In Search of Moringa Blossoms and Other Indigenous Herbs
- Mainu Teronpi
- May 30
- 8 min read
Mainu Teronpi
For as long as I can remember, the moringa tree has been a part of our life – a symbol of nourishment, culture and ode to beauty. In our home, we have always cherished every edible gift it offers. The young pods, commonly known as drumsticks, often find their way into our daily meals, and their nutrient-rich leaves have long been a staple. But the cherished part of the moringa has always been its delicate, fragrant blossoms. Among the Karbis of the northeastern part of India, these indigenous foods are more than just seasonal produce – they are tradition. Moringa blossoms are typically cooked with humble ingredients like potatoes and tomatoes, lightly seasoned in contrast with the typical mainland Indian cuisine. But my favourite way to eat moringa blossoms is to make it into a simple omelette – an earthy, floral delicacy that tastes like spring on a plate. One day in late February of 2024, I set out to buy these blossoms from the Sunday weekly market in Lorulangso, Diphu, Karbi Anglong. Every year around this time, the market is awash in the soft white hues of moringa blossoms – a visual and an aromatic reminder that spring is on its way.
I wandered through the market’s crowded aisle, my eyes scanning for hak (cylindrical cane or bamboo basket is often carried on the back using straps) brimming with local greens and wild herbs, yet not a single vendor had moringa blossoms. I was disappointed. I left the market that day not just empty-handed but with a growing sense of concern and a lot of questions pouring into my mind.
Was I too early?
Had I missed the bloom?
Or was something more serious unfolding?
This moment of disappointment became the starting point of a deeper inquiry – one that led me to investigate the growing absence of indigenous food in our traditional markets.Was this a one-off anomaly or a symptom of larger ecological and social shifts? Could erratic climate patterns be affecting the moringa blooms? Or might there be more herbs, plants, and trees quietly slipping into scarcity–unnoticed, undocumented, and unspoken for?
Determined to find the answers, I travelled to Deosursang in the Kaliabor sub-division of Nagaon district, Assam. I met with a few Karbi women who foraged for wild indigenous edibles. Through our conversations, I began to piece together a narrative – one that touches on climate unpredictability, changing land use patterns, human-animal conflict and the quiet erosion of foraging traditions. The Karbis are a forest-dwelling indigenous community with generations of knowledge tied to the land. Their food culture, rooted partly in shifting cultivation and partly in foraging, is intricately connected to the environment’s seasonal rhythms. I also learned that erratic weather patterns, shifting rainfall, and warming temperatures have begun to affect the flowering cycles of many plants – including the beloved moringa. As I continued speaking with the Karbi women foragers, it became quite clear that this was not an isolated case. Other seasonal edibles like Tara (Rattan shoot), Jok-an angphar (Phlogacanthus thysiflorus), Theso Kumbong (Turkey Berry), Hanthu (Gnetum gnemon L), Mehek (Rhynchotechum ellipticum (Dietr.) A. DC)-the list goes on, are also disappearing from their natural habitat.
These Karbi women foragers had set up their modest stalls along the roadside. Like every morning on the stretch of National Highway 715, which runs through the Kaziranga National Park. The small, dilapidated traditional markets on the roadside breathed life into the otherwise monotonous canopied landscape. Along the roadside, the women busied themselves arranging fresh vegetables on the makeshift raised platforms, preparing for the day’s trade. Their displays ranged from familiar seasonal greens to rare foraged edibles – which reflect both deep ecological knowledge and a strong sense of cultural continuity. Situated near the National Park, the market occasionally draws travellers and prospective buyers intrigued by its biodiversity and fresh seasonal greens and edibles. It is interesting to note that over half of the vendors here are the Karbi women from the nearby villages. It is these women who form the soul of the market. They collect edible plants and herbs from the fringes of the forest and human-disturbed landscapes – places that others see as overgrowth, they see as sustenance.
It was not an easy task to speak to them amidst the morning rush and the hum of the daily activity. The early hours are the busiest, filled with purpose and the weight of their routine. Yet, despite the chaos, three sweet smiling faces graciously paused to share their stories. Maloti Kropi, Sabina Engtipi, and Robika Engtipi sat on the makeshift platforms with their hak by their sides. Their tiny, wrinkled eyes had many untold stories. With warmth and candour, they spoke about the art of foraging – its joys, challenges, and how they manage to pursue this age-old tradition even with the constraints of time and its demanding situations.
Here is an excerpt of our conversations – a window into their world.
Can you tell us the name of your village?
Maloti Kropi (MK): We are from Domlong Rongpi Arong, also known as Deosur or Deosursang. It is not so far away, just a few kilometres from here. All the vegetable sellers you see in the market belong to the same village.
For how long have you been selling vegetables?
MK: It has been more than a decade now – fourteen years to be precise. Before we had our stalls at the edge of the highway. But over time, the forest officials and the government authorities advised us to relocate, warning us about the dangers of being so close to the highway. The speeding vehicles made it unsafe, and there was always the looming risk of accidents or other unfortunate incidents.
Are the vegetables you sell homegrown, sourced from the wholesale markets, or foraged from the wild?
MK: Most of the vegetables we sell are sourced from the wholesale markets. Some are homegrown, depending on the season and what we can manage at home. As for foraging – we do it occasionally. It depends on the availability of the wild produce, and it depends on our availability of time to go out and collect it.
Robika Engtipi (RE): Foraging, once a way of life for many of us, is slowly fading into the past. These days, we rarely go into the wild to gather food. The tradition is still there in spirit, but it is not practiced as actively as it once was. With less time, growing demands and other constraints, foraging has become something we only do occasionally – not a regular part of our routine anymore.
What are the indigenous plants and herbs that you have foraged? Are these plants and herbs on display?
RE: Over the years, we have foraged various indigenous plants and herbs. Some of them we have gathered include Chusot (Lasia spinosa (L.) Thw.), Tara (Rattan Shoot), Jok-aan angphar (Phloganthus Thysiflorus), Mehek (Rhynchotechum ellipticum (Dietr.) A. DC), Hanthu (Gnetum gnemon L), Han Sangbi, Han Risang, Dunkek, Theso kumbong (Solanum torvum), theso keho, Hanthai (Maoutia puya (Hook. f.) Wedd.), Arlong sowat, Longle sowat, Chusot angphar (Lasia spinosa (L.) Thw.), Chusot angjok (Lasia spinosa (L.) Thw.) to name a few.
Well, these plants are not always easy to find. Only a few of them are on display, depending on what’s available and what we have managed to gather.
What are the reasons that you have stopped foraging? Can you elaborate on the challenges?
MK: There are several reasons why we have had to step back from foraging. There was a time when we would regularly go to the nearby forest to collect traditional herbs and edible plants. But over time, it has become difficult to find them. One of the biggest challenges is the changing weather. The rains have become unpredictable – sometimes there is a long dry spell with no sign of rain, and other times, there is incessant rainfall that floods the area. These extremes make it hard for many of the native plants to survive, let alone thrive. Of course, there are other reasons too – deforestation in the name of development, changing land use and many others.
Sabina Engtipi (SE): (continues) Yes, the erratic weather – untimely rainfall and extreme heat have had a significant impact on the availability of the indigenous plants and herbs. Moringa is known for its resilience to drought and heat, but with increased temperature and altered rainfall patterns, the harvesting of its flowers and pods has shifted noticeably. Jok-aan angphar or titaphool is also facing a similar issue. Its natural growing cycle is being disrupted.
You were pointing to other factors as well. What are these other reasons? Can you please share?
SE: Yes, apart from the changing climate, human-animal conflict has become a major concern. We live on the edge of a forest belt which falls within a National Park, home to wildlife like rhinos, elephants, wild buffalo, etc. These animals roam around freely, as they should; it is their home. But it also means that venturing into the forest has become dangerous.
There have been instances where people have encountered wild animals while foraging. It’s a real risk. So, we hesitate to enter these areas where medicinal and indigenous plants grow in abundance. Another important point is that many of the plants and herbs that we forage are also food sources for these animals. In a way, foraging sometimes means competing with wildlife for the same resources. So, considering safety concerns and respecting the natural ecosystem, many of us have stopped going into the forest altogether. It’s a difficult trade-off, because we lose access to valuable traditional plants, but our safety and co-existence with wildlife must be our priority.
The absence of moringa blossoms in the market was just one symptom. Some plants had stopped growing in familiar patches; others, once abundant, now appeared only in traces, if at all. These are not crops with organised seed banks or government protection. They grow in the shadows of forests, along riverbanks, on the margins of fields — in places that lie outside formal agricultural systems. Their existence relies on the delicate balance of biodiversity and the memory of those who know where and when to find them. When climate shifts, when land is cleared in the mere pretext for highways, resorts, or monoculture plantations, these plants vanish quietly. And with them, the food traditions, nutritional diversity, and cultural practices of an entire community begin to erode.
What struck me most in Deosursang was the quiet resilience of the Karbi women. Even as their traditional foraging grounds shrink and seasons grow erratic, they continue to rise before dawn, navigate forest edges, and bring what little they can gather to the market. Their knowledge — passed down orally, woman to woman, season to season — is a living archive of ecological intelligence. But this, too, is at risk. To lose these plants is to lose more than just food. It is to lose stories, identities, and ancestral wisdom intricately tied to the land. It is to forget how to live with the forest, rather than off it. As we talk about biodiversity and sustainability in national and global forums, perhaps it's time to turn our attention to places like Deosursang — and to the voices of women who carry forests in their memory and meadows in their hak. Because the fight to preserve biodiversity isn’t always about saving the tiger or the elephant, sometimes, it begins with a missing flower in a market.
Writer
Mainu Teronpi is an Assistant Professor in the Department of English at Chandra Kamal Bezbaruah College, Teok, Jorhat. She hails from the colour town of Diphu, Karbi Anglong, Assam, she is a cinephile and poet and has worked as a voiceover artist in two documentary films. She has also published chapters in national and international publications. When she’s not writing, she enjoys painting, embroidery, and diving into a good book.
Editor
Shuvangi Khadka is a writer and documentary filmmaker based in Kathmandu, Nepal.
Photo credits All photos are by the author.
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