there is no doubt that Justice Gavai will continue to contribute to public life. It also remains an open question to see whether he will be accepted as a political spokesperson or leader within the Dalit community. Indications are that the community is critical of him for his judgment on sub-categorization of scheduled castes and more particularly his comments in relation to ‘creamy layer’ within the community. In September, Maharashtra chief minister Devendra Fadnavis has reportedly stated that the government is planning to introduce the creamy layer concept within the scheduled caste community, splitting the community down the line.

Justice Gavai took up the mantle as a Dalit head of judiciary in a Hindu majoritarian state, and in many ways his tenure characterised this complex positioning. The casteism he faced from the Hindu right for staying committed to his Ambedkarite ideology continues to show us why, especially in Hindu majoritarian India, we need more judges, more chief justices from marginalised, underrepresented communities. For who he was, and what he represented in terms of staying clear of right wing Hindu performance, the significance of having our judiciary led by judges not ideologically subservient to the ruling regime came out sharply. 

The biggest challenge facing the Supreme Court of India is to maintain the independence of the Collegium system The new and emerging challenge is to lay down guidelines to the process of how the Chief Justice of India is selected. Perhaps one needs a Fifth Judges case for that, whose time is awaited. 

While we welcome diversity of caste, class, gender and religion, whether under a Brahmin chief justice or a Dalit chief justice, or a yet-to-come woman chief justice, the judiciary’s  performance will ultimately be judged not by his or her identity alone, but by the leadership provided in maintaining the institution’s independence. A moment of reckoning is still awaited. 

Indira Jaising is a noted human rights lawyer and a senior advocate at the Supreme Court of India. She is also a co-founder of The Leaflet.

Courtesy: The Leaflet

INDIA

Jammu: Rohingya Refugees Struggle For Place to Bury Loved Ones

Urvat il wuska | 22 Nov 2025

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With no access to burial grounds, families travel miles to forested areas, leaving their dead scattered across Jammu.

Makeshift tents of Rohingya refugees, these tents are made up of wooden planks and tin sheets, photos from Kiryani Talab in Jammu (Photo - Urvat il wuska, 101Reporters)

Jammu and Kashmir: Asif Hussain, a member of the Rohingya refugee community living in the Sujwan settlement on the outskirts of Jammu, still remembers the long walk through the forest with his brother’s body.

In 2018, when Salam Hussain died of kidney disease, there was no place in Jammu where he could be buried. Asif (45), a daily-wage labourer had to take him nearly 50 kilometres away, to a forest area in Kathua.

“I had to arrange Rs 5,000 for travel and burial expenses,” Asif recalled. “We hired a load carrier, and after reaching the base of the forest, we trekked for an hour to reach the spot. That experience still haunts me. We don’t even have the courage to visit his grave now, fearing wild animals may have disturbed the body.”

For Muslim families, the Janazah prayer before burial is a communal obligation, meant to be attended by as many people as possible. But for families like Asif’s, distance and fear make that impossible. “Because the burial sites are so far away, many people can’t join. What should have been a communal prayer becomes a lonely act,” he said. “In such times, you need your people around you, but we are left to mourn alone.”

Across Jammu, over 13,000 Rohingya refugees face this same struggle, denied even the dignity of a grave. Living in temporary settlements in Channi Rama, Kiryani Talab, Narwal, Bhatandi and Sujwan, they have no access to designated burial grounds. Families often travel 40-50 kilometres to forested areas in Qasim Nagar, Sidhra or Kathua to bury their dead.

The Rohingya, a predominantly Muslim ethnic minority from Myanmar’s Rakhine state, fled large-scale persecution and violence beginning in the 1990s, with the largest exodus after 2017. Around 40,000 are estimated to live across India, mostly in Jammu, Delhi, Hyderabad and Haryana. Though registered with the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR), they are not formally recognised as refugees under Indian law, leaving them in a state of legal limbo, without citizenship rights or assured access to housing, education, or burial grounds.

Amir Hussain, a community leader of Rohingya refugees, praying Fatihah at the graveyard in Channi Rama (Photo - Urvat il wuska, 101Reporters).

The absence of safe and dignified burial spaces raises a painful question: when displaced people are denied the right to rest their dead, what protection do they have left in life?

Scattered graves

Rohingya families also carry the emotional burden of invisibility in death, said Rahimulla, 35. “We don’t place names or details like other Muslims, which usually gives a sense of identity. That’s why it feels like we vanish with death,” he said.

Even in hardship, families honour their dead in the few ways they can. “We place simple stones over the graves so we know they exist. Only close family knows who is buried where,” he added.

Amir Ali (75) who came to India with his family in 2008, said they have long struggled to find a place to live and a place to rest. “Whenever someone dies, we rely on local residents to help us bury them. Some allow us to use their graveyards, like the one in Bhatindi, but even that is uncertain. Recently, locals asked us to find a separate graveyard, saying they had limited space. It’s becoming harder to ensure a proper resting place for our loved ones,” he said.

Without a dedicated burial ground, graves are scattered across forests and small local graveyards, leaving families divided even in death.

Rahman Ali (55) had to bury his parents in separate graveyards. “It divides families even in death and makes it difficult to grieve or preserve a sense of belonging,” he said. “There’s no place to mourn together or honour our dead. It feels like they’re disappearing, and all we’re left with is sorrow.”

“I want to visit my parents’ graves,” said Rahimulla quietly. “But they’re too far. A graveyard close to our settlement would mean we could at least hold on to their memory, instead of feeling scattered even in death.”

He said graves serve as anchors of community and cultural identity. “When families can’t bury their dead together, it fragments not just grief but the cohesion of the entire community.”

Rahimulla, who teaches children in his settlement near Kiryani Talab, said the loss extends beyond individual families. Rahmatullah, 25, added why a separate graveyard matters: “It would preserve our identity. Even if one day we return to our country, we could visit our ancestors and remember the struggles our families endured.”

Burials at a cemetery in Chowadi Sujwani, Jammu, where members of the Rohingya community are buried alongside local residents (Photo - Urvat il wuska, 101Reporters).

Between law and humanity

“Rohingya Muslims in India live under legal uncertainty and are often treated as ‘illegal immigrants’ despite being recognised by the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR),” said human rights activist Nayla Hashmi. “This lack of clarity affects every aspect of their lives, including access to a dignified burial. Ensuring such basic rights is essential to easing their hardship.”

“International human rights standards emphasise that dignity and life extend beyond death,” she added. “While India has not ratified all refugee-specific treaties, it still has an obligation to protect displaced communities on humanitarian grounds.”

Even though Rohingyas are not officially recognised as refugees and can technically be deported under the Foreigners Act, they are still protected by Article 21 of the Constitution, which guarantees the right to life and personal liberty. “This right applies to every person on Indian soil,” Hashmi said. “That includes the right to basic human dignity, such as a proper and respectful burial.”

The Foreigners Act regulates the status of non-citizens but does not provide rights such as housing, employment or burial grounds. However, the Supreme Court has clarified that while foreigners may not have the right to remain in India, they cannot be denied basic human rights during their stay. Thus, access to burial grounds for Rohingyas is protected not by the Foreigners Act but by the constitutional guarantee of Article 21.

In practice, most Rohingyas in India are registered with the UNHCR, which helps document their presence and ensures limited recognition of their humanitarian needs. Across the country, about 16,500 Rohingyas are registered with the agency, including around 5,700 in Jammu (2024-25 estimates).

Hashmi said the limited access to burial grounds highlights the need for policies that combine legal clarity with humanitarian care. “Refugees should not have to face additional suffering even after death,” she said.

“We are grateful to India for giving us a place to live,” said Amir Hussain, a community leader in the Narwal settlement. “But when it comes to burying our dead, forests and occasional help from locals are not enough.”

“Providing a separate graveyard is not just about burial,” he added. “It is about mental peace, cultural preservation and giving our children a connection to their heritage. Without it, the grief of the living remains unresolved and the memory of the dead fades away.”

He appealed to the administration “on humanitarian grounds” for a dedicated graveyard with state support. “It would allow our community to honour our loved ones safely and with dignity, and preserve our identity and traditions even in these difficult times.”

Repeated attempts to contact officials from the district administration and forest department went unanswered.

Urvat il wuska is a freelance journalist and a member of 101Reporters, a pan-India network of grassroots reporters.

 INDIA

Odisha: 'The Sky Now Lies to us': Changing Rainfall Patterns Erasing Koraput’s Traditional Seeds

Prativa Ghosh | 20 Nov 2025

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In Odisha’s tribal heartland, unpredictable monsoons are wiping out indigenous crops and with them, centuries of farming knowledge and cultural memory.

Farmers followed the sky as faithfully as a clock (Photo - Prativa Ghosh, 101Reporters)

Koraput, Odisha: “The sky now lies to us,” Farmer Tikima Pangi (56) from Semilguda village in Odisha’s Koraput district told 101Reporters. “My mother used to say that by looking at the clouds in May, we knew exactly when to start sowing. But now, the sky lies to us. The rains come whenever they want, and our seeds no longer know what season it is.”

Pangi grows Dangarbaji, a traditional paddy variety, on her one-acre farm. Once common across Koraput, Dangarbaji is a medium-duration rice that matures in about 110 to 115 days.

It has slender, light green stalks, withstands mild droughts, and thrives in poor soils without fertilisers. Older farmers recall that it was once preferred on upland slopes for its soft, fragrant rice that stayed fresh for days.

Pangi is among the few farmers in Koraput who still grow the crops their grandmothers once did.

But across Odisha’s tribal belt, ancient seed varieties are vanishing as erratic rainfall upends growing cycles, taking with them not just food security, but also cultural identity and collective memory.

Over the past six to seven years, Koraput has lost more than eight varieties of mandia (finger millet) and over 30 traditional crops.

The varieties now disappearing were perfectly matched to Koraput's old monsoon patterns.  Earlier, traditional farming calendars worked because the rain could be trusted. Historical records show that Koraput receives about 1,950 mm of rainfall a year, spread evenly over roughly 90 days between June and late October.

Farmers followed the sky as faithfully as a clock. May showers signalled it was time to sow early mandia (finger millet). The first June rains meant rice planting. By August, the uplands turned green with crops ready to flower, and by October, the harvest began.

Mandia varieties like Kuya Gandhia took just 60 days to mature. Farmers planted them in May after the first rains and harvested them by July, ensuring food before the main rice season. Upland rice varieties such as Dangar Dhan and Paradhan took 100-110 days, timed to the steady June-to-October monsoon, explained Pangi.

That rhythm is now broken. Rainfall data from 2021 to 2025 shows wild swings that have made farming unpredictable. In 2021, June brought just 216.8 mm of rain while July saw 523 mm: a sudden imbalance that forced farmers to delay planting and miss the optimal window.

In 2024, June received 263.9 mm, July 238.9 mm, and August 318 mm. But in October, normally the harvest month, Koraput was deluged with 740.9 mm of rain, nearly five times its usual average of 165–305 mm. Floods swept through the fields just as the crops were ready to be cut.

“By late August or early September, our mandia plants flower and form grain,” said Parima Muduli, 39, a Paraja tribal farmer from Kurmakote village. “By October, they should be ready to harvest. But now October brings floods. The grain rots in the field. Fungus takes everything.”

Extreme rainfall events have also become more concentrated. On July 2, 2025, Koraput recorded 1,062.5 mm of rainfall in a single day, with Jeypore block receiving 141.8 mm and Kotpad 152 mm. Such downpours, once rare, now routinely exceed entire monthly averages within hours.

According to Jyotirmayee Lenka, a scientist at the Indian Institute of Soil and Water Conservation in Koraput, the district has seen both more frequent and more intense rainfall events between 2018 and 2025. “These changes,” she said, “are fundamentally altering upland farming conditions.”

The increasing unpredictability of rainfall has made it difficult for farmers to rely on traditional seed varieties, pushing many to abandon traditional crop cycles.

Farmers followed the sky as faithfully as a clock (Photo - Prativa Ghosh, 101Reporters)

Vanishing seeds and stories

"My grandfather used to say that the kokila bird's call told us when to prepare the fields,” Lakhmi Khilo, an elderly farmer from Kundra block, told 101Reporters. “When the first thunderstorm came from the east, we knew it was time for Dangar Dhan. When the frogs sang for three nights, we planted mandia on the slopes. Now the birds call, but the rains don't come. The frogs sing, but floods arrive instead. Nature is confused, and we are confused with it.”

These elders watch their knowledge become useless in real time, a particularly cruel form of loss. Agricultural calendars memorised over lifetimes, techniques perfected through decades of practice, seed-selection wisdom accumulated across generations, all made obsolete by shifting climate patterns.

Budri Bhatra of Badnayakguda village said, “We taught our children to save the best seeds from the best plants. But what good is that teaching when the rains kill the best plants? When October brings water instead of harvest? Our knowledge is dying with us because it no longer works in this new world.”

Yet even as they mourn, these elders remain crucial sources of information for custodian farmers. They remember varieties that have already disappeared, describe their characteristics, and recall their uses.

“My grandfather showed me how to pick the strongest stalks of Haladichudi rice and plant them on higher slopes to survive the floods. Because of his guidance, I could save the variety even when unseasonal rains destroyed everything else,” said Raimati Gihuria, custodian farmer from Nuaguda. This oral history helps document what has been lost and informs efforts to preserve what remains.

The disappearance of traditional crop varieties in Koraput has brought losses that go far beyond agriculture. Traditional seeds once offered balanced nutrition suited to local diets. Aromatic rice such as Haladichudi, Basantichudi and Kalajeera provided distinct flavours and nutrients, while millets supplied calcium, iron and amino acids, crucial for communities with limited access to diverse food. As these crops disappear, tribal meals have grown monotonous, reduced largely to government-supplied ration rice.

The loss of seeds has also disrupted the region’s cultural rhythm. In August, farmers used to plant early-maturing crops such as Dangarbaji, Kuya Gandhia, Ladu Mandia, Kandul and Dangarrani. The first harvest was offered to local gods during Nua Khai Parab, the festival of new food.

“Now we cannot perform these rituals with the new hybrid rice because the early varieties are gone,” said Pangi. “Our children will grow up not knowing the taste of Dangarbaji or the ceremonies their great-grandmothers performed.” She remembered the first year the village could not offer traditional rice: “The entire village wept. It felt like breaking a sacred promise.”

Pangi has spent the past eight years saving nearly 70 traditional seed varieties of paddy, pulses and vegetables. Their names, she said, sound like poetry: Dangarbaji, Kalakandul, Pati Badei, Kaja, Dameni, Kalijima and Jhunta Bin.

Parima Muduli, who has preserved varieties like Biri Dhana and Sugandha, said these crops are part of the community’s identity. “The songs we sing during planting, the prayers we offer at harvest…they all mention these seed names. When the seeds vanish, our stories make no sense to our children.”

“These weren’t just crops,” added Raimati Ghiuria, 42, from Nuaguda village, known locally as the Queen of Millets for conserving over 70 rice and 30 millet varieties. “Kalajeera gave fragrance for festival meals. Machakanta was served to the guests. Tulasi rice was offered to gods. Each seed had a purpose, a story, a place in our lives.”

Traditional varieties were also living libraries of genetic adaptation. Drought-tolerant strains such as Kalajeera, Asamchudi, Ojan and Tulasi helped farmers survive erratic monsoons, while short-duration millets like Kuya Gandhia and Kuruma Bati ensured food during lean periods.

In 2022, Pangi planted Kuya Gandhia mandia in May, expecting it to mature within 60 days. But rains came late, and the few stalks that sprouted were washed away by July showers. “For the first time, I could not save a single seed,” she said. “I knew that the story of Kuya Gandhia might end with me.”

Farmers explained that such seeds once offered genetic insurance against climate shocks. “On our 8-acre farm, we harvest 12-14 quintals per acre from indigenous varieties,” said Ghiuria. “They survive floods and droughts that kill hybrids. If we lose them now, we’ll have nothing resilient left.”

Although hybrid seeds can yield 20 quintals per acre under ideal conditions, they depend on fertilisers, pesticides and irrigation. Only 9.3% of the cropped land in Koraput has irrigation access. Traditional varieties, grown organically with minimal inputs, yield 12.5quintals per acre even in dry years.

Hybrid paddy sells for about Rs 2,160 per quintal, while traditional varieties fetch anywhere between Rs 2,100 and Rs 5,000 per quintal. “High-value varieties like Kalajeera, Raghusahi and Lactimachi can go up to Rs 5,000 per quintal,” said Kartik Kumar Lenka, senior scientist at the MS Swaminathan Research Foundation in Jeypore. For farmers with limited inputs and rainfed fields, this price range often makes indigenous crops more economical despite their lower yields.

Yet procurement systems continue to favour hybrids. “Government policies reward volume, not sustainability,” said Ghiuria.

However, some indigenous rice varieties have slowly made their place in the markets. Ghiuria sells her organic rice for Rs30-Rs40 per kg, while heritage pigmented varieties like Kalajeera or Bali Raja fetch Rs300–Rs500 per kg in urban organic stores. “Even packaged Kalajeera now sells at Rs259 a kilo,” said Tankadhar Chendia from Machhara village. “Meanwhile, bulk hybrid rice sells for Rs30-Rs40. The difference speaks for itself.”

Women farmers working in the finger millet fields (Photo - Prativa Ghosh, 101Reporters).

How seeds get lost

The immediate cause of seed loss in Koraput is simple: when rainfall patterns shift, crops fail. But the deeper reasons are more complex.

Traditional mandia (finger millet) varieties that matured in 60 days depended on early May showers. “Earlier, rains in May allowed tribal farmers to plant and harvest mandia by July or early August, ensuring food security,” said Tikima Pangi. “But now May rains are unreliable. If we plant and rains fail, the seeds are wasted. If we wait for July rains, the growing season is too short for 60-day varieties to mature before October floods.”

The result is a cruel choice — plant early and risk drought, or plant late and risk flood. Either way, short-duration varieties cannot survive. After several years of failed crops, farmers stop saving these seeds altogether. Once that happens, the varieties disappear from fields, then from seed stores, and finally from memory.

Lakhmi Khilo, an 82-year-old farmer from Kundra, remembers how Haladichudi, a rice that could survive late-September floods, was once saved from extinction. “I taught Raimati Ghiuria to select the strongest stalks and plant them on higher slopes, so they would survive when rains flooded the lowlands,” he said.

“Because of his guidance, I could save the seeds and grow Haladichudi even when floods came two years in a row,” said Ghiuria. “Without that knowledge, this variety might have vanished from Nuaguda forever.”

For upland rice varieties such as Dangar Dhan, Para Dhan and Mati Dhan, the problem is equally severe. These crops were once planted in May and harvested by August, completing their cycle before the monsoon waned. Now, the rainfall pattern has fractured.

Annual rainfall totals still appear adequate, but the timing has become erratic, with long dry spells followed by intense downpours. “Heavy rainfall events create artificial flooding, while reduced frequency of rain dries out the soil,” said Pangi. “Crops experience stress during crucial growth stages, and yields collapse. Eventually, farmers abandon the varieties.”

Koraput’s hilly terrain worsens the impact. Sudden, high-intensity rains cause soil erosion, stripping away the fertile topsoil from slopes. Without topsoil, even resilient traditional varieties cannot grow. By October, when crops are ready to harvest, excess rain often waterlogs the fields, leading to fungal infections and grain spoilage.

“The floods destroy not just the harvest,” Pangi said quietly, “but also the seeds we would have saved for the next season.”

Climate predictions are unfolding in real time

The experiences of Koraput’s farmers mirror climate science projections for the region. Studies predict a 4%-16% increase in overall rainfall across Odisha, with a longer rainy season and more extreme precipitation events. But this doesn’t mean simply more rain — it means heavier downpours packed into shorter periods, separated by longer dry spells.

Debashish Jena, Senior Scientist at the IMD in Cuttack, calls this “rainfall seasonality stress”  when not just the amount but the timing and distribution of rain shift beyond historical patterns. For rainfed districts like Koraput, where nearly 90% of farmers depend entirely on the monsoon, such stress is catastrophic. Crops bred for predictable rainfall cannot adapt quickly enough to survive.

The Odisha State Disaster Management Authority reported that unseasonal rains in 2023 caused severe crop damage in Koraput. But the word unseasonal itself is losing meaning — the seasons no longer follow any familiar rhythm. When October, once the harvest month, can now receive five times its normal rainfall, the agricultural calendar collapses.

If current trends continue, the outlook for Koraput’s traditional agriculture is bleak. Climate projections suggest rainfall variability will increase further, making it harder to sustain indigenous cropping patterns. As more varieties fail, farmers abandon them, and the region’s genetic reservoir of seeds shrinks — eroding the very biodiversity that once buffered it against droughts and floods.

Food security, too, is at risk. When tribal communities cultivated diverse traditional varieties, they had natural insurance: if one crop failed, others survived. Modern single-crop systems lack that resilience. A single pest, disease, or weather shock can now wipe out entire harvests. The loss of drought-tolerant and flood-resistant varieties removes the very tools farmers need most in a changing climate.

The seeds of Koraput are vanishing, and with them, centuries of wisdom, culture, and resilience that once allowed communities to live in step with the rain.

Prativa Ghosh is a freelance journalist and a member of 101Reporters, a pan-India network of grassroots reporters.  

INDIA

Jharkhand: 7 Months on, Ramgarh Underground Fire Keeps Burning, Threatens Lives & Land in Coal Belt

Vishal Ranjan Sahu | 21 Nov 2025

What began as a forest blaze in April has turned into a slow-moving underground fire beneath a village, while district administration still investigates it.


Women returning from the forest with cut broom grass 

(Photo - Vishal Ranjan Sahu, 101Reporters)


Ramgarh, Jharkhand: It has been seven months since an underground coal fire began burning beneath the forest of Bhuchungdih village in Jharkhand’s Ramgarh district, charring the ground and filling the air with smoke and heat.

What started as a forest fire in April, due to debated causes, has now slipped below the surface, spreading to an illegal mining site and igniting underground coal deposits and soil cavities.

Thick smoke and occasional flames rise from the earth, while the once-green forest now lies barren: trees have died, the soil has hardened or crumbled, and the air is heavy with heat.

The fire is now slowly advancing toward the residential part of the village, just 700-800 metres away.

The district administration is still trying to determine the cause of the fire.

Ramgarh District Forest Officer Nitish Kumar said the blaze may have been triggered by long-standing illegal coal mining in the Bhuchungdih forests.

“The reason for the fire is being investigated,” he said. “For many years, people have been digging small underground tunnels, known as rat-hole mines, to steal and sell coal. Some of these tunnels were later abandoned and filled with dry wood, leaves, and plastic waste. During the mahua collection season in April, villagers burn dry leaves to clear the forest floor. The fire likely spread through these abandoned tunnels, where it reached the underground coal seams and set the deposits on fire.”

Jharkhand is among India’s largest coal-producing states, accounting for 26.4% of the country’s total coal reserves, according to the Union Ministry of Coal.

In Ramgarh district alone, coal is extracted from 12 mines, and traces of this mining legacy run deep, visible even in forested areas like Bhuchungdih, where abandoned coal seams lie just beneath the soil.

The villagers, however, dispute the claim that their seasonal burning caused the fire. They said clearing dry leaves before collecting mahua flowers, a forest produce central to their livelihood, is a long-standing local practice and had never led to such incidents before.

The blaze has also altered the forest’s microclimate.

The air is thick with toxic gases, the temperature has risen across the forest, and the ground feels hot. Even 300-400 metres away, the air turns cooler: a sharp contrast that shows how deeply the underground fire has transformed the area.

“The forest used to be cool and fresh,” said Birsa Karmali (52), who grazes his goats there. “Now, warm air blows from it. It feels like some hot gas enters your body when you breathe.”

Across the forest floor, cracks up to 15 metres long and nearly half a metre wide have opened, from which flames and poisonous gases continue to escape.


Those who depend on the forest for grazing or collecting firewood often show symptoms of coughing fits and eye irritation (Photo - Vishal Ranjan Sahu, 101Reporters).

Villagers said that the smoke drifts toward Bhuchungdih, especially at night, making it difficult to breathe. “Earlier, the air here was clean,” said Satish Mahto (48). “Now, it feels like gas mixes with the air.” Fenken Kewat (65) added, “When the wind blows toward the village, the smoke becomes unbearable.”

Hazard

Those who depend on the forest for grazing or collecting firewood often return with coughing fits and eye irritation. Nanki Devi (44), who collects tiger grass, a variety of grass used for making brooms, said that these plants grow close to the affected areas. “When I go there to cut broom grass, the smoke makes me cough, and staying there for long makes it hard to breathe,” she said.

Shanti Devi's(46) goats often wander near the burning sites while grazing. “When I go to bring them back, it becomes difficult to breathe. I cover my nose and mouth with a cloth because of the smoke,” she said.

For many in Bhuchungdih, avoiding the fire zone is not an option. Santosh Mahto (42), who earns his living from farming and animal husbandry, said he must take his cattle to graze in the forest despite the risks. “Breathing has become difficult, but where else can we take our cows to graze,” he said.

He explained that while most of the land has turned barren, some grass still grows on slightly higher ground near the area where the underground fire is burning and the path to the river also passes through it. “That is the only place where a bit of grass is left, so the cows go there,” he said. But the smoke and gases rise unpredictably, sometimes barely visible, sometimes overwhelming. “When the fumes suddenly increase, the cows and oxen run away or avoid the spot altogether,” Mahto said, adding that the heat and fumes cause breathing problems and eye irritation for both people and animals.

In addition to the heat and smoke, the fire’s reach is widening underground.

The Bhairavi River, which flows just below the burning zone, faces the risk of toxic contamination. The fire has opened up fissures and sinkholes in the land, and during the rains, runoff could carry heavy metals and chemical residues into the soil and water.

Sudhanshu Shekhar, Senior Scientist and Head of the Krishi Vigyan Kendra, Ramgarh said that underground fires often pollute both surface and groundwater. Drawing a parallel with the Jharia coalfield, he explained that fumes from such fires get trapped in the soil and dissolve into aquifers and nearby water bodies. “The Bhairavi River is especially at risk,” he said. “Rainwater can seep through the cracks and carry toxic substances into the river, contaminating it with heavy metals.”

He added that, given the scale of the damage and potential impact on public health, the district administration must conduct a detailed study of soil and water quality in the region.
Choked

The toxic gases and smoke rising from the underground fire have left villagers deeply anxious about their health and that of their children. Doctors warn that prolonged exposure to the polluted air could lead to serious long-term illnesses.

Dr Satya Prakash, District Epidemiologist and Nodal Officer for the National Programme on Climate Change and Human Health at Sadar Hospital, Ramgarh, said residents should stay as far away as possible from the affected areas. “The smoke contains fine particles that settle in the lungs, forming a layer that can cause diseases such as silicosis, pneumonia, bronchitis, skin disorders, eye irritation, and asthma,” he explained. “It also releases toxic substances like silica and benzene. Long-term exposure to these can damage DNA and increase the risk of cancer.”

He added that the short-term effects may not be immediately visible, but continued exposure will gradually harm the body, leading to chronic illnesses over time.

Dr Thakur Mrityunjay Kumar Singh, District Reproductive and Child Health Officer at Sadar Hospital said that the smoke and gases could have severe effects on children, hindering their physical growth and making them more vulnerable to allergic bronchitis and recurrent infections. “We have already seen such symptoms in many people, especially children, due to exposure to coal smoke,” he said.

Dr Singh also warned that gases such as carbon monoxide and nitrous oxide emitted from the burning coal are particularly dangerous for pregnant women. “During pregnancy, hormonal changes reduce immunity, making women more vulnerable. Inhaling these toxic vapors can harm both the mother’s health and the baby’s development in the womb,” he said.

Both doctors advised that anyone entering the fire-affected area should wear a mask, cover their body completely, and pass through the area with extreme caution.




Short-term effects of the smoke may not be immediately visible, but continued exposure will gradually harm the body (Photo - Vishal Ranjan Sahu, 101Reporters)

Scorched

Shekhar, senior agricultural scientist quoted earlier, warned that the underground coal fire is likely to spread further below the surface, destroying underground water reserves and reducing soil fertility. “The water pockets beneath the ground will start drying up…some may already have,” he said. “As that happens, trees and plants above will gradually die, and farming in those areas will no longer be possible. The fertile farmland near Bhuchungdih may also turn barren. Crops and fruit trees growing over the burning zones could absorb toxic elements, posing a hidden risk to human health through food consumption.”

He added that the effects may not appear immediately, but could emerge slowly as poisoning through the food chain.

Notably, in Bhuchungdih, many residents combine farm work with other occupations. They mainly grow vegetables, paddy, and maize. Barely 300 metres from the burning area lie paddy fields. Manoj Kumar (38), farmer, said, “The way the fire is spreading underground, it looks like it will reach our fields within a few months. We don’t even know if we’ll be able to plant paddy next year.”

Another villager Binod Mahto (44) recalled that before the fire started in April, the area was thick with sal, mahua, kusum, and jackfruit trees, and the soil was green and fertile. “After the coal beneath the ground caught fire, many trees dried up and several fell as the ground caved in,” he said.

Shekhar pointed out that Ramgarh is already heavily affected by coal mining, with Central Coalfields Limited (CCL) operating several sites nearby, including Rajrappa. “Coal is also widely used here for domestic and small industrial purposes, so air pollution levels are already high,” he said. “The underground fire in Bhuchungdih will make it worse. It is continuously releasing smoke and gases — carbon dioxide, carbon monoxide, methane, and sulphur dioxide, creating a haze-like condition in the area. This fire is silently adding fuel to the climate crisis.”
Stressed

For seven months, villagers of Bhuchungdih have been living in fear. They say the fire, far from being controlled, is spreading across a larger area. “We fear Bhuchungdih might become another Jharia,” said Jagarnath Mahto (55), referring to the coalfield in Dhanbad where underground fires have burned for over a century, devastating entire settlements.
Attempts to extinguish the blaze have so far failed. In April and May, the district administration and CCL Rajrappa tried to douse the fire by pumping water and covering the burning pits with soil. On May 20, a pump operator, Ravinder Mahto from Gola block, died when the ground collapsed beneath him during the operation.

Since then, efforts have slowed, according to the Bhuchungdih village sarpanch and local residents, who said the administration has been hesitant to send workers back to the site after the accident and has not taken any major initiative to put out the fire.

Officials had hoped the monsoon rains would naturally extinguish the flames, but the fire continues to burn.

Deputy Commissioner Faiz Aq Ahmed Mumtaz said a technical team from Indian School of Mines, Dhanbad had inspected the site and would soon submit a report suggesting ways to control the fire. “A large amount of funding will be required for this,” he said, adding that the district administration has begun discussions with CCL Rajrappa, which operates mines nearby, to arrange for financial support.

Sunita Devi, the Sarpanch of Bhuchungdih Panchayat, said she has written multiple letters to the District Collector, Forest Officer, and CCL’s Darbhanga House in Ranchi, urging immediate action. “But the administrative response has been slow,” she said. “It feels like no one is really trying to put the fire out.”

(Vishal Ranjan Sahu is a freelance journalist and a member of 101Reporters, a pan-India network of grassroots reporters.)