Squatting on the paint splattered tarp I had spread over the terrace, surrounded by plastic bins and sweetly sour splinters of sugarcane bagasse, I was caught up in sifting the finished compost, amrut mitti, when I heard voices behind me. Two children, brother and sister, and their father stood admiring the corner garden plot. Quiet exclamations and animated chatter passed between the trio. The red amaranth glowed almost purple in the afternoon sun, and the tiny palak sprouts stood tall, reaching up, up, up to the sky. Soon another student and his mother joined the group, and they moved from bed to bed, tasting the cherry tomatoes just ripe on their vines, measuring the bitter gourds with their smiles. The compost in my hand teemed with tiny life, rotten papaya skins and cow dung together neatly decomposed to nothing but a rich brown velvet, leaving behind only the clean smell of new earth and tomorrow.