Arrival: the end of the line

The flight into Agartala feels like stepping off the map. Just one kilometer from Bangladesh's border, this capital of Tripura exists in India's northeastern corner—a place so remote that most Indians couldn't locate it on a map. Walking through the small airport, bamboo and cane handicrafts line the walls like whispered hints of what awaits outside.

The three-hour train journey south to Sabroom unfolds like a slow-motion documentary of tropical abundance. Rice fields stretch endlessly, punctuated by perfectly straight betel nut trees standing like green exclamation marks against the sky. Banana plants, coconut palms, and small houses emerge from the green blur—some “Pakka houses” (permanent brick and concrete structures with tin roofs), others still built from mud and bamboo, nestled so naturally among the trees they seem to have grown there.

Last stop: Sabroom, everyone has to get out. The train can't go any further—this town sits at Tripura's southernmost tip, separated from Bangladesh by only the Feni River.Here, foreigners are such an anomaly that curious crowds gather just to observe someone with different features buying vegetables at the market. There are no tourist attractions, no guidebook recommendations—just a small town living its life at nature's pace, largely invisible to the outside world.

What strikes me most isn't what Sabroom lacks, but what it possesses in abundance: a landscape so fertile that prosperity seems to grow from the ground itself.

Observations: The abundance paradox

In Sabroom's bustling market, I encounter what economists might call a paradox. Vendors selling dozens of fruit varieties I can't name, fresh milk delivered daily by bicycle, vegetables so recently harvested they still carry soil, fish caught that morning from nearby rivers. The abundance feels almost overwhelming after months in urban India, where such freshness commands premium prices.

Here's the surprising part: what Sabroom offers casually—fresh air you can breathe deeply, water that doesn't need filtration, quiet streets where you can actually walk at your own pace—these are the genuine luxuries that city dwellers pay fortunes for in wellness retreats and health clubs. Yet walk through residential areas and you see a different economic story unfolding.

Around Anandapara and the central bazaar, newer, solid brick houses dominate—structures that signal economic stability and social status. But venture just two kilometers toward the outskirts like Doulbhari, and you'll find a completely different world: bamboo houses with tin roofs, hybrid constructions mixing traditional and modern, cob houses topped with either corrugated metal or traditional thatch. While Tripura faces economic challenges common to northeastern India, this architectural shift tells a story that's way more complex than simple economics.

The contradiction gets even more interesting inside people's homes. Staying with Dipayan's family in Anandapara, I observe a domestic economy that operates on principles entirely foreign to urban consumption. Every container from packaged products gets reused for storage. Old cotton sarees get stitched into colorful kantha. Torn clothing becomes cleaning rags. When something breaks, repair is the first option, replacement the last resort. It's a sophisticated system of resource maximization that happens so naturally, nobody even calls it sustainability—it's just how life works.

The kitchen reveals perhaps the most sophisticated resource management I've witnessed anywhere. A single pumpkin plant provides vegetables from its fruit, leafy greens from its tender shoots, protein-rich flowers for fritters, and even seeds that dry into a nutritious paste eaten with rice. Nothing gets wasted—not because of poverty, but because abundance is understood as maximizing every resource.

There's an interesting paradox here: in government handicraft shops in Agartala, you'll find exquisite bamboo lampshades, cane sofas, and intricately woven room dividers—beautiful objects that tourists would pay premium prices for. But these traditional crafts face a changing market at home. While some people still appreciate them, many now prefer mass-produced , often plastic alternatives they see as more "modern." Different generations simply have different ideas about what represents improvement.

Community connections here remain strong in ways that many cities have lost. The afternoon adda sessions—casual Bengali gatherings over tea where everything from politics to farming to local news gets discussed—happen spontaneously in courtyards, shops, and street corners. During festivals like the vibrant Hare Krishna mela or the unique Baruni Mela (where people from both India and Bangladesh meet at the border to trade and celebrate), the streets fill with color, food stalls, and vendors selling everything from bamboo baskets to household goods. At the Hare Krishna festival, free meals are served to everyone—thousands of people—turning the town into a hub of shared generosity.

What you quickly realize living here is that Sabroom operates on what I call "walking speed." Everything is actually walkable—in most parts of town, the hairdresser, bazaar, hospital, school, and tailor are within easy walking distance.You might step out to buy milk and find yourself three hours later sitting in someone's courtyard, having been invited for tea and ending up in deep conversation about everything from local politics to farming techniques. People move naturally throughout the day too, getting more physical activity just by visiting neighbors or going to market than the average person in an Indian megacity gets all week. Coming from urban India where such spontaneity is impossible—where apartment buildings isolate neighbors and time is always scarce—this kind of community connection feels remarkable. You have to slow down, there's no other way.

Encounters: Between old wisdom and new dreams

The Simple Farmer

"I am a poor man," Apu Mamu tells me matter-of-factly as he cracks open fresh coconuts with practiced strikes of his machete. At 56, Dipayan's uncle Apu Mamu runs a farm in Doulbhari village that would make urban permaculture enthusiasts take notes furiously. His property includes the original mud and bamboo structure now used for storage, and a newer brick house where his family of three actually lives.

 

Walking through his land feels like touring a botanical garden designed by nature itself. Coconut and betel nut trees tower overhead, creating a canopy for pineapple plants, special grapefruit varieties, lemons, and vegetables I don't recognize. Three cows graze in a designated area, chickens roam freely, and a small pond sits within a larger u-shaped lake that once served as the village's lifeline—providing water for irrigation, bathing, washing clothes, bathing cattle, and fishing.

What Apu Mamu calls his simple life becomes remarkable when measured differently. His wealth lies in complete food security, water access from the nearby river supplemented by government water supply, and the kind of resilience that no bank account can provide. 

Between generations

Dipayan's mother—Maa a retired Anganwadi teacher, represents the generation that witnessed Tripura's transformation. As the eldest of nine siblings from the same farming family as Apu Mamu, she secured education and government employment when such opportunities were rare for women in rural areas.

"When I was working, my mother and sisters cared for my children at the family farm," she explains, preparing tea. "Nine of us lived together then. Now everyone has separate houses, separate lives." Her observation carries matter-of-fact recognition of change.

She embodies a practical approach to resources that bridges old and new. While she buys ready-made items when convenient, she still sees value in repurposing things that work perfectly well. Why buy new storage containers when repurposed jars do the job? Her mother used to make kantha blankets and floor mats from old sarees at home, but now she takes her worn textiles to local women who do this work for extra income. It's not necessarily about environmental consciousness—it's economic sense. The skills haven't disappeared yet, they've simply shifted to a small network of housewives looking to supplement their family income.

A witness to change

"When I was in school," Dipayan tells me, "there was no internet, hardly any private cars. Just bicycles and rickshaws on the streets. Life used to be very simple." At 37, he's young enough to remember the transition but old enough to feel nostalgic about what's been lost. "Everyone was outside more then—playing in the streets, swimming in the river. It was much quieter without all the motorcycles and cars. People still have time for each other now, but life has become more... indoor."

His observation hits at something deeper than individual preference—it's about collective decisions regarding what progress should look like in a place where the old ways still work remarkably well.

Lessons: What Sabroom Taught Me

1. Abundance isn't about having more: Apu Mamu's self-described simple farm provides more food security than most middle-class urban salaries. True wealth might be measured in resilience rather than accumulation.

2. Every material has multiple uses: The pumpkin plant system—fruit, leaves, flowers, seeds—demonstrates how traditional knowledge extracts maximum value from every resource. Modern sustainability often rediscovers what rural communities never forgot.

3. Walkability creates community: When the town operates at walking scale, chance encounters become daily occurrences. Social connections happen naturally rather than requiring scheduled "networking."

4. Natural materials need supporting ecosystems: Bamboo construction didn't fail because the material was inferior, but because the knowledge systems supporting it eroded. Advanced techniques existed but weren't passed on or sufficiently innovated upon.

5. Development timing matters: Sabroom sits at a crucial moment—authentic rural life still exists two kilometers from the center, but urban aspirations are rapidly transforming how people build and live.

Reflection: The Development Dilemma

Returning to conversations about sustainable development, Sabroom poses uncomfortable questions about the assumptions underlying "progress." The shift from bamboo and mud construction to permanent brick houses represents more than changing building materials—it's a fundamental transformation in how communities relate to their environment and each other.

The reasons for this shift reveal systemic challenges: people associating traditional materials with poverty and low status, unavailability of sustainable prefabricated elements (unlike fired bricks and concrete), limited government initiatives supporting traditional construction, and the reality that low-cost sustainable materials are often less profitable from a business perspective. Most critically, there's been little advancement in building with natural materials—no innovation in bamboo, cane, mud, or wood construction techniques.

The pressures shaping these choices are layered: traditional materials often carry the stigma of poverty, sustainable alternatives are not always available, and the lure of new economic opportunities—such as rubber plantations that guarantee steady income but replace biodiverse forests with monoculture—pushes communities toward decisions that trade long-term resilience for short-term stability.

If development is understood only as replacement—brick for bamboo, rubber for forest, plastic for craft—then something irreplaceable will vanish. But if development can mean enhancement—making bamboo stronger with innovation, diversifying income beyond monocultures, honoring craft as everyday utility—then abundance might be sustained rather than spent.

For slo-tek, Sabroom reinforces our conviction that sustainable solutions must address social and economic factors alongside environmental ones. Beautiful traditional crafts become irrelevant if they can't compete economically with mass-produced alternatives. Climate-friendly materials lose ground when they're associated with backwardness rather than innovation.

The real lesson might be about timing. Sabroom still has choices. The infrastructure of community life—the walkability, the adda culture, the festival traditions, the indigenous mix of Mog (Buddhist), Tripuri, and Reang peoples—remains intact. The question is whether those will be carried forward as foundations of progress, or lost to the pressures of uniform modernity.

What if development meant making traditional wisdom more sophisticated rather than abandoning it entirely? In Tripura's abundant landscape, perhaps there's still time to find out.