"Hard labor and sleepless nights," says Pandiamma, 37, a farmer, as she crushes the crackling dried red pepper in her palm. "That's what our lives are like when it's the time of year to pick chile." She opens her palm and shows me the shredded flakes. "And this is how wrung out we are at the end of it all," she laughs. "But it's worth it."
Like many women in rural India, she goes by one name only.
It's a searing hot day in Mattiyarenthal village, in the southern Indian state of Tamil Nadu. In March, temperatures regularly touch highs from 95 F to 105 F. The sharp, pungent scent of chile peppers clings to the air. It's just one of hundreds of villages in this area that grow this crop.
Pandiamma is surrounded by the carpets of deep, cherry-shaped mundu, a distinctive variety of red chile grown in this region. The farmers sow seeds from October to November — monsoon season — and harvest the peppers from January until May, keeping a watchful eye over each batch as it lays out to dry for five to ten days.
"Growing chile has always been a woman's job," Pandiamma says.
That's true not only for the thousands of chile farmers but for all farmers in the region. "More than 70% of agricultural activities in this region have always been carried out by women farmers," says Vallal Kannan, a program coordinator for Krishi Vigyan Kendra, a government-run agricultural center. He says that's because men prefer to take on the agricultural jobs that involve finances, such as supervising and selling, leaving the menial, labor intensive jobs to the women.
The women farmers agree that in the chile pepper fields, the demanding nature of the work discourages men. You need to crouch over the chile plant, plucking each pod by hand, and then dry and sort it, they say. And the plant is seasonal, which means that most chile farmers will find themselves out of work after six months. "Not many men step up to do it under these conditions," Pandiamma says. "But for women, chile is a godsend. If we labor hard enough in the fields for those few months, that extra income is enough to keep our homes running for the rest of the year."
Row after row of chile plants — short bushy shrubs with dusty green leaves — dot the expanse of sun-dappled fields. Like the women who labor here, the mundu chile is sturdy, tough and resilient. It needs very little water to grow and so does well in this parched, drought-ridden land.
Bright red and round, with a hook-like stalk, the peppers hang like beads from each plant. When the women are in the fields, their fingers fly over the plants, plucking so quickly that they can easily fill ten buckets in as many minutes. In spite of the searing sun and the lack of shade, they rarely pause for breaks.
On a mid-March afternoon, 44-year-old Rajeshwari, dressed in a pink sari, has just returned from the fields, where she has filled bucket after bucket with these plump red peppers. She started at 8 a.m. It's now 4 p.m., and she's only taken a break for lunch at around 2 p.m.
"That's my batch," she says, pointing to hundreds of peppers in a mound drying on a neatly swept patch of ground — a week's harvest from land that her family owns.
Her workday isn't yet done. Like many of the chile farmers, she starts to grade the drying chiles in the early evening — inspecting them closely and identifying damaged and broken pods.
Prices are surging this year because of untimely rains that flooded the crop last season and caused the spread of fungal disease. So the supply is diminished but the demand is strong.
In a good year, one kilo of top quality chiles — around 2.2 pounds — fetches a little over 300 rupees — the equivalent of about $3. During a good harvest season, the average woman farmer whose family owns an acre of land earns around $2,000 annually.
Rajeshwari says both size and color affect prices. She bends over her heap of dried chiles and her sharp eyes spot the occasional pale white pods sticking out from the sea of red. "We sort and grade these chiles by hand," she says. "The ones with the richest red color are the best, but even though the paler ones are of poorer quality, we can still sell these at the market."
The drying process causes sleepless nights for Pandiamma and other farmers. "Even a small shower can ruin the drying chile. If we can't reach our batch in time to gather it up or to throw that waterproof sheet over it when it starts to rain hard, all our efforts are wasted," Pandiamma says, gesturing at a thick blue tarpaulin.
That fear of rainfall is why she sleeps without switching on her fan, as sweltering hot as it might be. She doesn't want the whir of the blades to drown out the sound of raindrops.
Her fellow chile pepper pickers say that they lay awake at nights too, straining their ears, with the same kind of anxiety.
The overlooked woman farmer
The United Nations has declared 2026 the international year of the woman farmer to spotlight their essential yet often overlooked work in agriculture.
These chile farmers know the challenges first-hand. The one thing the women will tell you is how tough this work is — even for those who are relatively prosperous like Rasakumari.
Rasakumari, 60, who owns 15 acres of land, can afford to hire laborers to help. She's from the town of Mudukulathur and has picked chiles on her own fields alongside the farm hands she hires for the last 30 years. No matter how careful her planning, there are always unexpected setbacks, she says.
Last year, many of her chile plants were swallowed whole when a reservoir nearby (which the farmers use to harvest rainwater) flooded its banks during the monsoons. As a result, she had less land for cultivating chiles this year. And the government doesn't compensate for the loss of land to natural disasters. "While the government does provide insurance backing for staples like wheat and pulses if those crops fail, mundu chile, which can be unpredictable every year, isn't insured," she says. "That's bad news for us women."
Getting loans so they can buy more seeds and hire field help would be great. But since the women do not typically own the land they farm — it may belong to their husband or other family members — securing a low-interest loan is a challenge.
But they do get other forms of support. Government-run groups like Krishi Vigyan Kendra teaches them how to farm organically and how to boost their income. So do private companies like Thiruvadanai Nerkkalanjiyam Farmer Producer Company, where farmers are shareholders. Vellimalar, a social worker and managing trustee of the company, works with as many as 500 women farmers in the region, explaining government policies, assisting them with loans, and providing farming assistance.
Goats and castor oil plants
One technique that's caught on is intercropping, says Vellimalar — planting other crops in the space between the pepper plants. The crops this summer include eggplant, tomatoes, onions, cluster beans, groundnuts and even cotton. They also add the castor oil plant in the borders or edges of the fields –- it attracts pests like whiteflies and aphids that could damage the chile plants.
And then there are the goats. To support themselves in the off-season, many chile pickers tend the ruminants, selling them for meat and selling their milk and manure. "To me, goats mean freedom and entertainment," says Nagavalli, 42. "It's refreshing to stroll around with them everywhere after a morning of work."
"We take them to graze in our fields before the chile is planted from May-September. Their droppings add rich natural manure to the fields," says Premalatha, another goat aficionado.
The women have also come up with their own plan to help them get through hard times. Among the pepper farmers, there are over 8,000 informal banking groups. Members contribute money each month so they can borrow in an emergency — or to boost their business.
"It's not much, but we treat it like an emergency fund," says Vasuki.
But there is a catch. Women farmers over age 60 are excluded for fear they'd borrow money but not be able to repay because of illness or death. Last year, after her husband had a stroke, Veni, 62, has been working on her 72-year-old husband's two acres of chile fields single-handedly. She says that if only she were allowed to be a part of the group, she could afford to hire help in her fields too.
"How are older women expected to cope?" she asks. She's bought a pushcart designed by a local blacksmith that she takes to the fields. It cost about $50 but it's worth it, she says: It lets her bring back as many buckets of peppers as she can manage to pick in a day.
Of storage and motorcycles
And where do you put multiple pecks of peppers? The government has set up a cold storage facility in the village of Ettivayal, where the cost of storing chiles is less expensive than in private facilities. A farmer can pay about 18 cents a month for a 55-pound sack.
Storing chile peppers is a strategic decision. That's because the supply is unpredictable. Rain and pests can affect the chile quality and prices can tumble. Instead of selling their good chiles when prices are low, farmers can opt to store their crop until they get a better rate.
It's a big warehouse, air-conditioned and packed to the ceiling with sack after sack of chiles, their pungent scent all-pervasive. "This has been especially helpful for some women, allowing them to sell with an upper hand," says Sumathy Murugan, 45, a social worker and member of the Rural Women Development Foundation, a nonprofit that helps women farmers.
But even nominal storage costs can be hard for women like Vasuki and Victoria, because they farm on smaller tracts of land. They must sell their entire crop in order to pay off debts and make living expenses. And those expenses never cease, Vasuki says. They invest most of their profits in household needs — like pots, pans or repairs. They buy clothes for their children and pay school fees.
In recent years, they've managed to make bigger purchases — like a much needed motorcycle, subsidized by the government for working women. The vehicle helps them get to and from the fields, carrying sacks of fresh chile peppers back home.
Under a blazing sky, they ride their motorcycle, zipping through villages and past blankets of drying chiles spread outside temples and homes. They're going to haul back the last sacks of peppers they picked that morning.
The duo stop in the rich green fields. "Once the chile is out of our hands, we have no control over it. Dealers and middle men set the prices," says Vasuki. "Being a chile farmer is tough, but we've learnt that if we work together, we grow stronger."
Victoria agrees.
"We have to plan carefully," she says. "Chile fills our lives with its heat, but in spite of the challenges, we've found freedom."
Kamala Thiagarajan is a freelance journalist based in Madurai, Southern India. She reports on global health, science and development and has been published in The New York Times, The British Medical Journal, the BBC, The Guardian and other outlets. You can find her on X @kamal_t
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