In Nagaland’s hills, fields carved like giant steps tell the story of generations. Known locally as pani-kheti in Nagamese, or wet terrace paddy farming, this traditional method has helped families grow rice on steep slopes for centuries.
Passed down from parents to children, these terraces hold shallow pools of water that flow gently from one level to the next through small channels and streams. Strong bunds keep the soil in place, control runoff, and help maintain the land’s fertility.
Among the Angami Nagas, the terraces come alive during the rainy months. In the north, plantation begins by late June–July, while in the south, it begins as early as May.
Neilasie-ü Khoubve, a farmer from Zhadima village, still walks several kilometres to her paddy field every year—an hour and a half on foot. At 49, the widowed mother of five knows these terraces like the back of her hand.
Speaking to EastMojo, she said, “I work with a close-knit group of 16 or 17 farmers. Just like our ancestors did, we move from field to field together, helping each other finish the planting. Sometimes we even sleep overnight on the farmland when the work demands it.”
Unlike commercial growers, Neilasie-ü does not sell a single grain of her harvest. Each year, she gathers about 50 tins, roughly 7 to 8 kilograms each—enough to feed her family, offer a tenth to the church, and save grains for the next season’s plantation.
Alongside her paddy, Neilasie-ü tends a kitchen garden near the same hills. This patchwork of vegetables helps stretch the harvest, filling family plates with homegrown greens.
The annual farming cycle in the northern Angami village follows an ancient rhythm. In March and April, old terraces are ploughed while leftover hay dries in the sun. By early May, rice seeds are sown. Come mid-June, seedlings are transplanted into flooded terrace fields.
An early monsoon this year brought the transplanting ahead of schedule, but harvest time is expected to remain around October and November. In the southern villages, farmers often plant potatoes in the emptied terraces, making the most of the fertile, moist soil.
Ancestral knowledge under threat
For the Angami Nagas, where water flow allows it, terraced paddy fields have long been a mark of both ingenuity and sustainability. But today, these terraces are slowly being abandoned.
“Many are leaving terrace farming behind because it is labour-intensive,” says Pele Khezhie, President of the Nagaland Contractors and Suppliers Union (NCSU). Standing calf-deep in water at his own paddy field near the Dzüü river, he joined villagers to transplant rice by hand.
For him, this work is more than survival. “Farming is our identity. Our ancestors lived self-reliant as they practiced farming. If we give this up, we lose our freedom,” he told EastMojo.
This week, Khezhie’s paddy fields became a hub of communal effort and celebration. Over 200 villagers from Chakhabama, Kezoma, Mima, and Kohima Village gathered at his field for the annual paddy transplantation.
“Paddy transplantation is not just labour. It brings people together—families, neighbours, and communities,” Khezhie said, as farmers stooped over the flooded terraces.
But such scenes are growing rarer. Younger generations are moving to towns and cities in search of modern livelihoods. Many see farming as backbreaking work with little reward.
Preserving tradition, embracing innovation
According to the Directorate of Agriculture, Nagaland’s total cultivable area covers more than one million hectares, but only about 29% is actively cropped each year. While the state has seen steady growth in crop production in recent years, a decline is projected for 2024–25, largely due to shrinking cultivated land.
Studies show that wet terrace cultivation is more productive than shifting cultivation.
Despite challenges, the paddy transplantation near the Dzüü river offered a glimpse of hope. Officials from the Agriculture Department were present, offering technical guidance and demonstrating modern methods to boost yields and soil health.
Khezhie believes such partnerships between traditional farmers and agricultural experts are crucial. “If we combine local wisdom with new techniques, we can make farming profitable again,” he said.
He hopes that more young Nagas will return to their roots. “Farming is not just about feeding ourselves. It is our culture, our community, our survival.”
As dusk fell over the terraced fields, villagers shared meals and songs by the riverbank—a ritual as old as the paddies themselves. For Khezhie and many like him, the message is clear: once the terraces are abandoned, something far deeper than rice is lost.
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