Moong Over Microchips

by Venkat Iyer

  At least that’s what I thought, till I met the local official who had to sign the papers before the land was transferred to my name. He was a burly man with bloodshot eyes who calmly told me that he would sign the papers only if I complied with his demands. I told him I had no intention of doing so, and had managed to get all the permissions without resorting to any underhand means.

  He was persistent and asked me to return after a week. Since he knew my wife was a journalist, he told me he was giving me a huge markdown for the final signature. I told him that I would return the next day when his head was clear and we could discuss this further.

  The next day I reached his office early. As soon as he saw me, his eyes lit up and he started shouting, ‘Ala re! Ala re! (He has come! He has come!).’ I tried my best for fifteen days to get the document signed by him. It was a wasted effort. Finally, I gave up and agreed. He honoured his part of the deal and I got the papers in ten minutes flat.

  I felt extremely ashamed that I had succumbed to his demands to get the work done. My guilt grew even more when a year later I heard that he had been admitted to a hospital for a liver ailment. Somehow, I felt I was also responsible for what had happened to him.

  It dawned on me that in the city we lived such cocooned lives that it was impossible to dream that just a few kilometres away the situation would be so different. Nothing moved here without bribes and there was no recourse available either. In the thirty years that I spent in the city, I had never encountered such red tape and bureaucracy that I had seen in the past four months. I realized that I would have to live with it and this would be a part of my life from now on.

  My New Address

  House number 752, Peth village, Dahanu taluk, Palghar district, Maharashtra—that was my new postal address. It is right at the end of Dahanu taluk, bordering Palghar taluk. There are eighty houses, mostly occupied by the Kunbis, with only a few Warli families. It is believed that the Kunbis were actually caretakers of the nearby Asherigad Fort built by the Maratha king Shivaji. In return for their services, he gifted them a lot of land in the surrounding area. That also probably accounted for the small number of Adivasis, the original inhabitants of the area, in our village. Since our village is too small, it does not have its own gram panchayat but is part of the group panchayat of Tawa.

  The village lies between the perennial River Surya and one of its small tributaries. The two meet at the western end of the village and the sangam, as it’s called, is particularly charming during the monsoon when the water gushes down in a series of small but spectacular waterfalls. On a clear day, you can see the pinnacle of the Mahalaxmi mountain beyond the river, which has one temple at its base and another one on top. The temple on top is inside a natural cavern and one has to crawl on all fours to reach the sanctum sanctorum.

  On the southern side of the village you can see the fort of Asherigad at a distance. Several years ago, we had trekked to the fort which has a beautiful plateau on top, some ruins of the fort walls and cannons. I had never imagined that one day I would be staying close to it and could look at it whenever I chose to. Tigers are believed to have roamed the area once, though now the wildlife is reduced to wild boars.

  My farm is right at the northern tip of the village next to the River Surya. The road to the farm passes through the village past all the houses and lush paddy fields. As you cross the last house, that of Lahu Kaka, our nearest neighbour, the road takes a sharp turn to the left and passes through a thick private forest. About 200 metres from this turn you suddenly come to a clearing with an iron gate. That’s the entrance. The approach road was a muddy track and during the monsoons it was not motorable. I kept putting some gravel each year and now the road is motorable even during the rainy season.

  Midway between the gate and the house is an imposing jamun tree. In May it yields a slightly sour fruit which makes for excellent liquor brewed by the local women. From the entrance you can see the field neatly divided into four sections with the house at the centre. The four sections have chikoo trees planted by the earlier owner. Coconut, young teak, bamboo and some eucalyptus trees form a fence of sorts around the farm. Beyond these trees is a barbed wire fence to keep the cattle out. The fence was not exactly in good condition and there were places where the barbed wire had broken and access to the farm was possible. I had to repair and strengthen it later.

  After buying the land, in the monsoon, I planted different fruit trees along the gravel path towards the house. All the trees started yielding fruit within five years, apart from the amla (gooseberry), which started eight years later. I planted four different varieties of mango, gooseberry, jamun (sweeter ones), love apples, lychee and coconut trees. As you come close to the house the first thing that you see are the bright pink bougainvillea creepers over the front porch. The house is a small structure with two huge mango trees on either side casting a soothing shadow. The structure is made of brick and cement with a sloping asbestos roof which is covered with small bundles of straw to keep the heat down. It was much later in 2015 that we replaced the asbestos sheets with a Reinforced Cement Concrete (RCC) roof.

  The front porch has two platforms on either side on which one person can easily sit or lie down. There is a small swing at one end of the porch for lounging on. At night the shadows on the jamun tree give it an eerie human look, as if a huge guard is watching over us. On one side of the house is a vegetable patch with small mounds for root crops like carrot and beetroot, and radish during winter. Next to it are rows of vegetables of the season like brinjal and ladyfinger. The vegetable patch is lined with lemon trees. At the end of the vegetable plot is the fruit plot with lots of banana and papaya plants. Over the years I have collected around five varieties of banana plants. We have the one that is used for cooking, the elaichi ones (small yellow), a red variety from Coimbatore and of course the usual green ones that turned yellow when ripe. Next to it is the creeper section with a bamboo structure which allows the plants to climb up. Depending on the season this section would have runner beans, string beans, bitter gourd or ridge gourd.

  The back of the house has a porch similar to the one in the front. It is a nice place to sit in the evenings and shoot the breeze. A small gate leads down to the banks of the river and sitting on the rocks by the river or swimming is another happy way to spend an evening. We later built a small chapra near the river to spend the evening.

  The house itself was a small, modest two-room structure. We got it reinforced and built a small toilet inside. On entering the house the first room, or the living room in city parlance, has a simple divan, a writing table, a couple of chairs and a wooden cot. The bedroom is sparse with a cot in the middle and a couple of metal cupboards for our belongings. A decently equipped kitchen with a few vessels and a gas stove makes it comfortable. We added another bedroom to the existing house and renovated the kitchen into a modular one in 2015.

  The nearest railway station is Boisar and there are buses every one or two hours to the village, which is considered regular. The bus stop is right on the outskirts of the village and it is a good fifteen-minute walk from the farm. Years ago the bus used to actually pass through the village till the private jeep and auto drivers managed to stop it. Even to go towards Dahanu one has to take a jeep or auto. Though officially they are permitted to carry only three passengers I have never seen any of them leave the place with less than six. The roads towards Boisar or Dahanu were in a condition that cannot be described. The potholes were big enough to accommodate any small car and it was like taking a boat ride. Many attempts were made to repair the roads but each time it lasted only for a few months. After every monsoon the potholes appeared again. It seemed that the officials took so much money as bribes that the contractors had no option but to cheat on the materials used for construction.

  The Surya canal project brought irrigation to our village around twenty years ago and now people grow two crops every year. Being on the outskirts of the village, our land does not have access to canal water. T
he monsoon crop is of course paddy and during winter, paddy again or groundnut. All the villagers use urea and chemical sprays. The older generation remembers when rice was grown without any chemicals and pests were not such a problem. They have been growing crops twice a year for many years now and the land has had no time to recover from this continuous activity. Each year a section of the village screams for a break from the canal water but it happened only in 2010 when they did take a break.

  It was a sheer coincidence that the land was exactly how we had imagined it would be. We did have a beautiful view on all four sides of the farm except for some ugly high-tension wires on the east side. If you wake up early you can hear a variety of bird calls and see a couple of crow pheasants who live on the outer edge of the farm. There are a large number of butterflies too and I have photographed some really exotic ones, including a bright, fern-like slug caterpillar. During the stay at the farm over the years we have spotted the Atlas moth and the luna moth. Winter mornings are a delight as the ground is swept by a faint mist and the leaves and grass glisten with dew. Fireflies can be seen before the monsoon and sometimes they even come into the house.

  One of my favourite past-times, when I get the time, is to go down and sit by the river. The evenings especially are a treat with the setting sun covering the water with a gentle orange glow. The opposite bank is higher and it slopes down to the water. There are some hills behind. Often I would see cattle going back home, women washing clothes or schoolchildren frolicking in the water. It is an idyllic setting and makes me wonder if it’s real. I always did love the outdoors as we call it. In the unlikely environment of a suburban railway colony, as a child, I had managed to grow a lot of plants and trees and often our games would involve a lot of tree climbing, something unthinkable in this age of computer games and 24/7 television.

  5

  Early Lesson in Farming

  The First Crop

  It was April 2004. I stood in the middle of the lush green field of moong (green gram) and looked around me. It was just before sunrise and the sky was turning a bright orange. The ground was damp and the leaves were shining with dew. My bare feet were muddy as I walked around gingerly, inspecting the plants.

  Around me were rows of chikoo trees and below a dense foliage of moong. At that point, I could not have asked for anything more. The moong plants, not more than two feet tall, had green pods hanging out. The pods were not yet ripe and there was a light fuzz growing on them. There was still some time before the harvest. I felt exhilarated.

  I stood watching the sun rise above the towering trees across the fence and slowly made my way back to the house, a white structure in the middle of this greenery. I could not believe that I was the owner of this land and that I was looking at my first crop as a farmer.

  After I had paid the advance money for the land, I thought I would have some time to get familiar with farming. But Moru Dada, the broker who got us the land, had other ideas. He was keen that we plant moong at once. I was not prepared for this. I was still reading books and trying to figure out what we could sow and how we should go about it. Moru Dada was quite firm. He said the season was right for sowing moong and the best seeds were available in Surat in the adjacent state of Gujarat.

  I was plunging headlong into something I was little prepared for. After all I had not even got the land transferred to my name and it had been only two months since I quit my corporate job. I realized that since I was keen on becoming a farmer, this was not a moment too soon. I made a quick trip to Surat and bought around 10 kilograms of moong. Moru Dada arranged to have our neighbour in the village, Baban Desai, help us on the land. He did not stay at the farm but came every day to help. Moru Dada rented his tractor to plough the land and quickly planted moong all over the place. The idea was that even if we did not get any harvest, we would still have some green cover which we could use to mulch the soil. I had started reading some books on organic farming and was picking up some stuff from the Internet too.

  A few days later, we were overjoyed to see tiny green leaves. I had never seen moong growing before and was thrilled at the sight. It was the same thrill I had felt as a young boy when I saw the first of the hibiscus I had planted bloom at the Railway Quarters in Vile Parle in Mumbai. I was grateful to have taken Moru’s advice.

  The next thing Moru Dada wanted to do was spray some pesticide on the plants. He claimed that it would give a higher yield. This was something we did not want to do. We were clear that we would not use any chemicals and tried to explain it to him. He reacted as if we had suggested hara-kiri. It took a lot of convincing to ensure that Moru Dada and his friends did not use any chemicals on the farm. They refused to understand how crops could grow without sprays.

  We tried our best to explain to them that nature would do her job even without us interfering with poisonous chemicals. There were moments when we felt that maybe they were right, especially since we did not have any experience and were relying on what we had read in books or what Meena had researched for a book on organic cotton.

  Contrary to what everyone had told us, nature did her job and she needed no bribes to get the work done. Soon it was harvest time and we managed a respectable 300 kilograms. An awful lot of moong and with it a lot of confidence. Now I was certain the land was fertile and that it was possible to grow crops without chemicals. It was a major morale booster.

  I was terribly excited as this was the first crop from the land, even before actually paying for it. It had been only five months since I quit my corporate job at IBM and I had a decent first crop. I felt the transition was promising—from microchips to moong. We distributed a large portion of the moong to friends, relatives, neighbours and anyone who remotely expressed an interest. Even after the extensive distribution, we were left with almost 200 kilograms and there was no option but to sell it off in the market.

  Selling Moong

  We had an early lesson in farming after the first moong harvest. I went to the local grocer in Goregaon, Mumbai, and asked if he would like to buy the moong from us. He examined the moong in detail, took some samples for his home and then a couple of days later offered to pay us Rs 12 per kilo. We could not believe our ears for he was selling the same thing at Rs 30 per kilo. Why this massive difference? He gave us some vague explanation of how he had to keep the inventory for some time and it did not work out otherwise. Besides he got his moong from the distributor at the same rate. We were in for another harsh lesson in farming. The price we paid at the local grocer never indicated what the farmer got for growing the crop.

  We tried to reason with him that this was completely organic and we did not use any pesticides or chemicals. He looked blankly at us and said, ‘So what? Does this make your moong any different?’ We gave up and decided that maybe we needed to go to the right market if we expected to get some appreciation for our organic produce. We contacted a vendor who specialized in organic food and offered our crop to them. They were very gracious and offered to pay Rs 17 per kilo since it was organic but we would have to deliver it to their godown.

  With nothing else on hand and no idea what we could do with the load of moong we had, we decided to go ahead. We were also worried the moong would spoil, so we reluctantly agreed and went and delivered the lot. It was only after a month later and numerous calls to the person concerned that we managed to get paid for it. When the money arrived it was calculated at Rs 16 per kilo. I immediately called back and was informed that our moong had to be cleaned further and hence they had cut a rupee from the original agreed price. We quietly pocketed the money, thanking our stars that we had at least got more than the local grocer. We were in for a shock the next month when we got the rate list from the same organization, which listed our organic moong at Rs 38 per kilo.

  So that was the bitter truth. All the sowing, watering, weeding, harvesting and cleaning are done at the farm. The cost of labour, seeds, water and electricity is borne by the farmer. But the bulk of the profits go to the trader who just packs th
e material and charges a bomb from unsuspecting city dwellers. We decided that this was the first and last of our produce that would go through the trader. The next time onwards we would do the selling ourselves even if it killed us.

  Once the moong had been harvested, it was time for the monsoon season. By this time we had completed the paperwork and officially owned the land. The village sowed rice using the traditional method of growing tiny saplings on a mother bed and then transplanting them. We did not have so many people to work on the farm nor the resources. I had read a lot about farming, including the famous ‘do nothing’ method of agriculture by Masanobu Fukuoka. I was convinced that the current practice of sowing rice was labour-intensive and relied too much on external inputs. I was sure that if I wanted to make the farm sustainable and live within my means I would have to work out methods of agriculture that used very less or no external inputs.

  It was an uphill task convincing the villagers and Baban that we wanted to do things differently and try out new ideas. Besides we kept repeating that we would not use any chemicals on the farm. This was received with much amusement and I would find strangers stopping me on the way and asking me if it was true.

  I was just six months into farming and had no idea when to sow rice. Besides I was also having a problem getting labour and bulls from the village. As a result, I seemed to have missed the opportune time. I had to rush to the nearest agricultural institute in Kosbad and ask for advice. Unfortunately, the institute also promoted chemical farming and they clearly told me that they would not guarantee good yields using organic practices and it was my responsibility if it failed. They advised me to plant a particular variety of rice that would mature in ninety days, which was faster than the normal varieties. By using this variety, I would manage to overcome the delay.