Gabie in the jhum fields

"We usually cook gabie for lunch when we're working," says farmer Asino Mhiesisieno Meyase. The lightly seasoned curry requires only a handful of ingredients – all local to Khonoma in Nagaland. And is within easy reach of farmers working on their land.

"Sometimes we also make galho," she adds, referring to the hearty dish of rice cooked with fresh leafy greens or wild vegetables, local seasonings, and meat such as smoked pork or beef into a porridge. "It's an Angami speciality," the 36-year-old Asino tells PARI.

On a mild winter morning Asino is walking with her dear friend, Ütsono Meru on a narrow path leading to the jhum fields of Khonoma. In Nagaland, jhum (shifting cultivation) is commonly practised on the hillsides. As we walk along, the duo suddenly bends down and pick greens and parts of plants, all the while talking and laughing. "We're actually best friends," Asino says. "We're happiest when we're together." And so, these childhood friends coordinate their time and get to work together on their jhum fields.

Ütsono, 42, points to the bundle of freshly gathered herbs in her hand and reels off their names in Tenyidie: gatha (fish mint, Houttuynia cordata), gagei (Himalayan knotweed, Koenigia polystachya), khamhü (wild perilla, Perilla frutescens) and gakra (java water dropwort, Oenanthe javanica).

"We'll use the gatha to make a chutney with king chilly to eat with gabie, and the remaining greens will go into the gabie. Whatever is left over we'll take home to cook later," she explains.

It’s late February, and across Khonoma, farmers like Asino and Ütsono are busy sowing potatoes in their jhum fields. On long workdays, they get together to prepare lunch while in the fields: "We carry cooked rice, pork lard, king chilly, fermented soybean paste and salt with us, and then cook with whatever we can forage nearby," says Asino as she sorts and cleans four varieties of wild greens gathered that morning. Watch: Foraging for the dinner table

Khonoma village in the eastern Himalayas, has both gently sloped as well as steep hillsides, covered with dense green jungles. The state bird, the endangered Blyth's tragopan, is found here. Almost everyone in the village farms, and Asino and Ütsono each have around 50 square metres.

"Different wild vegetables grow at different times of the year, though they are most abundant during the monsoon. When we have more than we need, we sell vegetables such as gagei (Himalayan knotweed, Koenigia polystachya), gatha (fish mint, Houttuynia cordata), and ganyanyü (Michinga, Zanthoxylum rhetsa) to local vendors for 10 to 20 rupees a bunch,” says Asino.

The village is home to 1,943 people (Census 2011) mostly from the Angami tribe; the village is organised into khels, or clan-based settlements. People speak Tenyidie – a major Tibeto-Burman language, also known as the Angami language and spoken by over 1.5 lakh people primarily in the Kohima district of Nagaland.

The landscape is broadly divided into three zones. The upper slopes are covered by forests, including the Khonoma Nature Conservation and Tragopan Sanctuary, which protects around 20 to 25 square kilometres of dense woodland. In 1998, the people of Khonoma voluntarily set aside a large section of their forest as a community conservation reserve, earning the village recognition as India's first ‘green village’, says Khriebu Meyase, a resident, who works as a freelance guide with the Khonoma Ecotourism Management Committee.

The middle slopes are reserved for jhum cultivation, where Asino and Ütsono own land. Farmers practise the traditional alder-based jhum system, an indigenous form of agroforestry that integrates nitrogen-fixing alder (Alnus nepalensis), Nagaland's state tree, into shifting cultivation.

Instead of felling the trees while preparing the land, farmers periodically pollard them, cutting the main trunk about two metres above the ground to encourage fresh growth. "The alder trees around our fields are about forty years old. Some are even more than a hundred years old," says Asino.

The system replenishes soil fertility naturally, reducing the need for long fallow periods that are common in conventional shifting agriculture.

"In spring and early summer, we mainly grow potatoes, and in summer we plant corn, millets, pumpkins, cucumbers, chillies and other crops in our jhum fields," Ütsono tells PARI.

"We sell whatever produce we have left after meeting our own needs to local vendors, who take it to Kohima," she adds. The women say their annual earnings are around Rs. 40,000 from farming. Their husbands are farmers too, and they also work part-time as drivers, earning about Rs. 1 lakh in a year.

"We also own paddy fields," says Asino, pointing to the lower slopes of the village devoted to terraced paddy cultivation. Rice is harvested around October, and farmers grow several traditional varieties, including sticky rice. Read and watch: A mipangming feast in Changki

It’s close to lunchtime, and Ütsono has finished cleaning and preparing the foraged vegetables, Asino is already tending to the fire. She places a large pot of dzü (water) over the flames and begins adding the ingredients one by one. First goes in chüsi (chilli), then metsie (salt) followed by zati (fermented soybean paste) and thevopi (pork lard). As the pot comes to a boil, a rich savoury aroma fills the air before the freshly gathered greens are stirred in.

"It should not be cooked for too long, otherwise the greens lose their taste and flavour," says Ütsono, gently stirring the pot. Once the vegetables are just cooked, she adds cooked rice, covers the pot, and lets the flavours come together.

Meanwhile, Asino carefully chops the deadly raja mircha (king chilly), taking care not to touch it with her bare fingers. The chilly is known as bhut jholokia in parts of Assam (ghost pepper) for its searing heat. The king chilly lives up to its fearsome reputation. Ranking among the hottest chillies in the world, it is an indispensable ingredient in the kitchens of many Naga communities. "We cannot imagine cooking without it," Asino says with a smile. "We love the kick it gives." This reporter finds out just how much of a kick, shortly.

Asino expertly mixes it with finely chopped gatha (fish mint), zati (fermented soybean paste) and salt to make an intensely fiery chutney.

The two friends insist that we join them for lunch. They carve makeshift spoons from spare pieces of firewood, and we gather around the meal they have prepared. The gabie is deceptively simple and delicious. Wild greens cooked with pork lard and fermented soybean paste, its earthy flavours are balanced by a deep, savoury richness all with a punch fishy and fiery punch from the fishmint and king chilly chutney.

A few mouthfuls later, however, I quietly retreat a short distance away. My eyes are streaming, and I am assailed by hiccups. The king chilly has proved far more formidable than I had anticipated. But determined not to admit defeat in front of my Naga hosts, I finish my meal at a discreet distance, recovering my composure one bite at a time.

As lunch draws to a close, other farmers begin making their way back to the fields. "We would like to see the world beyond our village," the two friends say, "but we cannot imagine living anywhere else. This is our home."

The reporter would like to thank Khriebu Meyase and Rokosato Chücha for their generous help in translating Tenyidie.