It is 4.15pm on a February afternoon, and I am seated on a bright green tractor, bumping down a mud road in Hiregunjal, Karnataka. The weather is warm, around 30℃, and the sky is clear, blue, and vast. I watch a pandemonium of parakeets arc through the air, a troop of langurs perched on a neem tree nearby, and a brilliant green bee-eater perched on an electricity wire munching on something it just caught.

These are arid lands, which receive rainfall for about two months of the year, and I feel the dryness in the air. The ground looks parched and the black soil is cracked in places, and yet, there is food all around. “See those black birds?” asks Malleshapa Biserotti, the farmer of the field, pointing at a fork-tailed drongo perched on a head of millet. “It eats the insects on the plants,” he explains, as he parks the tractor. “Does a lot of work for me!” 

Malleshapa grows our Byadgi chillies: a variety of dried red chilli that is characterized by a deep maroon colour, thick wrinkled skin, and a flavor profile that packs in the fruity flavor of chilli, without too much of its heat. I see rows of chilli plants, with fruit hanging like Christmas baubles, intercropped with grains such as millet and wheat, herbs like dill and ajwain, flowers like marigold, and nitrogen-fixing plants such as pigeon pea and green gram—a far cry from the mono-cropped fields we passed by on our way here, mostly planted with cotton. 

When we alight from the tractor, Malleshapa walks me to a raised strip of land planted with fruit trees of custard apple, chikoo, papaya, and neem. In the sparse shade of the trees is his manure section: piles of cow dung mixed with soil and cow urine, to form large smooth cakes. It reminds me of those humungous wheels of parmesan that cheesemakers in Europe make, in terms of size. Unlike the parmesan, which is kept in temperature controlled caverns, these manure cakes are exposed to the afternoon heat.

And yet. 

When Malleshapa flips one of them over, and I stick my hand in the centre, the mix is cool, moist, and fragrant with earthy goodness, like petrichor. There are earthworms, centipedes, beetles, delicate fungal hyphae, and surely, millions and millions of microbes: an immense web of life, quietly recycling the dung into a nutrient-rich manure for the plants all around.

This is the soil food web: a combination of micro-organisms like beneficial bacteria and fungi, and soil critters like ants, worms, larvae, and insects, that process organic and mineral matter, making the nutrients bio-available to plants.

In many ways, this is how our own digestive systems work. We consume food that contains nutrients, and the microbes in our gut biome break down the food, thereby making the nutrition bio-available to our bodies. The more diverse our gut biome, the more nutrition our bodies can access. 

Soil is the digestive system of the planet. The greater the soil diversity, the greater its ability to process nutrition. So the more creepie crawlies and microbes in the soil, the more nutrient cycling in progress. Plants directly benefit from this, but so do the earthworms and beetles that live in the top soil–and the human beings that eat the produce – and eventually, the microbes in their gut biomes.

Malleshapa picks up a perfectly formed orb of soil  and delicately breaks it open to reveal the pearly white larvae of the rhinoceros beetle nestled inside, like an opalescent jewel. “When I first found these larvae in the manure, I showed it to other farmers in the village to identify,” he says. “I was told they were pests, and that I should get rid of them - immediately!” 

But something about the manure—its colour, aroma and fluffy texture—set his spidey senses tingling, and Malleshapa sent a sample to an agricultural university nearby. When the results arrived, Malleshapa was told that it had remarkable nutritive value and a high beneficial microbe count. The equivalent of an A+ grade. As Malleshapa’s experiments continued over the next five years, he grew convinced that the beetle larvae made entirely on his farm was superior to any other compost he knew of.

Over the next five years, Malleshapa’s experiments continued, until he was convinced that the beetle larvae was superior to any other compost he could make or purchase for his crops. Better still, it was made from materials sourced entirely from his farm. 

Malleshapa has nine cows that feed on the plant matter of the crops he grows: the leaves and stems of the legumes after the pulses have been harvested, or the heads of millet that don’t make the harvest cut. He also has a patch of land that he keeps relatively empty, for the cows to graze. The dung and urine from the cows are used to make manure, which feeds the plants, and so the circle continues. “If my cows are fed properly,” he says, “the manure is good. If the manure is good, then the crop is good, and I have food to eat and sell.” 

This is what regenerative agriculturists call a “closed loop”, a system that reconsiders “waste”, to create a resilient and efficient farming system that is in harmony with the environment. Contrast this with how industrial farms work, and the regenerative aspect of Malleshapa’s growing methods becomes even more striking.

Most commercial farms liberally spray crops with pesticides, which kill most life in the soil: the crop-eating pests, as well as the beneficial fungi and bacteria, earthworms, and beetles that work the soil. In the absence of these creatures, farmers use chemical fertilizers a.k.a artificially synthesized nutrients created in factories. All of this seriously diminishes the diversity of a habitat in the long-term. No worms in the soil = no birds to eat the worms = no predators to eat the birds, and so the cycle continues.

Listening to Malleshapa talk about his beloved manure, and the help he receives from his insect friends, leaves me feeling  bittersweet. Sad when I consider the percentage of land on Earth currently being farmed using industrial methods. Angry at the biodiversity loss caused by these methods and the systems that incentivise them. Concern about the future.

But also, grateful to be here, on this farm, to walk barefoot on this soil, in the company of cows, langurs, drongos, beetles, egrets, and snakes. To be in the company of a farmer, who truly values this diversity, and the ways it nourishes him. 

It reminds me that growing food is a deeply collaborative process between human and habitat, sacred even. It reminds me that the diversity of a habitat is inextricably linked to its vitality. It reminds me of the essence of regenerative farming: it is a practice of growing food that sustains our bodies, and our habitats. Or more accurately, that sustains our bodies by sustaining our habitats.

That’s it for this Dispatch from the Field, my fellow earth beings :)

Malleshapa’s Byadgi Chilli powder will be available later this year (once these fine chillies have been milled and packed) and we have some really special chilli varieties in stock too.

There’s smoky Sirārakhong Hāthei Chilli, from the lush, rain-fed hills of Manipur, India, vibrantly coloured Kashmiri Chilli from the Himalayan foothills of Kashmir, and Guntur Sannam - my personal fave: an addictive blend of guntur red chilli, white sesame, and salt that I put on EVERY-THING. Each grown with care, and skill, by regenerative farmers around India.