The afternoon sun filters through the canopy as I watch an elderly man's weathered hands transform green palash leaves into a sturdy plate—a centuries-old skill passed from hand to hand, heart to heart—knowledge that modern science is only now beginning to fully appreciate. “Zero waste,” Kartikey Singh, my naturalist from Samode Safari Lodge whispers with a hint of pride in his voice. “Everything returns to the earth.” There was a kind of quiet genius in it: no factories, no plastics, no waste. Just leaves, twigs, and a deep understanding of what the land could offer—and what it needed in return.
We're in Mardari village, just on the periphery of the famous tiger reserve of Bandhavgarh, where the distant roar of a tiger feels closer than the hum of a passing vehicle. While most visitors come for glimpses of the majestic Bengal tigers, I've found something equally profound here—living proof that tribes know how to exist in perfect harmony with their environment—and perhaps, how we too might do so again.
In today's world of climate conferences and carbon credits, we often speak of sustainability as if it's a revolutionary concept. Yet as I walk through this village, I'm humbled to realise that what we consider innovation is often rediscovery. The Baiga tribe, who have called this region home for generations, never needed buzzwords to explain their relationship with nature. For them, it's simply life—a continuous cycle of taking only what's needed and giving back in equal measure. Or Gond tribe, for that matter! “Look at any Gond art,” Singh explains, referencing the indigenous art style that permeates the region. “It's 100 per cent rooted in nature. Even when depicting people or deities, nature flows through everything they create.”
Near us, a woman carefully rolls bidis using tendu leaves—soft, fragrant wrappers for small hand-rolled cigarettes. The process is methodical, almost meditative. Nothing is wasted, nothing is excessive. Modern packaging engineers would call this “biomimicry” or “cradle-to-cradle design.” The Baiga simply call it common sense. Scientists now scramble to develop biodegradable alternatives to plastic, while here, the solution has existed for centuries. The palash leaf plates require no manufacturing plants, generate no emissions, and leave no waste. When discarded, they become compost, feeding the very trees that will provide tomorrow's plates.
“Before matchsticks,” Singh shares, “the tribes carried flint stones and tinder to create fire. This required skill—when the Red Silk Cotton tree's fruit ripened, they would collect the soft, fibrous material inside—nature's perfect tinder—light, airy, and quick to catch a spark.” They didn’t manufacture tinder; they found and prepared what was seasonally available. This resourcefulness extends further—It struck me then, as it does now: in our age of climate conferences, eco-architecture, and green revolutions, we are trying to circle back to something indigenous communities like these tribes have always known. This intimate knowledge shaped more than daily life—it shaped their shelters, their tools, their art. Long before “green buildings” became an architectural trend, the Baigas and their Gond neighbours built structures that breathed with the landscape, using materials that cooled naturally, required no cement, no chemicals, and left no scars on the earth.
The 2,000-year-old Bandhavgarh Fort, crowning a plateau within the national park, exemplifies ingenious natural climate control. Built of local sandstone and integrated into the hillside itself, the structure harnesses thermal mass for temperature regulation. The fort's strategic hilltop position captures prevailing winds, creating natural ventilation pathways throughout its chambers. Ancient engineering brilliance is further evident in the Chakradhara Tank and numerous step wells that collect rainwater, designed precisely to manage runoff while maximising retention. At the base of the fort lies the Shesh Shaiya Temple Complex with its magnificent 10th-century reclining Vishnu statue. Carved directly from existing stone near a natural spring, the complex demonstrates profound respect for terrain. By integrating with rather than imposing upon the landscape, the creators achieved both spiritual significance and ecological mindfulness.
Perhaps most remarkable are the man-made caves dating to the 1st century BCE, including the notable Badi Gufa. These sanctuaries, carved directly into cliff faces, maintain naturally stable internal climates—cool during scorching summers, comfortably warm in winter. Their thoughtful layouts promote air circulation without mechanical intervention. Once inhabited by monks and forest-dwelling yogis, these spaces reflect a philosophy of minimal environmental impact and sacred communion with nature.
As we wander deeper into the village, Singh’s stories unfold like an old song. He pointed to a towering Crocodile Bark Tree—“Its bark,” he said, “holds water. If you're lost in the jungle, you can puncture the bark for water. It's a natural reservoir. Nature provides, if you know how to listen.” While climate scientists now emphasise the importance of indigenous knowledge in understanding forest ecosystems and natural water management. Yet, there's a certain irony that as global movements push for sustainable living, traditional practices are simultaneously vanishing from their source communities. The circle is both completing and breaking.
Under a sprawling shade of a banyan tree, Singh’s voice softened. “The Baiga have been living here over two decades,” he observes, “but they've changed. The tattoos that once identified them are disappearing.” Modern influence moves faster than tradition can adapt. Younger generations no longer learn the ancient methods of pottery, of crafting water vessels from bottle gourds, of rolling tendu bidis with a practiced art that wasted nothing and polluted nothing. Singh's tone turns reflective. “The elders still craft water bottles from bottle gourds—simple, ingenious solutions. The trick is to seal it with the beeswax.” What's being lost isn't just charming folk craft—it's a sophisticated understanding of living systems that modern sustainability experts are desperately trying to recapture. The bottle gourd containers are naturally insulating, renewable, and biodegradable—qualities that today's most advanced sustainable product designers strive to replicate.
Beyond crafts, the Baiga and Gond traditionally maintained intimate knowledge of forest medicine, seasonal patterns, and biodiversity conservation. This wasn't environmentalism as an ideological choice—it was survival wisdom, refined over countless generations. “They understand how every plant and animal serves a purpose,” Singh explains. “When to harvest, how much to take, which areas to leave untouched to ensure regeneration.” Today's conservation biologists call this “sustainable yield management” or “traditional ecological knowledge.” Yet for these tribes, it's simply the accumulated learning of ancestors who understood that their future depended on the forest's health.
What makes this knowledge particularly valuable in our climate-challenged era is its specificity. “They used to be master flute players,” Singh says wistfully. “When cattle grazers led their herds, they'd play continuously, creating melodies unique to this land. That sound is nearly gone now.” Modernity has crept in, offering a symbiotic way of life. This is the paradox of our time: as the world finally recognises the value of indigenous environmental knowledge, economic pressures and cultural shifts threaten the very communities that safeguard these practices. The subtle timing of flowering seasons, bird migrations, and insect appearances creates a detailed environmental calendar that scientists now recognise as invaluable baseline data for tracking climate change impacts. But this delicate knowledge system faces threats from multiple directions.
Changes in rainfall patterns and temperature are disrupting the very ecosystems that support these practices. Wildlife patterns shift. The environmental cues that guided traditional knowledge become less reliable. Singh points to a distant ridge. “Rainfall isn't what it used to be. The forest composition is changing slowly. The plants they depend on are becoming harder to find.” Simultaneously, economic necessities pull younger generations toward wage labour and modern conveniences. The true innovation may lie in bridging these worlds—honouring indigenous wisdom while addressing contemporary challenges. Conservation efforts increasingly incorporate traditional knowledge holders as partners rather than subjects.
As I prepare to leave Mardari village, I watch sunlight play across the hands of an elder crafting a simple comb from bamboo. The circle of sustainability is both ancient and urgently new—traditional knowledge offering timeless lessons for our most modern crises. Somewhere between the tendu leaf and the carbon credit market, between the bottle gourd container and the bioplastic innovation lab, lies a path forward—one that completes the circle by recognising that true sustainability isn't an invention but a remembering.
Perhaps it was always meant to come full circle—returning not forward, but back, to the ancient wisdom we once thought we could live without. It’s about remembering what we once knew. Because the tribes of Bandhavgarh knew it all along.
