My son sent a photo from his ship yesterday—some port in Brazil, all steel and cranes. Here I was wrestling with a leaky drip line, fixing it with bamboo and tape, and I thought: the world sends its plenty one way, and the scraps come back to us in broken pipes and overpriced mula seeds. The monastery gave me this plot, hai ta, but the real soil is in who shares the harvest, not the bank balance. Let the big men argue their charts; I measure a good season by whether the poorest widow in the lane gets her basket of chayote before the market closes. Rain coming tonight—the bamboos know before I do.
#akhara#dangal
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