<p>My usually quiet household has been gripped by an ‘economics’ frenzy. Price indices and inflation rates have abandoned the confines of textbooks, landing with a thud on our dining table discussions. With pulses quickening our pulse and tomatoes painting our budgets in the red, I decide to cushion us with a bit of experimentation in the kitchen garden. <br /><br /></p>.<p>While I may not be able to control the perpetually spiralling prices and get everyone to dissociate masoor dal seeds from red rubies anytime soon, I can, at least, manage to lug back some essentials like tomatoes from this tiny patch of soil. Armed with what looks like a doable task, I enter this space, hoping to unravel the genius of green fingers.<br /><br />The sequence opens with a soil bed preparation. Half an hour and a few clumsy strikes later, I see my strength flow away with gallons of sweat. The soil is hard and clumpy, giving little support to my naïve muscles. Luckily for them, our milkman arrives and offers a hand, visibly amused at my attempt to combine a sunscreen accustomed skin with a sun that merciless and an earth so stubborn.<br /><br />By mid-afternoon, the piece of resolute earth gives way, turning inside out to germinate my red tomato-ey dreams. Not so soon, the milkman warns. Delicious organic food is all about some hard work. And a sack full of earthworms!<br /><br />No matter how creepy these curling beauties appear to some, the feat they manage once inside the earth is undeniable. Twisting and turning, they aerate the soil, making it fecund. <br /><br />This botany trivia seems simple as long as I picture the milkman opening the sack, sprinkling generous doses of these magic worms. That is before he decides to clean up and walk off, again amused at my ignorance of a milkman’s job profile. In the end, it is these curls of fear and me, nourishing our garden with a watery smile.<br /><br />As I drift off into dreams of ripe tomatoes after much grumbling from stiff arms and knees, I forget to remind myself of the classic botanical principle – plants shalt wither without water, especially if these are pitiable new seedlings whose caretaker sleeps well past mid-day, condemning them to death under the scorching sun. <br /><br />I run around with buckets of water, trying to make up for my folly, but end up converting our garden into a slushy nightmare. Perhaps now I can grow rice, the milkman suggests! <br />Despite the debacle, I keep my hopes intact, shooing away any suspicious crow threatening to ruin them by pecking on the empty square garden. I am ecstatic when a few green buds sprout a month later. As the days advance, so do my hopes and the vigils. Unknown to the rational self, I surrender to prayers whenever the weatherman predicts heavy showers over the evening news. I realise that my heart feels an inexplicable connect with a farmer’s struggles.<br /><br />While slicing the ten odd tomatoes that finally fruit, I send a million thanks to the real green fingers toiling away in faraway fields.</p>
<p>My usually quiet household has been gripped by an ‘economics’ frenzy. Price indices and inflation rates have abandoned the confines of textbooks, landing with a thud on our dining table discussions. With pulses quickening our pulse and tomatoes painting our budgets in the red, I decide to cushion us with a bit of experimentation in the kitchen garden. <br /><br /></p>.<p>While I may not be able to control the perpetually spiralling prices and get everyone to dissociate masoor dal seeds from red rubies anytime soon, I can, at least, manage to lug back some essentials like tomatoes from this tiny patch of soil. Armed with what looks like a doable task, I enter this space, hoping to unravel the genius of green fingers.<br /><br />The sequence opens with a soil bed preparation. Half an hour and a few clumsy strikes later, I see my strength flow away with gallons of sweat. The soil is hard and clumpy, giving little support to my naïve muscles. Luckily for them, our milkman arrives and offers a hand, visibly amused at my attempt to combine a sunscreen accustomed skin with a sun that merciless and an earth so stubborn.<br /><br />By mid-afternoon, the piece of resolute earth gives way, turning inside out to germinate my red tomato-ey dreams. Not so soon, the milkman warns. Delicious organic food is all about some hard work. And a sack full of earthworms!<br /><br />No matter how creepy these curling beauties appear to some, the feat they manage once inside the earth is undeniable. Twisting and turning, they aerate the soil, making it fecund. <br /><br />This botany trivia seems simple as long as I picture the milkman opening the sack, sprinkling generous doses of these magic worms. That is before he decides to clean up and walk off, again amused at my ignorance of a milkman’s job profile. In the end, it is these curls of fear and me, nourishing our garden with a watery smile.<br /><br />As I drift off into dreams of ripe tomatoes after much grumbling from stiff arms and knees, I forget to remind myself of the classic botanical principle – plants shalt wither without water, especially if these are pitiable new seedlings whose caretaker sleeps well past mid-day, condemning them to death under the scorching sun. <br /><br />I run around with buckets of water, trying to make up for my folly, but end up converting our garden into a slushy nightmare. Perhaps now I can grow rice, the milkman suggests! <br />Despite the debacle, I keep my hopes intact, shooing away any suspicious crow threatening to ruin them by pecking on the empty square garden. I am ecstatic when a few green buds sprout a month later. As the days advance, so do my hopes and the vigils. Unknown to the rational self, I surrender to prayers whenever the weatherman predicts heavy showers over the evening news. I realise that my heart feels an inexplicable connect with a farmer’s struggles.<br /><br />While slicing the ten odd tomatoes that finally fruit, I send a million thanks to the real green fingers toiling away in faraway fields.</p>
