Water, Walls, and First Steps
Isn’t it funny how we always think the hard part is behind us? That once we’ve crossed a particular finish line, the rest will somehow fall into place?
That’s what I thought, standing on the other side of buying the land. We had done it—negotiated the price, signed the papers, transferred ownership. But life doesn’t work that way. You don’t get to take a breath and just coast after a big decision. No, that’s usually when things really begin.
It took three months to complete the legal formalities. Three months to take the land that was, for all intents and purposes, ours, and make it officially ours. It was a process that dragged on in typical fashion—slow and bureaucratic. In the meantime, life carried on. My parents travelled to the UK, to Manchester, to help my UK-based sister with her second child, while I was also still there albiet in a different city, working, living… waiting. Waiting for that moment when everything would start to feel real. Because that’s the thing—sometimes even after you’ve fought for something, even after it’s in your hands, it still doesn’t feel like it belongs to you yet.
But time is funny, isn’t it? It sneaks up on you. One day, you’re fighting through endless red tape, the next, your parents are sitting in the same time zone as you, talking to you about all the plans you’ve been dreaming up for the land. It was an odd comfort, being able to talk freely, at the same hour, without the restrictions of time zones or long-distance calls, and for a few week within the same room. It felt like we had all the time in the world, but at the same time, there was this quiet, pressing urgency beneath it all. We had a farm to build, and an endless list of ideas.
An early version of plantation plan for our farm
Have you ever noticed how overwhelming dreams can be when they’re just ideas floating around in your head? How they pile up, one on top of the other, until you’re not even sure where to begin? That’s where we were. We had so many visions for what the land could become, so many ideas of what to plant, how to grow, what animals to keep. It was a tangle of possibilities—beautiful, but completely confusing.
It was in one of those long conversations that we discussed the farm of a relative we’d visited during our land scouting. He was in his late thirties or early forties and had walked away from the corporate world to build something on the land. He had started a goat farm and, eventually, ventured into something unexpected—dragon fruit. I remember standing in his orchard, looking at the rows of spiny, alien-like plants, thinking, this is different. It wasn’t traditional, but it worked. It made sense, in a strange way.
So we reached out to him. Sometimes, when you don’t know where to start, the best thing you can do is ask for help. And he was more than generous with his knowledge. He encouraged us, shared his experiences, and gave us something priceless—clarity.
The trip to our distant relative's dragon fruit farm that inspired us.
Dragon fruit. With his guidance, dragon fruit became our starting point. It was a strategic decision rather than an emotional one. It wasn’t glamorous, and it wasn’t a shortcut to success. But it was practical, and it gave us a foothold. Dragon fruit doesn’t demand much water, and it could become our cash cow, funding the rest of the farm as we slowly expand. In theory, it was perfect.
In reality? Well, reality never quite goes according to plan.
About 4 months after we signed the papers and before my parents had left for the UK, my dad had got the official boundary marked and commissioned the drilling of three borewells on the land. It’s hard to put into words what it’s like to watch something so critical, something you’re depending on, come up short. All three wells had come back with what the locals called “poor” water levels, even at depths of 700 feet.
Can you imagine that? Drilling so far into the earth and finding barely a trickle? You start to question everything. Your choices, your timing, your reasons for even starting. But then you remember why you’re there in the first place. You remember that dragon fruit is a cactus, resilient and forgiving when it comes to water. And you take a breath, because while the situation isn’t perfect, it’s not a deal breaker either. Sometimes, “good enough” has to be enough.
Planning and drilling of our borewell with humble results
Have you ever felt torn between pushing someone you love toward something you know they want, and pulling them back to protect them from it? That’s how I felt about my dad. His heart surgery had been successful—he had made a full recovery—but I wasn’t about to let him take on the weight of the world again. Not if I could help it.
And that’s what we were left with. A starting point that wasn’t ideal, but would work. A plan that would need adjusting as we went along. A farm that wasn’t yet a farm.
The list of practical challenges grew longer by the day, spilling over several pages. Every new issue felt like an addition to a never-ending task list, and with my next visit to India still months away, it became clear that my dad was going to have to face most of these challenges on his own.
Instead of diving into everything at once, we focused on setting up the essentials—water storage, initial planting, and basic fencing. But first and foremost, we needed a small house—a place to rest while managing all these projects.
So I made a decision. We would take it slow. No rush, no parallel projects, no scrambling to get everything done at once. One thing at a time. Because while it’s easy to dream big, it’s important to remember that the real work of life happens in small, deliberate steps. And sometimes, taking those steps slowly is the only way forward.
There’s this pressure, you know? This feeling that if you’re not moving fast, you’re not moving at all. But that’s not true. Progress is progress, no matter the pace. Building a farm isn’t about rapid expansion; it’s about sustainability. Moving methodically ensured that we didn’t burn out resources—financial or physical. In farming, as in life, progress isn’t measured by speed, but by endurance.
Because when you slow down, you realize something. It’s not about how fast you get there. It’s about making sure you have the strength to enjoy the journey when you do.
The adventure of building that small house—navigating the challenges of sourcing materials, finding labor, and then ensuring the work actually got done—is the story for the next blog post.
Until then.