Once, my Sundays were boxed neatly by ink and deadlines—meetings, columns, and the pleasant tyranny of schedules. That was what I did. What I do now finds its rhythm in the ordinary: mango leaves, lime paste, and the stubborn courage of roses.

The morning started with mist, the kind that sits politely on the shoulders of the hills. I walked to the mango orchard and found, as one always must, that life has delegated the job of reclamation to termites. These tiny builders have ambitions that shame civil engineers. They have taken to the roots like aristocrats to a club. My answer—lime paste, applied with the solemnity of a viceroy addressing a rebellion—keeps them honest, for a handful of weeks at least.

Beside the orchard, the blood rose garden refuses to be reasonable. Each bloom glows with the sort of arrogance only a rose can hold. We feed them organic manure—cow dung and composted leaves—because the earth remembers what chemistry forgets. Watching a rose open, petal by petal, is like reading a line of old Punjabi poetry: direct, a little theatrical, and devastatingly honest.

Madhumalti, the creeper with a voice like honey, is under siege. Termites again. How these creatures survive everywhere—from colonial bungalows to household trellises—is a Darwinian riddle I’ve stopped solving. Meanwhile, local bumblebees patrol the premises with ruthless professionalism. Their stings come with a fever that demands respect. I now wear a bee-protection mask; it is less theatrical headgear and more modern armour.

And then there is the squash lemon tree—the sort of botanical overachiever that deserves a medal. Fruit the size of a five-year-old’s face hang in proud, heavy clusters. An experimental irrigation with cow milk (yes, I admit to culinary eccentricities) produced what the neighbourhood now calls milky lemons. They are sweet with a suspiciously civilised tang of sourness. One, split under a neem tree, was eaten raw with curd, salt, green chilli and jaggery in the mountain fashion called nimbu-saan. If you are looking for nostalgia served on a plate, this is it.

Papayas are ripening like small suns—each about four kilos, absurdly generous and suspiciously seedless. It is as if the fruit decided to spare me the moral burden of de-seeding. For curiosity and health notes on papaya, I often cross-reference bits like this with an external read: Organic Facts — Papaya Benefits.

Young cows chew their cud with a dignity I can only admire. They are happy on green fodder and silage, and their lowing has become the most dependable metronome of my afternoons. Dogs patrol the ploughed fields, conducting earnest mouse-hunting operations, each pounce a small drama that restores one’s faith in purpose.

Brinjals have come into their own, glossy and indulgent, with green chillies sulking beside them like sunburnt cousins. The garden grass drinks from an age-old flood irrigation channel that murmurs through the land; this rudimentary system nourishes every vein of soil and, for reasons I don’t fully understand, lifts the spirit of the place.

There is a quiet irony here. What I used to do—shaping minds, shaping narratives—resembles what I do now: tending, observing, protecting. Both are acts of attention, both require the patience of a man willing to wait while small things become large.

My hands no longer only carry pens; they carry the scent of manure and lime. My shoes, once polished for interviews, have softened to the contour of cow paths. When I sip the juice of a milky lemon, I taste the work and the weather—sun on an old veranda, a misted path, and children who still think a lemon the size of their face is a proper miracle.

There’s someone I know who’s very much like a lemon — not the sort that ruins your tea, but the sort that raps you gently back to sense. Crisp, direct, allergic to emotional layering; peel and truth, no drama. Rooted to family and friends, fiercely loyal, and prepared to defend parathas with the ferocity of a seasonally hungry tigress. If life were a thali, she’d be the tang that keeps everything from going bland — a small, honest rebellion in the best possible way.

Nainital and the surrounding Kumaon hills have been a theatre of empires and pilgrims. British officers once built cool retreats here, laying down roads and the odd tea estate, and later leaving behind an undercurrent of stiff upper lips and wry commentary. The hills have absorbed it all: folklore, whispered histories, and the kind of domestic epics that involve cows, crops and a stubborn respect for the monsoon.

If a colonial officer were to pass by my orchard, I imagine him remarking with a dry cough, “Dashed fine lemons, Yadav.” I would curtsey with a spade and reply, in equal measure of mischief and truth: “Quite, sir. They fight back.”

Practical notes for those tempted to try a similar life: wear protective clothing when bees patrol, treat fungal or termite infections early with lime and neem, and for curious readers interested in gentle wellbeing approaches, this internal guide has been helpful: Mindful Living — Wellbeing Guide. It pairs nicely with the slow work of a garden.

So what did I do then, and what do I do now? The verbs have changed. The rhythm is slower but richer. And in the pauses between watering and mending, between the bite of a bee and the sweetness of a papaya, I find a small, stubborn peace. If you visit my blog for the first time, stay; if you have returned, bring a lemon and a story.