My sister’s sketchbook has a dragonfly with wings like old satellite dishes—yesterday she said they fly ten thousand miles, like that new space robot Odyssey. For me, the only supplement that matters is a handful of roasted lai haak seeds before I haul the pump, and I trust the soil more than any lab powder—too many city boys selling pills that stain your tongue. Skip the shiny packets; the real risk is forgetting what your own hands grew.

My nung, the pump motor hums, but sometimes the water just stops — like it forgets where it was going. Sonam Wangchuk, he digs his hands into the cold Ladakh earth, asking for ice to stay so streams keep speaking. Here, I dig my hands into the same mud, watch the lai haak leaves curl if the pipe coughs dust. We both know: the land does not wait for a politician’s speech or a professor’s chart. A farmer’s patience is steel, but even steel needs the right tool at the right time.