Every time I visit my grandparents' village in Arghakhanchi during Dashain or Tihar, I feel like I am stepping into a place where two different worlds exist at once. There are fields that used to be full of millet and corn. Some now look strangely empty. The old dhansar, the storage room where my grandparents kept seeds safe from mice and moisture, sits half-used. Sometimes when I walk in, I can almost picture how full it used to be: sacks of grain stacked carefully, the air thick with the earthy smell of stored harvest. A few buffaloes and goats still wander around but far fewer than when I was younger. Most of the young people who cared for them have moved away for work in the Middle East, Malaysia, or India.
Yet in Butwal or Kathmandu's wealthier grocery shops, I see people paying premium prices for the same buckwheat, millet, and lentils my grandparents once grew because they had no other choice. Urban consumers now seek "organic" and "locally grown" foods, willing to pay three or four times the normal price. Meanwhile, the very communities that possess this knowledge are abandoning it. That contradiction has started raising questions I had not considered before. What are we losing in our rush toward modernity? And more importantly, what might we be able to save?
The Wisdom We Are Abandoning
When I was younger, I never wondered why my grandparents used leaves from certain trees to make tapari plates, or why corn hung from the rafters, or why my grandmother reused the same metal and wooden containers year after year. I assumed this was simply how life was in the village. Only later did I understand that these routines came from generations of living within the limits of what the land could provide. They were not following any environmental trend or sustainability movement. They were doing what worked, what had worked for centuries.The waste from cows and goats became organic manure that enriched the soil without chemicals. Water was used carefully, rationed according to need and season. Nothing was thrown away unless it absolutely could not be used. The tapari plates decomposed naturally, leaving no trace. Crop diversity ensured that if one harvest failed, others could sustain the family. Seeds were saved, selected, and passed down, carrying generations of adaptation to local conditions. Recycling was not a concept that needed teaching. It was survival, yes but it was also (even though no one called it this) a remarkably sustainable way of life.
What my grandparents' generation practiced out of necessity turns out to be exactly what climate scientists and environmental experts now advocate: closed-loop systems, organic farming, minimal waste, crop diversity, and local food production. These weren't just traditions. They were climate-smart agricultural practices developed over centuries of observation and adaptation.
The Changes We Cannot Ignore
How to attract young people to farming?
But things are changing fast, and not all changes are moving us forward. On my most recent visit to Arghakhanchi in October, I noticed that even in remote villages, children now eat instant noodles and packaged biscuits more often than the traditional snacks made from buckwheat, millet, or roasted corn that sustained previous generations. The plastic wrappers pile up in corners where there are no waste collection systems. Chemical fertilizers, promoted as the path to higher yields and faster results, have slowly weakened the soil. Some of my relatives say the land "doesn't respond the same way anymore." The soil that once supported multiple crops now struggles even with chemical assistance.
They want to try other methods. They can see that something has gone wrong but they do not always have the time, money, or knowledge to transition back to organic practices or experiment with integrated approaches. Out-migration has created gaps not just in labor but in knowledge transfer. The young people who leave for cities or foreign countries take with them the possibility of learning traditional farming methods. Fields stay uncultivated because no one is left to farm them, a heartbreaking sight in a country where food security remains a pressing concern. Cheap plastic has replaced the wooden and metal containers that lasted for decades, creating a waste crisis in villages that never had to think about garbage before.
Meanwhile, climate change is making everything more unpredictable. Monsoons now arrive late or with overwhelming force. The heavy rainfall that Nepal saw in the week right after Dashain festival is one recent example of these shifting patterns. Farmers I spoke with in Arghakhanchi told me they can no longer trust the traditional farming calendar that guided their parents and grandparents. Ecological knowledge built over generations is becoming less reliable as the climate itself changes.
What Still Survives, and Why It Matters
Yet not everything is lost. During festivals, I notice that some families still make tapari for rituals. Some households still maintain their dhansar even if it is not as full as before. Others keep heirloom varieties of seeds because they know these crops taste better, grow more reliably in local conditions, and require less external input. These are not just nostalgic practices. They are acts of resilience.
And here is what gives me hope: urban demand for organic, locally grown, indigenous foods keeps rising. Consumers in cities like Kathmandu and Butwal increasingly seek out the very foods that rural communities have always grown. This creates an unexpected opportunity. What if the knowledge that rural communities possess, knowledge that is inherently sustainable, climate-adapted, and environmentally sound, could be properly valued, supported, and integrated with appropriate modern tools?
A Path Forward: Integration, Not Replacement
Nepal's agricultural communities do not need to choose between the old and the new. What they need is a thoughtful integration of both. Traditional practices like organic farming, crop rotation, and seed preservation are not backward. They are environmentally necessary practices that deserve preservation. These practices can be enhanced with modern knowledge: improved seed storage technology that protects heirloom varieties, soil testing that helps farmers understand what their land needs without defaulting to chemicals, and marketing systems that connect rural producers directly to urban consumers willing to pay fair prices for sustainably grown food.
The government and NGOs must recognize that supporting traditional agricultural knowledge is not about romanticizing poverty or keeping communities frozen in the past. It is about acknowledging that these practices offer solutions to some of our most pressing environmental and food security challenges. When we lose the knowledge of how to farm without chemicals, how to maintain soil health naturally, how to preserve seeds, and how to live within ecological limits, we lose more than culture. We lose practical tools for survival in an era of climate crisis.
We need community seed banks that preserve local varieties adapted to Nepal's diverse microclimates. We need training programs that help farmers transition from chemical to organic methods without suffering yield losses during the transition. We need infrastructure that reduces post-harvest losses so that farmers are not forced to choose chemical fertilizers to compensate for waste. We need market linkages so that sustainable farming is also economically viable. And we need to involve young people, both those in villages and those in cities. The young generation need to understand that agricultural knowledge is valuable, sophisticated, and urgently needed.
The Moment of Decision
Nepal's agricultural communities (and arguably, agricultural communities all around the world) face a moment of decision. In the quiet transformation of villages like my grandparents', in the half-empty dhansar and the plastic-littered fields, in the premium prices for organic food and the abandoned terraces, we see the tension between old and new playing out in real time.
The question is not whether we should embrace modernity or return to the past. The question is how we move forward without losing the environmental wisdom embedded in traditional practices. How do we build food systems that are both productive and sustainable? How do we ensure that climate-smart agriculture draws on centuries of local knowledge rather than replacing it entirely with external solutions?
Some losses may already feel permanent. But not all have to be. If we act with urgency and respect—respect for the land, for traditional knowledge, for the people who have sustained themselves sustainably for generations—we might find that the solutions we need have been in our villages all along. The goal is not choosing between old and new, but finding ways they can strengthen each other in service of a more resilient, sustainable, and food-secure Nepal.
