The Mushroom That Rises with the Thunder: The Story of Nuchi Kumm

When the first thunder showers of May rumble across the forested slopes of Coorg, the earth begins to stir in quiet, miraculous ways. From beneath the soil, just beside termite mounds hidden under bamboo groves or coffee shade trees, a soft, pale dome pushes upward—the Nuchi Kumm, Coorg’s most beloved wild mushroom.

Locally known as Nuchi Kummu or Kattola Kumm, this mushroom is not merely foraged—it is waited for, with an anticipation that borders on devotion. Its arrival signals the true beginning of the monsoon, of renewal, of the forest coming back to life.

A Hidden Alliance Beneath the Soil

These mushrooms belong to the genus Termitomyces, a remarkable group of fungi that exist in symbiotic partnership with termites, specifically those of the Macrotermitinae subfamily. Deep inside their subterranean cities, the termites cultivate the fungal mycelium on carefully chewed organic matter—a hidden farm, tended with tireless precision.

In return, the fungi help decompose the plant matter and provide nutrition back to the termite colony. This relationship—an ancient alliance of soil, insect, and fungus—culminates in the emergence of the Nuchi Kumm fruiting body above ground when the humidity and temperature align just so. Often, it appears just a day or two after the first pre-monsoon rains crack the dry earth.

It is a fleeting phenomenon. Here today, gone tomorrow.

More Than a Mushroom: A Seasonal Ritual

In Coorg, the appearance of Nuchi Kummu is a signal that travels by word of mouth faster than any weather report. "They’ve sprouted near the old termite hill,” someone might say, and soon, baskets are fetched and a small pilgrimage begins.

Harvesting these mushrooms is a race against time and termites. If left too long, the insects reclaim them. If picked too early, the flavor hasn’t peaked. And so the gatherer must know—must feel—when the moment is right.

This is knowledge passed down by grandmothers and foragers, not by books. It requires an intimacy with the forest floor, an attunement to weather, to patterns, to instinct. It is a kind of listening.

The Taste of Rain and Earth

Unlike cultivated mushrooms, Nuchi Kumm are wild in both origin and flavor. They carry the taste of the loam they rise from, the tang of the rain, and a nuttiness that deepens when slow-cooked. The flesh is tender yet robust, capable of withstanding a rich curry without losing its identity.

In Coorgi kitchens, the mushrooms become Kummu Curry—a humble yet storied dish of local spices, coconut, and forest aroma. No fancy plating. Just a bowl of something deeply seasonal, deeply rooted.

And like all truly seasonal foods, it can’t be replicated. It must be eaten fresh. You can’t freeze the thunder.

A Vanishing Gift

As forests recede and termite habitats are disrupted by modern land use, the Nuchi Kumm is becoming harder to find. Its presence—once taken for granted—is now more precious than ever. Some years, the mushrooms barely appear. Others, they arrive in abundance, like a blessing.

To protect the Nuchi Kumm is to protect the whole invisible web that sustains it: the termites, the undergrowth, the fallen leaves that feed them, the people who know how to forage without greed.

It is to protect a rhythm older than language—a covenant between rain and soil, insect and fungus, human and season.

Listening for the Thunder

In a world where food is often stripped of origin and season, the Nuchi Kumm reminds us that there is another way. That to eat can be to remember, to participate, to give thanks.

When the thunder rolls over Coorg’s hills and the first mushrooms rise, it is not just a culinary event. It is a whisper from the earth: I am still here. I still remember how.

And if we’re lucky, if we still know how to listen, we’ll remember too.