Dharmanagar (Tripura) April 1: A quiet crisis is sweeping through Tripura’s hills and villages, where betel nut cultivation—once a thriving lifeline—is losing its foothold.
What began as a promising successor to dwindling pineapple and orange farming has spiraled into a struggle for survival, driven by an influx of Burmese imports and vanishing markets.
From Fruit Orchards to Betel Nut Boom
For decades, Tripura’s tribal communities depended on the land’s bounty. Rolling hills like Jampui, Nalkata, and Nepal Tila bloomed with pineapples and oranges, sustaining families and shaping the region’s identity.
But as these crops faded, betel nut—known locally as supari—stepped in to fill the void. By the early 2000s, it had become a cornerstone of the state’s rural economy.
Farmers tended towering areca palms, while enterprising youth turned saplings into a cash crop, selling them across state lines.
Wholesalers swarmed villages like Kanchanpur and Damchhara, snapping up harvests straight from Jampui’s misty orchards.
“Those were the days,” recalls Ratan Debbarma, a 45-year-old farmer from Nepal Tila. “We’d race to grow the finest supari, and buyers lined up at our gates.”
A Golden Era Fades
The betel nut trade once pulsed with energy. Just a few years ago, it was a hive of activity—farmers and unemployed youth alike poured their hopes into the crop, transforming it into a competitive enterprise.
From Dharmanagar’s bustling markets to the rugged and serene slopes of Jampui Hills, the industry thrived. “It gave us purpose,” says Mira Reang, a grower from Darchoi.
“Even the young ones who couldn’t find jobs found a way to earn.” Contracts with wholesalers ensured steady income, and Tripura’s supari flowed freely to eager buyers in Assam and beyond.
But that prosperity has crumbled, leaving behind a shadow of its former self.
The Burmese Invasion Takes Hold
The tide turned with the arrival of Burmese betel nuts—cheaper, abundant, and relentless. Truckloads now roll into Tripura through border crossings like Churaibari and Damchhara’s Dasharath Setu, unloading sacks that flood local markets.
Their low price and easy availability have eclipsed Tripura’s homegrown produce. “Why bother with ours when Burmese supari costs half as much?” Mira asks, pointing to a heap of unsold nuts rotting beneath her trees.
Across the state, growers watch helplessly as their harvests lose appeal, outmatched by an import juggernaut that shows no signs of slowing.
Markets Slip Away
The crisis isn’t confined to Tripura’s borders. Assam, once a vital market for the state’s betel nuts, has turned cold.
Towns like Silchar, Karimganj, and Badarpur—where Tripura’s harvest once commanded attention—now favor Burmese imports or simply look elsewhere.
Transporting supari to Assam has become a logistical ordeal, with rising costs and bureaucratic hurdles eroding what little profit remains.
“We used to send trucks weekly,” says Kishore Tripura, a wholesaler from Dharmanagar.
“Now, I haven’t moved a load in months.” The loss of this lifeline has left producers stranded, their warehouses full and their prospects dim.
A Region in Distress
In Jampui Hills, the stakes are especially high. Home to some 4,000 families, the region once buzzed with betel nut fervor—more lucrative than oranges, it inspired even the Lushai community to embrace the crop.
Today, that enthusiasm has soured into despair. Orchards stand neglected, their fruit dropping to waste, while households that banked on supari face an uncertain future.
“This isn’t just about farming anymore,” warns a local farmer.
“It’s a full-blown economic collapse rippling from the hills to the plains.” Across Tripura, the unsold harvest has become a symbol of a deeper unraveling—one that threatens livelihoods and stability alike.
Searching for a Way Forward
As Tripura’s betel nut growers confront this bleak reality, the question looms: What comes next? For many, the crop was more than a trade—it was a way of life, a bridge between past struggles and future dreams.
Now, with Burmese imports tightening their grip and markets slipping away, the state stands at a crossroads.
“We need help—some way to fight back,” pleads Ratan Debbarma, his voice heavy with frustration.
