Every few weeks, Mina Sodari makes a short journey from Lamki Bazar to Kuntikhet, Kailali. The three-kilometer trip brings her to Srijanshil Duna Tapari Industry, a modest cottage enterprise that has become an essential part of her family’s religious life. As a member of a Hindu household, Dodari frequently observes festivals, rituals, and pujas—occasions where duna and tapari (traditional leaf plates) are indispensable. 

“I come whenever we have a ceremony at home,” she says, sorting stacks of freshly made taparis. “They are natural, clean, and perfect for our rituals.” 

Behind the simple structure of the workshop, away from the bustle of Lamki Bazar, a quiet transformation has been unfolding—one that intertwines tradition, livelihood, and conservation. 

The man behind this is 62-year-old Birbahadur Bohara, a retired government schoolteacher who stumbled into the leaf-plate business after a series of failed ventures. He and his wife Dhankumari Kunwar own the enterprise.  

“After retirement, I tried vegetable farming and poultry, but each attempt went into loss,” Bohara recalls. “People joked that I was cursed in business. Some even said I was mad to start making duna and tapari, because no one would buy them.” Duna and tapari making is a traditional leaf plate making work which is done in the family and is not generally used for commercial purposes.  

But the skepticism around him never outweighed his conviction. Four years ago, he started Srijanshil Duna Tapari Industry, beginning with a single machine supported by Lamki Chuha Municipality. Initially, production was small and demand uncertain. Still, he persisted, believing that Nepal’s cultural traditions—and rising environmental concerns—would eventually bring customers back to leaf plates instead of plastic or thermocol. 

His instincts turned out to be right. Two years ago, the enterprise received a significant boost. WWF Nepal and the GEF-supported Integrated Landscape Management to Secure Nepal’s Protected Areas and Critical Corridors (ILaM) project, under the Ministry of Forests and Environment, provided a second machine. With two machines, production doubled almost overnight. 

Today, a small duna sells for Rs 1, while a larger tapari fetches Rs 5. The business may seem modest, but in a rural economy, the numbers tell a larger story. Last year, Bohara earned a profit of around Rs 90,000. This year, he has already crossed Rs 200,000. “This is a respectable and profitable business,” he says with an unmistakable sense of pride. “And it’s growing. I want to add one more machine.” 

The heart of the operation, however, is not the machines—it is the eight women who collect the raw materials and prepare the leaves. Every day, they head to Janakalya Community Forest, where the group is allowed to gather leaves free of charge. Back in the village, they sort, dry, and ready the leaves for pressing. 

For every tapari they help produce, Bohara pays them Rs 2. For every five duna, they earn the same. “It’s not just income,” says one of the women. “It’s a way to support our families without having to migrate or depend on irregular farm work.” 

The work may be rooted in tradition, but it also carries an environmental message. Leaf plates, made from sal leaves, decompose naturally and reduce reliance on plastic products that have become a growing pollution problem in rural and urban Nepal. 

As the business thrives, Bohara is no longer just a producer—he has become a trainer. Villagers from nearby settlements often visit the workshop to learn how to operate the machines and understand the process. Some hope to start similar ventures, inspired by Bohara’s journey. “I don’t want this skill to stay only with me,” he says. “If more people learn, more families will earn. And the environment benefits as well.” 

What began as a small, almost ridiculed experiment has grown into a symbol of sustainable rural entrepreneurship.  

In Kailali’s quiet corners, where tradition meets environmental stewardship, Srijanshil Duna Tapari Industry stands as proof that old practices can power new livelihoods. For Sodari and countless families like hers, the simple leaf plates carry cultural significance. But for people like Bohara and the women he employs, each duna and tapari represents something more—dignity, income, and the promise of a greener future.