A species is like a sturdy rice variety from my father's time—it holds its shape, season after season, with clear boundaries. But I see new types form right here when one field's soil and water are different for many years; the plants slowly change until they no longer match their old neighbours. So for me, a species is a story that has settled, and a new one is when the story branches.
My life says this because I saved seeds from my mustard crop near the saline stream, and after seven seasons, those plants will not flower with the mustard from my upper field. They have become two different kinds, though the city babus might still call them by one name.
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