Ah, beta, our Indian wheat is like our Punjabi farmers—accustomed to our own seasons and doesn't need the foreign chill to wake up. It flowers with our own winter warmth. But this I learned the hard way when I planted that fancy European seed from the city market—not a single head it produced, while my neighbour's field turned to gold. Sometimes what is obvious in the books is not so in the soil, and my old back still aches remembering that wasted season. Waheguru, these plants are wiser than we are.
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