On any given day in Pune, Amit Godse fields up to 20 calls—not from colleagues in a boardroom, but from strangers desperate to save a swarm: from a hive on a high-rise balcony, to a queen clinging to a café awning. At 40, Godse has become an unlikely guardian of India’s most overlooked pollinators—a former software engineer who traded code for colonies, and office cubicles for buzzing balconies.
It didn’t start as a mission. It started with smoke, a burning hive, and a moment that refused to let go. It was late 2012 when Godse first witnessed a beehive being torched in his apartment complex in Pune. “It shook me,” says the founder of Bee Basket, an initiative devoted to rescuing and relocating wild bees across India. “I kept thinking—why were they killed? Was there really no alternative? Why do we want the honey but not the bees?”
The burning hive led him to Google, and Google led him to a little-known fact: Pune houses the Central Bee Research and Training Institute (CBRTI). The irony wasn’t lost on him. “Even in a city with India’s central bee institute, people still kill bees,” he says. “If they weren’t safe here, what hope was there for the rest of the country?” In December 2012, he signed up for a five-day awareness course at CBRTI. The programme focused on domesticated Apis cerana indica, bees bred for honey. But Godse found himself drawn to wild honeybees—the ones people feared, misunderstood, and destroyed. By 2014, he had enrolled in a more intensive month-long course. “The bees people consider pests are vital to our ecosystems. And no one was protecting them,” he rues.
By 2016, he had officially founded Bee Basket, an organisation dedicated to rescuing and protecting all five species of honeybees across Pune. His goal: to change public perception and safeguard these vital pollinators. Among the earliest collaborators were Priya Phulambrikar, a writer who translated the movement’s ethos into outreach material, and Tushar Sarode, a filmmaker who documented the early rescues. The organisation has since grown to a five-member team.
Relocating wild bees is not for the faint-hearted. It’s part science, part instinct, and often misunderstood. Apis dorsata, or rock bees, for instance, build massive, open-air hives that can weigh up to 15 kg. These colonies require direct sunlight and cannot survive in typical bee boxes. “You can’t just contain them. They need the wild,” says Godse. The relocation process involves precision. The hive is carefully cut, a natural sticky jelly applied to the vacated spot to prevent return, and the entire colony is transported—sometimes as far as 10 km away. “The jelly isn’t toxic,” he assures. “It just makes the area inhospitable.”
Other species, like Apis cerana indica, are more cooperative. “If we find the queen, we gently clip her into a holder and place her inside a cardboard box at night,” he explains. “The rest of the colony follows. No bee leaves the next generation behind.” Bee Basket charges a nominal `1,500 for a standard relocation. “We harvest the honey,” Godse notes. “We gift some of it to people who call us, as a token of gratitude—a reward for choosing to save the bees.”
Bee Basket’s work also involves breeding new queens and sustaining colonies. For every seven boxes, the group creates a new queen and colony to maintain the ecosystem’s delicate balance. When Godse first began, he assumed bees thrived in forests and farmlands. But he soon discovered the opposite—cities now host more bees than rural or wild areas.
The reasons are striking.
Urban spaces rarely use pesticides. In contrast, farms are saturated with chemicals that harm pollinators. Monoculture farming further limits bees’ food supply, offering only brief flowering periods and little diversity. Cities, by comparison, have a year-round variety—balconies, parks, and roadside trees bloom in cycles, keeping bees fed.
“High-rise buildings also mimic natural nesting sites. Wild bees, like rock bees, prefer height—traditionally cliffs or tall trees. Today, they build hives on the 10th or even 15th floor, safe from disturbance,” he adds. Tree choice matters too. Bees favour native species—neem, tamarind, mango—not exotics like eucalyptus or acacia. While the latter may flower, they don’t support nesting. And then there’s water. Cities offer more consistent sources: dripping taps, bird baths, moist soil. Fields often go dry after harvest, forcing bees to travel far for hydration.
“Initially, my parents were hesitant about my work, worried about societal judgment—but over time, seeing my commitment, they became supportive. The public response has been mixed; some offer kindness and encouragement, others react harshly. In the end, what matters most is that I’m doing what I believe in—and that it brings me peace,” he smiles.
In the 122nd edition of his monthly radio address Mann Ki Baat, Prime Minister Narendra Modi acknowledged India’s growing momentum in beekeeping and honey production, lauding Godse and his team at Bee Basket. For Godse, the recognition is welcome—but the real reward is quieter. It hums beneath balconies, dances across petals, and builds, cell by cell, a world worth saving.