WORDS BYSreedevi Lakshmikutty
Listen to this story. Narrated by Sreedevi Lakshmikutty.
Where did my kinship with farmers begin, if one can even pinpoint the specific moment on the map of time, of the beginning of something so intangible and seamless? At seed festivals and organic farmers’ meetings?
I cannot pinpoint the exact time or place, but it crept in like a friendship that became a love affair. What started as a broad concern about the food system and food growers has evolved into a deep interpersonal connection with farmers and an abiding interest in seed and food. The farmers, who were once strangers and experts, are now friends. They are intricately woven into the tapestry of my life, the threads of their troubles indistinguishable from mine. Being away from the farms for long dampens my spirit. After this past long summer away from these lands, even my husband suggested I take some time out to visit them.
Visiting farms, observing the crops, walking through the fields, sharing meals, and staying with farmers always nourishes me. It also challenges many of my firmly held views and beliefs.
When I stay at a farmer’s home and have to walk to the tiny toilet built a hundred feet away from the house, with my phone torch lighting the way in pitch darkness, with no running water, I often wonder about the purpose of having four well-lit bathrooms inside our house that serve two people.
Was it one too many, or was this one too few?
How much is enough is the question that surfaces in my mind quite often when I view urban lives juxtaposed with the lives on farms. The number of items required to manage an urban home is substantial. There is a significant effort to create private spaces within the house as if to compensate for the lack of space outside the home. In contrast, village homes are typically not large but are extended by large open verandas and courtyards.
Farming families live most of their lives on the land, fully exposed to the elements or gathered in shared outdoor spaces, where the home serves primarily as a refuge for sleep and shelter. In our urban lives, could we, too, find fulfilment with fewer private possessions and more shared spaces? Expansive communal areas are vital, yet we often overlook their importance, risking the erosion of our connection to each other and to the world around us.
Farming traditional paddy on his land in Pudukottai district while coordinating a network of over 1,000 organic farmers, Adhappan sir’s season of work never truly ends. His days are always full, yet early mornings remain sacred for a brief pause. Over the years, we’ve come to know each other well through shared work and respect, still choosing to address each other formally as “sir” and “madam.” Though we know little of each other’s personal lives, we’ve become companions in purpose—always within reach for help and support, producer and seller, yet also friends on a shared path.
We have long chats about rice varieties, yields, and milling or millet processing issues. The rains are a constant topic of discussion, the excess or the absence of it or its unpredictability, which impacts paddy cultivation. But that and the numerous other challenges related to unavailability of labour or unexpected crop failures due to unpredictable weather haven’t stopped him. The spirit and perseverance that have kept him going for over 30 years is inspiring.
This resilience is not unique to Adhappan; it’s woven into the lives of farmers, who engage daily with the demands of nature. They embody a remarkable blend of patience and perseverance—qualities that can be both humbling and perplexing. It leaves one wondering: is this patience what enables them to endure the many injustices inflicted by governments and markets? Is this why they are slow to rise in protest, instead absorbing each setback with a quiet resolve, only to start again? It’s a strength that feels almost unfathomable, yet it’s intrinsic to their way of life.
Forbearing or angry is not what comes to mind with Jayakumar: always smiling, with a ready laugh and quick banter. JK, as he’s known—a pioneer and long-standing organic farmer of khapli wheat (also known as emmer, an ancient precursor to modern bread wheat) for over thirty years—and I became friends over the years. It’s an unusual bond, one forged between a Marathi farmer from a village near Miraj in Maharashtra and an urban agriculture activist from Kerala, united by shared respect and a love for the land. JK’s wife, Nayan, wasn’t quite sure what to make of me at first—an older woman traveling alone, arriving at their farm early one morning. But over a shared breakfast of khapli wheat upma and lively talk about the virtues of khapli kheer, the initial formality faded away, replaced by laughter and plans for field visits.
I fell in love with Sundari, their majestic, beautiful buffalo tied right beside the courtyard, and the wonderful meals that Nayan seemed to prepare effortlessly. We talked to make sense of the different lives that our families led. Nayan took it upon herself to teach me how to roll out jowar (sorghum) rotis, patiently guiding me until I mastered it—though I eventually lost the skill again through disuse.
That visit served as a reminder that farming, especially organic farming, thrives on kinship and solidarity within the farmer’s family. In rural communities across India, farming is often a collective effort, with each family member contributing in their own way—whether it’s tending to crops, managing finances, or preserving traditional knowledge. Despite challenges, farmers whose families stand behind them are far more likely to succeed. Without that support, it becomes difficult to continue long-term, as farming, particularly organic, requires resilience that often comes from these close-knit familial bonds.
Whether in the West or the East, farmers are unfailingly generous—hosting you, feeding you, and sharing their time. One of my most enduring farm visit memories is waking up early on an organic paddy farm in Bankura in West Bengal, in a tiny farmhouse, and walking into the sunlit kitchen to be served fragrant Gobindabhog poha, prepared with freshly harvested vegetables, and piping hot tea. Around me were the fields of Gobindabhog rice, the small-grained, fragrant rice of Bengal with a buttery texture when cooked. It derives its name from Govindaji, the deity of the Seths in Kolkata. It is the most favoured rice for making Payesh to offer the deity and is very popular.
That unforgettable breakfast in the small farmhouse—and countless shared meals with farming families—woven with conversations and exchanges are all part of a kinship that transcends mere transactions. It’s a bond of friendship, fraternity, gratitude, support, and solidarity that forms the foundation of our relationship.
However, is this kinship missing in the larger picture? In the larger scheme of things, kinship with the grower, understanding and recognition of the long value chain from the soil to seed to the food that comes into our homes has become a distant memory. Food has become an entitlement because we have the money to buy it. If we could remove entitlement from the act of buying food and recognize that, if the tables were turned, we wouldn’t be able to do what our farmers do—feed us—gratitude would become an integral part of the experience.
We must remember that every morsel of food in our homes results from people toiling on the land. The othering of farmers, farming, and growing may harm us as much as those othered. On the one hand, food has become merely a commodity that we buy and eat without care, conscience, or consciousness; on the other, it has turned into a fetish, looking for the exotic and exquisite. Neither of these paths embraces the deep connection to the land or the farmer.
Will we pay more and buy mindfully? What if we see food as a gift from those who can coax it from the soil and seed? If we approached buying food as an act of reciprocity—recognizing that the food nourishing us should also provide fair sustenance to the grower, support their family, and protect their health from harmful chemicals—then these principles would become the cornerstones of how we source our food. We would then seek food grown without chemicals—local, seasonal, and using heritage seeds—food that nourishes us, the farmers, and the ecosystems. This awareness should also remind us that fair compensation for sustainable agriculture fosters a virtuous cycle. Such support is essential for the long-term viability of regenerative farming.
One of the best things we can do to nourish regenerative farms is to cook at home as often as possible. To sustain mindful food sourcing, we must prepare our meals at home. When we outsource cooking, we negate the value, provenance and quality of the ingredients. Mindful farming thrives on the reciprocal value of quality ingredients. It also calls for the return gift of home-cooked meals and shared family gatherings.
Sundaraman Ayya, Illias, Ravi, Lenish, Rajesh, Bhairab, Nandini, Rinas, Harish, Bibi Jaan, Anand, Velusamy, Kandavel, Mahesh, Jayakrishnan and many more have touched my life profoundly. These farmers, their farms, and their way of life have taught me a great deal and inspired even more reflection. Each of these natural, regenerative farmers and their relationships is a daily reminder of the extraordinary commitment, conviction, and courage it takes to defy convention. To be a farmer is an act of bravery; to be an organic or regenerative farmer is an extraordinary one. Being part of their circle of kinship places a responsibility on me to hold steadfast in my convictions and to persevere, even when the battles feel overwhelming.
The straw granaries in front of the house, the magnificent buffalo on the porch, and the grain bags in the living room challenge my ideas about homes and spaces. Seeing farmer friends dealing with climate vagaries and uncertainties and growing crops season after season makes me question my own small anxieties and fears. Intimately knowing and being friends with these wonderful people who grow our food reminds me of my extraordinary privilege of knowing the provenance of my food.
The learnings from the land and the growers guide my work in supporting agro biodiversity conservation, promoting heritage varieties of grains, and finding markets for organic and regeneratively grown food. It has taught me to rise above the personal to extend kinship to a larger, extended family of people and causes related to sustainability. It is an everyday reminder that keeping regenerative farms and farmers alive is the best gift to future generations.The learnings from the land and the growers guide my work in supporting agro biodiversity conservation, promoting heritage varieties of grains, and finding markets for organic and regeneratively grown food. It has taught me to rise above the personal to extend kinship to a larger, extended family of people and causes related to sustainability. It is an everyday reminder that keeping regenerative farms and farmers alive is the best gift to future generations.
The learnings from the land and the growers guide my work in supporting agro biodiversity conservation, promoting heritage varieties of grains, and finding markets for organic and regeneratively grown food. It has taught me to rise above the personal to extend kinship to a larger, extended family of people and causes related to sustainability. It is an everyday reminder that keeping regenerative farms and farmers alive is the best gift to future generations.The learnings from the land and the growers guide my work in supporting agro biodiversity conservation, promoting heritage varieties of grains, and finding markets for organic and regeneratively grown food. It has taught me to rise above the personal to extend kinship to a larger, extended family of people and causes related to sustainability. It is an everyday reminder that keeping regenerative farms and farmers alive is the best gift to future generations.
