Monsoon in Rajasthan: A Season of Foraging and Hope
Rajasthan has long borne the brunt of akal, years of famine, drought, and rainless skies. My father recalls long stretches of dry stupor, when the land cracked open and people looked up, waiting for even a single drop of rain. Just enough to be able to say, “Varalo aayo ro,” the monsoons have come. And when it finally rained, oh, what a celebration it was.
Hope was rekindled for farmers with land, and for the many foraging communities across Rajasthan, whose bodies and minds were suddenly filled with new energy. In many parts of western Rajasthan, monsoons are the only time of year when fresh greens and native produce are available, and people make the most of it. Because for the rest of the year, everything is either sun-dried, stored, or pickled for survival.
Most foraging communities, Kolis, Bheels, Garasiya, Mina, or nomads like Bawariya, Gadiya Loharare, are those with no land to their name. They make do with whatever they can grow on a small patch, often borrowed from the landlords whose fields they work on. Or during these months, they set out on their own, gathering whatever nature has to offer.
A monsoon speciality from the dunes
In my village in Jalore, most of the foraging is done by the Koli people, who are also exceptional hunters. Along with relying on small birds and animals for nourishment, they gather a variety of wild greens during the monsoon.
Maru Khumbhi (Phellorinia herculeana) is one such monsoon specialty that is waited on. A wild mushroom that grows on and around sand dunes, it doesn’t grow in abundance or on demand. One has to wait for it, hope for it, and when it appears, you go looking, sometimes walking 5 to 10 kilometres away from the village as Parbha Ram does, away from the nehed (settled) areas and toward the dunes.
Parbha Ram baa, who is around 45 now, shares how he began foraging for khumbi as a child, first with his father, then with his older brothers, until one day, he became the elder leading the way. “Today, my kids go out and gather these things on their own. I taught them. Actually… There's not much to teach as such, one just learns by watching. You learn how to spot these plants, how to tell when it’s the right time to pluck them, and when to leave them be.”
At Baa’s home, not unlike many other rural kitchens, khumbi is treated with the same excitement as meat. “We cook it exactly like we cook mutton. Clean it, cut it, cook our masala just like we would for maas, and then add the mushroom,” he shared.Sometimes, if the rains are good, there’s enough to share or send across to neighbours, our house gets a small supply as well. Other times, it becomes a rare catch, eaten fresh on the same day it’s foraged. “We got it recently. If you had called me yesterday, I would have sent some over to your house also,” baa said, making me curse my stars.
In the urban markets, maru khumbhi has turned into a delicacy with a price. As word of its taste and medicinal value has spread, the desert mushroom has started fetching as much as ₹800 a kilo. For foragers, that means a choice between selling an ingredient or eating it at home. But for most around my village, the joy of cooking and eating what you’ve gathered yourself still outweighs the idea of profit.
Chandaliya, the leafy green from the Amaranthus plant, is another monsoon special. You don’t need to sow or seed it, it comes on its own, growing wild and in abundance once the rains arrive. Just like chandaliya, there’s lular, another green that shows up with the season. It looks a bit similar, but its leaves are bigger, and the way we cook it is slightly different.
The process is simple: sort through the leaves, wash them well, boil them, and then rinse them again in cool water. After that, they’re chopped a little, just enough to break them down into smaller bits. The masala is basic, dhaniya, jeera, a bit of ginger, and everything is cooked in oil. While some people plant chandaliya in a small patch of land on the fields or kitchen gardens, lular is always foraged as no one plants it.
Abundance in the land of nothingness
In the hilly stretches of Rajasthan, thor makes its appearance during the monsoon. A wild succulent that looks like a cactus, thor, or danda thor, as some call it, is found across Rajasthan. Its tangy leaves are foraged and turned into a dry vegetable, often by shepherd communities who eat it fresh, raw, or cooked over a makeshift fire. The process is careful and practiced: the leaves are boiled with salt, rinsed in cold water, dried out on a cloth, and then tossed in oil with kalonji, salt, turmeric, and red chilli. It’s a monsoon staple, but also a healer, as locals use the plant’s sap to treat wounds and injuries out in the open, far from any clinic or aid.
Ramlal Moniya, a member of the Mina community, once connected to forest foraging, now lives in Dhariyawad, near Udaipur, surrounded by hills and water. He recalls a time when visits to the market were rare during the monsoon. “We didn’t need much,” he says. “Either we had enough growing in the fields where we worked, or we would go out and gather what the rains had freshly brought in.” A variety of bamboo called koliya grows in the region, and when it’s still tender, about four feet tall, it’s harvested and cooked into a sabzi. Another foraged green, puadiya or wild methi (fenugreek), is gathered and prepared using simple ingredients and masalas that’s typical of how people here consume fresh greens. .
Monsoon also brings with it a flush of native produce that grows wild or in small patches along field edges. Tindsi is a native variety of round gourd, smaller and firmer than the regular ones found in markets. Salevdi is a sour-tasting wild green that thrives in the rains and is usually cooked with minimal spices. And then there’s dansariya, a tangy-sweet wild berry that grows in clusters and is eaten fresh off the branch.
As younger generations move away from traditional knowledge, and as climate patterns shift, the future of monsoon foraging feels uncertain. But the taste of a freshly cooked thumbi, the tang of salevdi, or the fun of walking barefoot in wet soil to pick dansariya, these are not things easily forgotten. There is still time to learn, remember, and pass it on, not just in villages, but around urban centres where small bouts of native life still grow and thrive unattended.
