A trader tips a handful of dried mango slices onto a tarpaulin sheet and examines them carefully. Around him, weighing scales swing into action, motorcycles edge through the crowd and voices rise and fall in a dozen simultaneous negotiations. The Monday santha (weekly market) at Kalyansingpur, a small town at the foothills of Odisha’s Niyamgiri range, is underway.

By 10 am, sacks of dried mangoes are piled high across the market. Dongria Kondh families from villages across the hills wait patiently to sell produce gathered from forests and cultivated on distant slopes.

The women are easy to spot in the crowd. Strands of colourful beads cover their necks and chests, multiple small metal earrings frame their faces and a small dagger rests discreetly within a tightly coiled hair bun. Many also carry hand-embroidered stoles, their geometric motifs echoing a long tradition of craftsmanship in the hills.

Some have been travelling since dawn to reach the market. For the next few hours, the market will determine the value of a season’s labour.

Wild mangoes, native tur dal, ragi and black gram change hands in quick succession. Conversations drift between crop yields, rainfall and prices. A little beyond the market, the forested slopes of Niyamgiri rise into the distance. For the Dongria Kondh, one of India's Particularly Vulnerable Tribal Groups (PVTGs), these hills are both home and livelihood.

Our journey to this region begins from Rayagada, about 40 kilometres from Kalyansingpur. As the road climbs towards Niyamgiri, the terrain changes almost imperceptibly. Fields give way to dense vegetation and the horizon fills with undulating ridges.

Villages appear intermittently along the slopes. Rows of modest concrete homes stand amid fruit trees and cultivated patches. Solar panels gleam from rooftops. Mobile phones have found their way into the hills; daily life, however, remains strongly anchored in farming, forest produce and community ties.

The Dongria Kondh inhabit the Niyamgiri hills across Rayagada and Kalahandi districts in southwestern Odisha. Known for their horticultural traditions and millet cultivation, they share a spiritual bond with Niyam Raja, a deity they believe resides in the hills.

A landmark judgement

Their bond with the deity drew national attention more than a decade ago during the prolonged struggle against proposed bauxite mining in Niyamgiri. For years, the community opposed plans linked to Vedanta, arguing that mining would threaten forests, water sources and sacred sites.

In 2013, the Supreme Court delivered a landmark judgment, directing that gram sabhas would decide whether mining could proceed in areas considered sacred by tribal communities. The decision was hailed as a milestone for tribal rights under the Forest Rights Act. The gram sabhas unanimously rejected the proposal, a verdict that continues to resonate across Niyamgiri.

More than a decade later, the issue remains part of everyday conversation.

“Our fields, streams and forests give us everything we need. We earn from what we grow and sell. Why would we exchange that for something that could damage the hills?” asks Babula of Phakeri village. “Niyamgiri is much more than our home. It is what sustains us.”

Mango season

If the hills provide, the Monday santha is where their bounty finds a market.

This time of year, dried wild mango dominates trade. The fruit arrives from villages such as Phakeri in Parsali Panchayat after being sliced and sun-dried. Traders inspect the produce carefully before weighing it.

“The harvest has been good this year and there is more produce in the market,” says J Bhaskar, a wholesaler. “Last year dried mango sold for around ₹85 a kilo. This season it is closer to ₹45.”

The consignments travel far beyond Niyamgiri, finding buyers in Raipur, Andhra Pradesh and Mumbai. The window is brief. June is the only month these wild varieties are available in significant quantities.

At the village table

By early afternoon, business at the santha has largely concluded. The sacks of dried mangoes have found buyers and many families have already started the journey home. We follow one such route into the hills, leaving behind the bustle of Kalyansingpur.

Houses appear between jackfruit, mango and tamarind trees, with cultivated patches spread across the slopes. In one Dongria Kondh village, preparations for lunch are underway.

The meal is served on leaf plates with bowls fashioned from stitched leaves. There is native varieties of dal mixed and cooked with vegetables like brinjal, accompanied by plantain fry, slices of mango and pineapple, kala jamun and a handful of native black berries and a bowl of ragi porridge.

Almost every ingredient has come from nearby fields, orchards or forests. What is served for lunch is, in many ways, a reflection of what the hills provide.

An ordinary afternoon

As the afternoon light softens, the village settles into an unhurried rhythm.

Near a cluster of homes, Munna scales a jackfruit tree with remarkable ease before lowering a ripe fruit to the ground. Baskets of produce rest outside a few homes, mango slices dry in the sun and conversations drift from shaded courtyards. A short distance away, children gather beneath a large tree for a game of cricket.

As we leave the hills, the sacks of dried mangoes sold earlier in the day are already beginning their journey to distant cities.