Now that we are farmers — sort of — my wife and I have begun to keep bucolic timings as far as our mornings are concerned. Which means, dear reader, while you are snuggling in your quilts, still hours away from your wake-up calls, chota hazris, or walks, we’re pottering around amidst our vegetable patch, picking chillies (fiery), uprooting carrots (not yet tender), marvelling at the cauliflowers (perfect), fretting over the broccoli which refuses to flower (imported seeds), monitoring the papaya (which is resisting growth). Thanks to a barter system our caretaker has perfected, we get the pick of neighbouring
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