The Taste of a Roti Earned

I come from a family of farmers, yet for most of my life, I remained a distant observer of the very work that shaped my roots. Born in a small village nestled in the hills of Himachal Pradesh—my grandparents’ home—I spent the first couple of years of my life surrounded by fields, trees, and quiet mountain air. But soon after, life pulled us into the city, and from that point on, I was constantly hopping from one urban setting to another.

Despite the distance, my bond with the village remained intact. Every year, without fail, I visited my grandparents during summer and winter vacations. I would watch my parents, uncles, aunts, and grandparents working tirelessly in the fields. I knew the steps—sowing, watering, harvesting, threshing. I had seen them unfold before my eyes, yet I had never truly participated.

My city friends would often say, “At least you got to witness what we only read in textbooks.” And sure, maybe that’s true. But there’s a world of difference between learning about something, seeing something, and actually experiencing it. That’s the real essence of understanding.

Over the years, I dabbled in bits of farm work—planting seeds, helping set up the tube well pipes, occasionally running errands. But the real work, the back-breaking labor, was something I was either too young for, or gently nudged away from, with reminders to “focus on your studies instead.” Twenty-something years passed this way. I watched, I admired, but I never truly lived it.

Until yesterday.

Yesterday, for the first time, I harvested wheat with my own hands—not with machines, but the traditional way, with a darati, a sickle-like blade. The sun was unforgiving, high above in the sky, and the heat clung to my skin like a second layer. I asked my Nani and Nanaji to teach me. At first, they hesitated—they were worried. "You’ve lived a city life, you're not used to this," they said. They feared I might injure myself. But I insisted.

Nana ji gave me a simple instruction: “Hold the stalks in your hand, and slice cleanly with the darati.” Simple enough… until I bent down. The real challenge came not with the blade, but with the posture—the constant crouching, the weight on your back, the strain on your legs. Within minutes, I could feel the burn, the ache, the sweat dripping into my eyes.

Once cut, the wheat is gathered into bundles and tied together before being carried to a storage area. That part was relatively easier—at least I could stand straight again.

As I worked, it struck me—this is what it takes to put one roti on the table. From sowing the seeds, watering the crops, protecting them from stray cattle and wildfires, harvesting them by hand, threshing them, and finally milling them into flour—there’s so much unseen effort behind that simple round of bread. Yes, modern machinery has replaced much of the manual labor. But witnessing and doing it by hand… it humbles you. It grounds you.

That night, when I sat down to eat dinner with my grandparents, I took a bite of my roti—and it tasted different. It tasted earned. It tasted like gratitude.

We have so many small moments in life—moments that pass us by unnoticed. Things we take for granted every single day. But every once in a while, we’re lucky enough to be reminded of where we come from, and the hands that shaped the path we walk.

I think we should take more time to admire those quiet acts of labor and love—because they’re the ones that truly feed our soul.