WHEN we moved into a bigger office premises late last year, we ‘inherited’ a pathetic looking patch of lawn. Or rather what had once been a lawn. At some point, the previous tenant had given up watering it. Understandable, because there’s severe water shortage in the area.
The lawn was as dead as a doorknob. So dead that there were no self-respecting micro-organizms or termites left in the soil to make a last meal of the lifeless matted grass and roots that still clung to it. Even the colour of the grass matched that of the earth — the drab dusty brown that dulls much of waterless Karachi. But since we were promoting urban agriculture in homes that would serve the triple purpose of growing healthy chemical-free foods, inoffensive disposing of kitchen waste in a sanitary manner without tossing it on the streets, and re-enriching the soil through recycling, we wanted to practice what we preached and provide a model for on-the-spot inspection.
The ‘lawn’ was exactly 600 square feet. The object was easy-to-grow vegetables; and having learned that 600 square yards or so were sufficient to grow enough assorted vegetables for an average family around the year (assuming there’s just enough water), there was no reason why it couldn’t produce enough for a few vegetarian feasts in the office.
For advice, we turned to an organic farming expert. It was amazing how someone quite unimpressed by the quality of the soil could be so encouraging. It was just a medium, he told us. Rehabilitating and enriching it would be up to us. Since grass had once grown there, and the neighbours had gardens, and there was even a little nursery across the road, it probably wasn’t a lost cause. But he ‘tasted’ it to check whether it was too salty for vegetables — which was not what the others were growing — or whether we would have to hunt for some salt-resistant fodder that we couldn’t eat ourselves.
The patch was divided into two, and a path made in between so that visitors could admire our (future) mini-farm as they walked up to the office. Since the gardener came for less than an hour every day, it took several weeks before one half-patch was done. We started sowing on that while the other half-patch was being similarly readied.
A standard pickup full of manure was brought in (the suppliers could not say how many kilos that was equal to) and half of it mixed with the soil of the prepared half-patch. The expert found the tanker water unsatisfactory. There was no other fresh water to spare, so I got my colleague, to join me in bringing in a jerrycan each of fresh water every day from home. That meant the plants would go thirsty only during weekends, when the gardener did not come either. But plants are not as fussy as people are; they didn’t need water all the time and never too much, except some at a certain stage.
Also brought in on a daily basis were kitchen wastes — peels, cores, unwanted stems and cooked leftovers. They were simply buried on one side of the ground, a few inches deep. The expert installed a ‘hand-made’ drip-irrigation kit that he had fashioned — something people could make on their own with an old drum, some hose-pipe and a few valves to regulate the flow of water. That way, the precious water would flow out slowly, drop by drop, directly to the root zone, the way plants like it, and there would be no drowning of the roots. The entire office joined in learning how to correctly sow vegetable seeds, and then promptly forgot about it. Four or five days later, when the first seedlings sprouted, few noticed.
But unknown to us, there were others, literally in the wings, that were watching — and waiting for the right moment. When the plants attained several inches in height and sprouted a profusion of fresh little leaves, the birds — the commonplace, usually-ignored sparrows — made a bee-line for them.
Since human traffic was heavy during most of the day, the sparrows did not show up during office hours. But one day, just before closing time, when I happened to look out of the window, I watched in horror as an extended family of sparrows zoomed in and began to munch away frantically.
It didn’t help to chase them away; they came back the moment one’s back was turned. Nor are urban birds impressed by scarecrows: they see too many live ones roaming around all day. And there was plenty of time to feast after we had all gone. Come 5:30pm when most had left, the sparrow squadron, like clockwork, would launch their dive-bombing mission. When we returned one Monday morning after the weekend, disaster had struck. All that was left of our vegetable patch was rows of bare stalks sticking forlornly out of the ground. Everyone was surprised; how do farmers manage, they wondered.
Then something unexpected happened. A single plant — a creeper — had survived, and it continued to grow. Before we knew it, it had covered every square inch of the patch with large, beautifully shaped leaves and dazzling yellow flowers. We now discovered that some vegetable plants were as goodlooking as garden varieties.
It was such a picturesque sight, we didn’t notice that the gardener had (incorrectly) determined that since something was growing, the brackish tanker water would do just as well for it. It didn’t, but we found out only when the leaves developed white streaks all over that looked like compressed varicose veins. Maybe, it was because of all the detergent that also pollutes urban water. The half-patch continued to look pretty from afar, but it didn’t produce anything fit to eat.
The project wasn’t, however, going to give up so easily. Get some second-hand fishnet and toss it over the plants, advised the expert, you’ll keep needing it at every planting to keep the birds off.
Finally a friend who is involved in an environmental project and deals with fisherfolk got us some for free. The kindly fisherman refused to take any money for it. It was too full of (bigger) holes to be of further use for fishing, he said. Seeing we could stick our arms right through, we couldn’t but agree. But cut up into smaller pieces, it served our purpose.
When the ‘harvest’ finally began to come in, the skeptics were not laughing anymore. It was small, but generous in proportion to the size of ground, and simply superb. On any given day, there was enough to give to one person for a single but full family meal. One rediscovers the true taste of vegetables not grown indifferently and one gets hooked. Now, a few more colleagues will be roped in to join the jerrycan squad.
Now, we’ll get some earthworms from the expert, and introduce them directly into the earth instead. With these living underground fertilizer factories and tunnellers in place, the mini-farm will virtually take care of itself. We hope to have our first vegetarian celebration soon between Eid and New Year.
