by Venkat Iyer
For that’s what was going on in each house. The whole family used to spend the entire day shelling groundnuts. Even when you had visitors at your place they just sat with you and casually started shelling the nuts. We did have our fair share of visitors from the village but that was not enough.
Necessity, or in this case lethargy, is the mother of invention and by the end of the week both of us had decided that under no circumstance were we going to finish this task and we would plant the groundnuts as they are with the shell. Our argument was that if peanuts were intended to be without the shell nature would have done so. So that was it. We were breaking the norm and doing a crazy thing.
Word had spread that we were planting whole groundnuts and almost the entire village trooped in to tell us that we were doing something really stupid. Only a few old people in the village like Mohan and Baban’s father said that many years ago they used to do the same thing.
So with a few rumours to help us and an article we read in Honeybee which said that some other farmer had also tried it, we went ahead and sowed the whole nuts. We soaked the seeds in water the night before to soften the shell. The last seed was sown on 31 December and we returned to Mumbai to celebrate the New Year, praying that the crop would not be a disaster.
A week went by with no action on the field and on the eighth day we saw a few saplings peeping out of the soil. Soon the entire field was covered with young groundnuts. We were whooping with joy till the villagers told us that a few shoots did not mean a thing. So much for encouragement. We watered and cared for the rows of plants, weeding, cleaning and tending to them lovingly.
Four months went by and in April when we pulled a few plants out we saw tender groundnuts hanging from the roots. In May it was harvest time. On 9 May we started pulling each plant out and leaving them to dry in the sun for a day. Meena took a week off from work to help with the harvest since there weren’t too many people from the village. It all looked fine till we realized that the way to remove the nuts from the plant was to pick up a few of the uprooted plants and whack them on an iron rod tied between two posts till the nuts fell off. Sounds simple and easy till you realize that you have to do this from 7 a.m. to 6 p.m. and suddenly, we did not feel quite enthusiastic about our bountiful harvest.
It seemed a bit hard till we realized that it was an excellent way to vent our anger. So you pick up one bunch, think of someone you want to hit and start whacking them. A few bunches later you have a big smile on your face and the world is a much better place. By the end of the week (or should I say weak) we had finished only half the area we had planted and Meena had to extend her leave by one more week. We were completely exhausted, sunburnt and covered with heat boils. Now, we were really glad we had planted only two sacks and not three.
After a marathon two weeks of whacking, drying and cleaning, we had filled eighteen sacks of groundnuts. That was way ahead of the village standard of 10–12 sacks for the same amount of nuts sown. News of this bumper crop spread like wild fire and we soon had people swarming in, this time to check if it was true. Lahu Kaka and Sridhar Kaka, my neighbours, were extremely encouraging and promised to check out this method of planting on their field the following season. There were a few sceptics like Baburao and Kate who thought it was beginner’s luck but most agreed that it had worked.
Once this was done with, the next task was to lug all the sacks to the river and get the nuts washed to remove the mud sticking to them and dried again. At the end of the exercise we had harvested a whopping 707 kilograms of groundnuts waiting to be converted into oil. We had completed our first groundnut harvest and we were happy to see the end of it.
We got the oil extracted at the local oil unit. This oil was then double-filtered and packed into 15 kilo tins. We had thirteen such tins with us. We decided that there was no point in going to the retail merchant who would shortchange us anyway. We sent messages to our friends asking if they wished to buy the oil from us. The oil we had was 100 per cent pure, unrefined and unadulterated.
Since I was selling the groundnut oil I decided to pay a visit to the nearest oil manufacturer and find out how they did the refining process. This I thought would assist me in selling my oil which was only double-filtered. I was also keen on knowing how they managed to keep the price of oil so low. What I gathered from my visit was quite disturbing. The refining process was an automated system where they passed hydrogen gas through the oil. This removed the odour and also increased the shelf life of the oil. This benefited the manufacturer but had no intrinsic benefit to the end consumer. In fact, research has proved that the passing of hydrogen molecules during the refining process actually increased the chances of fat accumulating in the arteries which in turn led to other cardiac problems.
Though the person I met did not admit it in so many words he did indicate that some of the oil is adulterated with cheap and odourless oils like cottonseed oil. Another cheap oil used for adulteration was palm olein, which was diverted from the Public Distribution System into the grey market. This was how they managed to reduce the price and keep it low for consumers.
I was no scientist or doctor to comment on the accuracy of the information I had gathered. Anyway I did not need any additional information to sell the oil I had. Once people had tasted the oil and enjoyed its consistency they eventually ordered for more. Within a short period we managed to sell off all the oil we had produced. For the first time since we had bought the farm, we managed to recover the cost of production and also make a small profit.
First Anniversary
On 31 December 2004, a year after I left IBM to start this new venture, I did a stocktaking. That meant 365 days of not going to office, no PowerPoint presentations, no formal clothes and no shoes (except for a couple of weddings). The last one year was governed by running around for seeds, fretting over rain or the lack of it, numerous power cuts, dealing with corrupt officials, quacks and other scum of the universe.
It was an eventful year with many pleasant experiences (when we got the first crop of moong and struck water on the land), a few tense times (when the paperwork was stuck) and some traumatic moments (when we lost the entire crop of tur (pigeon pea). Overall, considering I was a novice at farming, the year was good though we did have start-up problems.
I couldn’t resist the tradition in IBM and found myself doing a self-evaluation as the year ended. Unfortunately, here there is no boss to rate you or to argue with over the ratings. It is the truest form of self-appraisal with no space for skew.
After a good harvest of moong, we had a failed crop of tur and urad and a low yield of rice. But the vegetable patch was flourishing and the best news was that when we came to stay at the farm, often we did not carry any vegetable from Mumbai. There was plenty of choice too—from brinjals, carrots, radish, methi (fenugreek) and ladyfinger to cowpea and even string beans.
The infrastructure at the house was in place and we had a good toilet and piped water. A simple but well-equipped kitchen ensured that no one went hungry when at the farm. Our home at the farm was all set.
I felt more at home in the village and actively contributed to all local activities like Janmashtami and Navaratri and even sponsored the first prize for a local cricket tournament. I also tried to take part in the village meetings whenever possible.
During the last one year I realized that there were few people in the village who wished to stay back. Most of them wished to migrate to a big city or town and make some money. It did not matter what they did but they wished to move away from agriculture. Here I was trying to find my foothold in the village and eke out a living from agriculture while the others wanted to run away from it all. All the things that fascinated me like the river, the trees, the crops and the weather seemed unimportant to the villagers. A few of them felt I was on a sort of sabbatical, just having some fun and games at the village. They expected me to rush back to the city in a year or two when I ran out of money.
At the end of one year, though we did earn a li
ttle money, the fact that we could eat our own rice and vegetables was in itself extremely satisfying. Besides, the fact that we were now more welcome in the village and were being treated as one of them was a major triumph.
In this romantic and wonderful setting there was one thing in our original plan that did not happen. The job offer that Meena got on the day I resigned materialized and in April 2004, Meena joined The Hindu in Mumbai as a regular employee.
I had to contend living in the village alone though I did return to the city every weekend. We still did not have a telephone connection and the mobile connection was erratic. I also found it more and more difficult to keep transiting between the village and the city. Each time I went back to the city I would get a cold and cough which miraculously disappeared when I was back at the village.
It was clear that my system was not able to take these sudden bursts of pollution every week. Meena would try and come to the farm and spend more time but with her work and odd hours, it was not an easy task. While I was grappling with my peculiar situation, she too was not having a great time. She was alone in the city and finding it difficult. It was obvious that she could not go out with friends every day. We had to work to get to a solution to this problem at the earliest. Meena was doing well at work and she felt it would be too early for her to take the plunge and move to the farm. Besides, there was a monthly salary cheque which was welcome. It meant less pressure on us and more time to experiment and aim at living off the farm. Our initial three-year period had changed now. We decided that we would continue with the current arrangement till the moment was ripe for her to quit too.
I made it a point not to use any of Meena’s income for the farm activities. Her income was used only for expenses incurred in Mumbai. The house in Mumbai was running on her income. If I used any of her income for expenses at the farm, it would defeat the purpose of the farm and the transition I was trying to make. I had a separate account for the farm and used the money from there for all farm-related activities. If I ran out of money I just postponed or managed with some work around till money was generated. The main source of income at the farm was the groundnut oil. The income we got from it just about covered the expenses of the farm. It meant that we were not generating loads of cash from the farm. Yet I was sure that we could live off the farm with the savings we had to assist us in case of any major expenses.
7
The Search for Rice
The Scent of Rice
The first year I was late for the rice-sowing season and had to resort to growing the GR4 variety that was short term and recommended by the agricultural officers at Kosbad. The next year we decided that we would start early and try to find some good traditional variety of rice to grow. We had read about traditional varieties of rice and knew that they did not require very high inputs of fertilizers. These varieties were also quite strong and resisted pests. We were sure that it was this type of rice that would grow well in our farm where we did not use any chemicals at all. Our previous year’s experience and low yield had taught us a lesson and we were sure we would not plant hybrids this year.
In April 2005, we started to look for a good variety of traditional rice. It was one of our neighbours in the village, a businessman from Mumbai who owned land, who suggested that we plant a local scented variety of rice. Most of the farmers in and around the village of Peth had switched over to hybrids. The younger generation of farmers thought I was crazy to ask for the ‘desi’ variety, as they called it. My regular visits to the villages around searching for a good traditional variety also did not yield any results and we were almost giving up hope.
I decided to give it one last try and spoke to Baban’s father and some other elders, that is, when I could make any sense of what they were saying. Most of them are too old to work and are drunk all day. In fact, they get pension from the government which, according to them, is meant solely for their alcohol consumption. A wonderful use for the pension scheme! Anyway, after many meaningful conversations, they mentioned the name of Kasbai.
Kasbai is a traditional long-grained rice variety which has a distinct aroma, though much milder than basmati. It’s a long-duration crop and most of the older people remembered growing it years ago. But they all shook their heads when I asked them about the seeds and told me that it had ‘disappeared’.
The tales of Kasbai made us more determined to get it. We decided that if we did manage to get some seeds this would be a great rice to grow. I thought the government may know something about it. A visit to the agricultural officer was enlightening. He had not even heard of this rice variety. He said the villagers were taking me for a ride and there was no rice by this name. He rattled off the names of a number of latest hybrids and even offered to give me some of them free of cost for a trial. Cursing myself for wasting time with him I moved on to the next destination.
This time it was the Adivasi Mahamandal at Kasa which buys rice from the Adivasi villagers on behalf of the government. Kasbai did not figure in their files. A good indication why people did not grow it any more. The market itself did not recognize the rice, so if you grew it you would not be able to sell it. However, the officer incharge here had more knowledge of rice and did remember Kasbai being sold to him a few years ago.
A few cups of tea and some gentle prodding revealed that the rice was grown four or five years ago in a nearby village called Dhanivari. Baban and I decided to go there. We were in for a shock as it turned out to be a sprawling village with hamlets scattered all around. We had to go back to the Mahamandal and request the officer for a name or a lead in the village. Looking into his records we narrowed our search to a farmer called Devu Handa. He had been the largest seller of rice to the Mahamandal last year and the officer assured us that he was a nice man who could help us out.
Back in Dhanivari, Baban and I started looking for Devu Handa and found a greying old man wearing a cap, sitting outside his house on a charpoy. An ex-sarpanch of the village, he had acres of land, a huge house and a large family. After exchanging the usual pleasantries we came to the topic of Kasbai. The mere mention of Kasbai and Devu Handa drifted into the past. His eyes turned dreamy and with a tremble in his voice he told us how the entire village at one time grew only Kasbai. He said, ‘There was a time when people passing our village during lunchtime would be forced to stop and ask for a meal. Such was the alluring aroma of Kasbai.’ The entire area would have this heady aroma hanging in the air as all the houses cooked the same rice. Today, he said, no one grew Kasbai and everyone had shifted to growing the new hybrid varieties. He claimed he had to force himself to eat this rice that was so insipid!
We asked him the reason for this shift and without a moment’s hesitation he said it was all due to irrigation. He said that years ago there was no canal system in the village and they depended on the monsoon. With the advent of irrigation, farmers were tempted to grow a second crop and Kasbai, being a long-duration rice, was replaced by the shorter duration hybrids so that the harvest could be done earlier. This ensured that the farmers could take up a second crop.
I asked why he had shifted if he was so unhappy with the hybrids. No one forced him to, did they? He smiled and replied that their fields did not have fences and once the harvest was over the cattle were released into the fields. ‘If my field alone has Kasbai it will be a treat for the cattle,’ he explained.
‘Sometimes, we have to fall in line with the community,’ he lamented. Hybrids need more water, fertilizers and pesticides. He said that yields were good initially but of late, had reduced a lot. Besides he said that each year they had to increase the quantity of urea and pesticides they used. It was as if the newer hybrids had an insatiable appetite for chemicals. He told us that even when there were flash floods in the sixties, Kasbai had stood its ground. He fondly remembered how the rice was still standing when they all returned to the village after the floods had receded. ‘Such was the strength of the rice. But look what we have done,’ he rued.
As he went on
reminiscing about the rice, we gently guided him back to the reason for our visit, the Kasbai seeds. He was sure that there was not a single villager in his area who would have the seeds of Kasbai. According to him, the only people who still grew it were the Adivasis in a hamlet at the foothills of the mountains in the next village Asarvari. We bid farewell to Devu Handa who lovingly blessed us and said, ‘Mahalaxmi, the local goddess, will give you the seeds of Kasbai.’
In Asarvari village, we asked the sarpanch to help us as we were not very fluent with the local dialect. He sent his assistant Jeevan with us into the hills. After a half-hour walk through thick vegetation, crossing numerous streams and ditches and scrambling over rocks and gravel, we reached the sleepy hamlet of Boripada. There were just two ramshackle houses in front of us and we wondered if this was the right place. A wrinkled old woman sitting before one of the houses looked at us with curiosity. As we approached her we signalled to Jeevan to ask the crucial question. She muttered in reply and we looked at Jeevan for a quick interpretation. He broke into a smile and informed us that she did have the rice and wanted to know who we were and why we wanted it.
It was a difficult task to keep a straight face and I had to control a strong desire to hug her. After searching for months, we had found the elusive Kasbai. We explained to her that we were from Peth nearby and we needed the seeds to grow it. We asked for 10 kilograms of rice. She muttered and scowled. Jeevan interpreted that she had never heard of Peth village and also did not have a weighing scale. She was willing to give the seeds only in baskets. We asked for a single basket of rice and Jeevan told us to pay her something. I handed over a 100-rupee note and for the first time in the last ten minutes, her face broke into a smile. She nodded her head in approval.