The land has seen three generations of my family walk its soil — my grandfather who first tilled it, my father who nurtured it, and now me, learning to listen to it anew. Over time, that same land has begun to change. Summers burn hotter than ever, while winters bite colder, fierce like the winds of the Himalayas. This shift has unsettled everything we once knew — crop cycles, harvesting patterns, even the rhythm of how we live and breathe as farmers. And this isn’t just our story; it’s the story of every farmer in our region, trying to make sense of changing skies.

Our citrus orchards suffered the harshest blow. Nearly seventy percent of the trees could not withstand the new climate or the soil’s diminishing ability to sustain them. Only 2,900 trees survived — the last of a generation planted by my father twenty years ago. These trees were more than just citrus plants; they were the living memory of his vision and labor. But as our yields dropped and the soil’s strength weakened, it became clear that we were overdue for change — a new chapter in this long family journey.

One evening, I was walking through the orchard with my father. The fading sunlight glowed against the leaves, painting them gold. I turned to him and said, “Nature is trying to tell us something. You planted these trees twenty years ago with your heart and your knowledge. That cycle is now coming to an end. Maybe it’s time I plant the next generation — with my own thoughts and my own hands. It’s time for me to continue the legacy.”

He was quiet for a long time, eyes fixed on the trees. Then he nodded slowly. “You’re right,” he said. “Our practices need to change — and it’s time you take it forward.” In that moment, something passed between us — not just words, but the unspoken understanding of a baton being handed down.

 The Season of Revival

My first harvest began with a return to basics. I focused on reviving the 2,900 surviving citrus trees, taking a two-step approach. First, we adjusted the cultivation and harvest cycles according to the changing weather, giving the soil the specific nutrition it lacked rather than the routine inputs we were used to. It was about relearning what the land needed and responding with sensitivity.

Second, we planted new tissue-culture citrus saplings — resilient young plants designed to bear fruit for the next twenty years. They represented continuity — a bridge between the wisdom of the old and the promise of the new.

But revival did not stop with citrus. We introduced Khapli HW-1098 wheat, a traditional, low glycemic index variety rich in fiber and protein — a humble, nutritious substitute for the high-yield hybrid varieties that dominate modern fields. We also brought back mustard, a crop deeply connected to our region’s heritage, not just for its economic value but for the natural balance it brings to the soil.

In managing these crops, we made a conscious shift toward organic and residue-free practices — seaweed extracts as soil medicine, neem oil for pest control, and compost that replenished NPK naturally. These changes were as much about healing the land as they were about producing a harvest.

Learning, Stabilizing, and Growing

To guide our journey, we turned to data-based monitoring — tracking weather, soil health, and pest patterns. Each piece of data became a new insight, showing us where the soil was improving, where the crops were thriving, and where we needed to adapt further.

The first season was a season of stabilization — one of learning and quiet rebuilding. The old trees supported the young ones, their roots intertwining beneath the soil, while the new saplings grew under their shade, learning resilience from their elders. It was as if the orchard itself had found its rhythm again — old and new coexisting, sharing strength.

That first harvest wasn’t the largest or the most profitable, but it was the most meaningful. It marked the moment when legacy met renewal. Standing in the orchard, surrounded by both the trees my father planted and those I have now begun to grow, I felt the continuity of something far greater than a single season.

 Farming, after all, is not just about what we sow or reap. It’s about listening—through every drought, every bloom—and carrying forward the quiet conversation between the land and those who love it.

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This is my story from Ekant Farms, where we believe farming is not just about growing crops, but about nurturing the soil, the seasons, and the generations that come after us. Here, every harvest is a step toward a more resilient, honest, and living relationship with the land.