Tasleema Begum wakes before the sun rises over Srinagar’s hills. She ties her dupatta, steps into the morning chill, and walks to her strawberry fields. There’s no time for a full breakfast — strawberries must be picked before the sun gets too strong. Each morning begins like this: with hands deep in red fruit and a mind already balancing chores, market runs, and home.
Fifteen years ago, Gassu was a village of paddy fields and tight routines. Then the water dried up, and the fields stopped listening. One crop disappeared. Another arrived.
And with it, everything changed — especially for the women.
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Each strawberry reflects the unseen labour of women whose lives now grow alongside the fruit.
The shift wasn’t accidental. As water scarcity deepened, Gassu’s paddy fields became harder to sustain. Many farmers turned to strawberries, a more resource-efficient crop, and in doing so, found a way to adapt to climate change.
Today, over 60 percent of Gassu’s people grow strawberries, and nearly half of them are women. Women who once spent their days behind closed doors now manage fields, earn money, and make decisions. For many, it began not with confidence — but with necessity.
Ulfat Nabi, a postgraduate from Kashmir University, farms strawberries with her father — choosing soil over a desk job.
Passionate about agriculture, she works independently to support herself, proving women can lead on their own land.
Together, women form the backbone of the village’s economy. Women often work in groups, starting just after morning prayers and continuing till midday. Their presence in the fields is now a daily rhythm — as familiar as the sunrise.
‘I never thought the fields were for me’
In 2007, when farmers in Gassu first began growing strawberries, Tasleema didn’t pay much attention. It was her husband who believed in the crop. She helped him occasionally, but didn’t see it as her own work.
“It has been more than a decade now,” she tells The Better India, standing in the field she once ignored. “We grow strawberries on two kanals of land. My husband alone can’t manage it. I do the farming, run the house — everything.”
Tasleema once stayed away from farming. Today, she leads her family’s harvest on two kanals of land.
From mid-April to late May, the strawberry harvest takes over her life. “In the mornings, I barely get time to prepare breakfast. The fruit must be picked early, before the heat spoils it,” she explains. On average, they pack around 400 boxes every season — over four quintals of fruit.
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What began as support slowly became identity. “This land is my pride. I treat it like my own child,” Tasleema says.
A good harvest can mean 400 boxes in a season. Each one carries hope, income, and hard work.
And it has brought her more than money. “I receive a lot of respect from my husband and children. No one questions me for working — they appreciate me,” she adds, smiling.
Now, Tasleema knows exactly where she stands — on her own land, in work that she understands deeply, and in a home where her role is seen and valued.
She first said no to farming — then built a business
When Shahzada Begum (36) got married and moved to Gassu, farming was the last thing on her mind. A postgraduate, she had never imagined herself in the fields.
“I told my husband I wasn’t ready for this,” she recalls. “I wasn’t married to do farming.”
At first, she stayed back. But every morning, she watched her family step out with baskets and return hours later with red-stained hands and tired smiles. Slowly, something shifted.
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A father and daughter pair up in the fields — tending to strawberries, roots, and the future they’re growing together.
Now, Shahzada leads the work, from picking at dawn to packing and transporting the fruit to Srinagar’s Fruit Mandi. “In the beginning, I struggled. But now I see myself as someone who has choices. I’m not confined. I run my business, I earn, and I help others find work,” she says.
For Shahzada, the change isn’t just personal — it’s cultural. “Women and society have both changed,” she says. “I didn’t want to stay inside the house all the time. I found something of my own, and that matters.”
Still, it hasn’t been easy. “Because of religious norms, some women hesitate to work outside. But this is my land and my business. I’m proud of it,” she says firmly.
Left alone, she turned to the land
After her husband passed away, Kulsuma (45) was left with two children and no clear path forward. With no stable income and only 15 marlas of land (approximately 272 sq ft), she made a decision that would change everything — she turned to strawberry farming.
“This work gave me a sense of relief,” she says. “But it’s not easy. Managing the field, the household, and my children’s education is exhausting.”
Left with two kids and a small patch of land, Kulsuma found strength and survival in strawberry farming.
There are days she thinks of quitting. The labour is intense, and the loneliness heavier. Still, she continues. “This is the only way I can support my children. The field has become a part of me. It demands my time, but it also gives me strength.”
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Her perseverance hasn’t gone unnoticed. In Gassu, people have started to see her not just as a widow, but as a woman who stood her ground. “People respect me for what I do. As a widow, that respect means a lot. I feel stronger because of it,” she tells The Better India.
She still carries her grief, but the work keeps her going. The field demands her time and energy, yet it offers something steady in return—a way to stand on her own.
‘I needed to breathe. The land saved me.’
For 40-year-old Dar Rubeena, the fields brought something she hadn’t felt indoors—freedom.
“I can’t stay indoors all the time. It suffocates me,” she says. “Working in the fields gives me energy.”
Rubeena says the fields gave her freedom. Now, she earns Rs 60,000 per kanal every strawberry season.
She began farming out of necessity. Over the years, her role grew. With each harvest, she built a rhythm — learning how to manage, sell, and lead. “Without dedication, you can’t move forward,” she says. “Balancing the house and the farm is difficult, but I’ve never wanted to stop.”
Her husband’s support made the journey easier. “He has been with me every step of the way. His help made a big difference.”
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From elders to kids, entire families in Gassu contribute to the strawberry harvest, season after season.
Rubeena now earns around Rs 60,000 per kanal during the strawberry season. She speaks about her work with steady confidence. “Women have shaped this shift. We used to stay at home. Now, we’re managing land, earning steadily, and making decisions.”
She even encourages other women to step into whatever work gives them independence. “I’ve built something of my own here. Others can too.”
What happens when women take the lead
In a village of nearly 10,000 people, strawberry farming has become the primary source of livelihood for 60 percent of the population. With each household investing time and land into the fruit, the transformation is no longer just economic — it’s visible in the way Gassu lives and moves.
Gassu’s strawberry fields are tended by hands young and old — a shared effort rooted in resilience.
Each morning, women walk to the fields with crates balanced on their hips. Their hands turn red before the sun is fully up. At the mandi stalls in Srinagar, buyers greet them by name. Most of the fruit is sold there, but some women also sell by the roadside, to local shops near the Mughal Gardens, and even to restaurants that serve tourists.
Fifteen years ago, most of these women rarely stepped beyond their homes. Now they’re handling sales, running farms, and shaping the decisions that define their families’ futures.
During the peak season, each box of strawberries sells for Rs 100 to Rs 200. It’s a strong source of income—for those who can protect their crop from sudden rain or harsh heat.
Strawberries now drive Gassu’s economy — 60% of the village depends on them to earn a living.
Still, season after season, they show up. With every harvest, they’re building something deeper than profit. They’re building confidence, earning respect, and becoming visible in spaces where they were once unseen.
The crates carry strawberries, but the real harvest is harder to see — women stepping into roles they were once denied, making choices for their land, their families, and the futures they now feel brave enough to imagine.
The fruit leaves in crates. The power stays with the women who walk these fields like they have always belonged.
All images courtesy Muazam Mohi Ud Din