The cold January air in Bhubaneswar made every breath a ghostly wisp, hanging in the crisp dawn like tiny clouds. Even in the city’s busy heart, where concrete meets tradition, the enthusiasm for the Adivasi Mela brought warmth to the January morning. The sprawling IDCO Exhibition Ground buzzed with preparations, colorful stalls rising like forest blossoms, anticipation filling every corner.
Moinul adjusted his shawl, the sweet scent of raw Sundarbans honey filling his nostrils as he lifted a steaming cup of chai to his lips. Opposite him, Champa tugged her dupatta tighter, her eyes darting occasionally to the phone kept on a table near her, worried about her husband Kosal and their son Biraj’s exam preparations back home at Kamepur in Chhattisgarh.
“I hope Kosal’s been keeping track of Biraj’s studies,” she said quietly to no one in particular, watching the last curl of steam dance from her cup.
@Sugared Traditions of the Tribal Heartland
Moinul walked up, chuckling softly, “I don’t envy Kosal, if that is your husband you are referring to. Focus is hard to find these days, more for the kids. I had to skip the visit of those WWE officials to my village this year. They wanted to see how we could grow the honey business, but someone had to be here telling our stories to the visitors. By the way, I am Moinul, and I come from the land of the Royal Bengal Tiger, Sundarbans.”
Raghunath had been hovering nearby, and he spoke up now, “WWE, you mean wrestling, right? I am from Kandhamal in Odisha.”
Moinul laughed, “No, I am not a wrestler. I deal with quite a different kind of fight with bees, tigers, snakes, and the forest. I come from the Sundarbans. How I envy the film heroes who fight so well.”
Anuj, a younger man with eyes sparkling curiosity, was arranging deep-purple jars of jamun vinegar beside his stall. “Hello, I am Anuj from Latehar district of Jharkhand, and I love watching movies, so I couldn’t help hear that. I heard that Shahrukh Khan won a National Award for Jawaan recently. Surprising to many, actually. I am a fan, but I feel his Swades role deserved it more.”
Moinul raised an eyebrow, smiling. “I know nothing of those films. My wife and sons are always chatting about these OTT series and movies I wouldn’t recognize even if they bit me. All this wrestling and award fuss is beyond me.”
@Sacred Offerings of the Tribe
“True that,” Raghunath chuckled. “I was watching the IPL last night, and honestly, our favorite players are anything but marathon runners. We don’t need workload management like some of these paper tigers. The lads back home could run around the fields all day and not break a sweat.”
Moinul took a sip of chai, “Physical work in the forest gives a different kind of stamina. It’s not just the muscles but the mindset that keeps us going.”
Champa smiled, now listening closely as Raghunath pulled out a handful of glossy tamarind pods and offered them all around. “Tamarind is a gift from the rivers in Odisha,” he said. “We use it in almost every meal, from souring dal to seasoning dried fish. But it’s much more than flavour. Traditional healers swear by tamarind for digestion, fevers, even wound care. The sourness wakes up every meal, and the forest nourishes us in many small ways.”
Anuj nodded as he rearranged his bundles. “In Jharkhand, our forests are rich with medicinal herbs like chirota, known for its bitter taste but unmatched immune-boosting power. Alongside chirota, harra and baheda are staples in our Ayurvedic traditions. They help cleanse the body and strengthen health. Together with amla, they form the famous triphala, a powerful combination cherished in Ayurveda.”
He paused to smile at his friends, “And then there’s jamun pulp, our seasonal jewel, which we make into vinegars and preserves. It’s packed with antioxidants and gives a sweet-tart cheer to our meals during the harvest.”
@Village Fair Hustle
Moinul added with a hint of admiration, “It amazes me how diverse the forest’s gifts can be. In the Sundarbans, besides honey, tamarind pods make excellent energy snacks during long hunts. These snacks are quick, tangy, and bring back strength. Our elders know every leaf and root that heals or fires up the spirit. The forest is more than home; it’s a pharmacy and pantry combined.”
Champa looked at the golden bundles of dried mahwa blossoms she had carried all the way from Chhattisgarh. “Mahwa feeds our bodies and souls in Bastar. From laddoos to fermented drinks, oil for aches and fevers, mahwa is celebration and survival. Kosal frets that our son Biraj spends too much time on the phone. Sometimes it feels like the forest is a blurry film chasing after him, just like how we elder sometimes struggle to keep our thoughts clear.”
Everyone laughed, the warmth of shared stories softening the morning chill.
Champa carefully pulled out a small jar filled with a reddish-orange paste, placing it on the worn wooden counter. “This is chapada chutney, made from red ants and their eggs,” she explained, her voice carrying a mix of pride and wonder. “The ants build their nests high on the sal and mango trees, weaving leaves together to protect their eggs. Harvesting them is a test of patience and skill. Male ants fiercely guard their queens, and the bite can be painful. But the reward is worth it.”
@Tribal Artisans Shaping Stories from Earth
Raghunath smiled knowingly, leaning in. “Yes, chapada chutney is known in parts of Odisha too, especially from our tribal communities in Mayurbhanj and Kandhamal. While the recipe may vary slightly, the fiery, tangy taste and the tradition behind it are the same. People here also believe it helps with digestion and has medicinal benefits.”
Moinul’s eyes widened with amazement. “I’ve heard tales of red ants before, but I never imagined eating them or making chutney from them! What does it taste like?”
Anuj grinned, dipping a finger into the jar and popping a tiny dollop onto his tongue. “It’s like a dance of the forest. A fiery, earthy explosion of flavours and a little tang from the tamarind mixed into the chutney. It’s unlike anything you’ve tried before, full of the spirit of the wild.”
@Crafts That Tell Tribal Stories
Moinul tried some cautiously and broke into a smile. “Intriguing and delicious! The forest never ceases to surprise me.”
Champa nodded happily. “Chapada chutney is as much about survival and celebration as it is about taste. It’s a symbol of our deep connection with the forest and the knowledge passed down through generations.”
The morning crowd began to stir, voices swelling and stalls filling with visitors eager for tribes’ rich offerings. A distant drumbeat and flute melody drifted from a nearby stage, calling everyone to a day of crafts, culture, and commerce.
Moinul inhaled deeply. “This mela is more than a trade fair, it’s a meeting of forest stories, traditions passed hand to hand, flower to flower, fruit to fruit. Honey is sweet, but together, all these gifts make the forest sing.”
Champa nodded in agreement, “And sharing these stories here reminds us that we are parts of a bigger whole, lives woven into forests from Sundarbans to Bastar, Odisha to Jharkhand.”
@Every Fair Tells a Jhaalmuri Story
As the sun rose higher and the cold softened, the four friends raised their now empty cups in a silent toast to wilderness, tradition, and the wild treasures of their homes - gifts to be cherished, honoured, and preserved.