In a peaceful village surrounded by the sal forests and terraced fields of Dehradun, lived Vandana, a keen and inquisitive twelve-year-old girl. Her family had been farmers for generations, cultivating lentils and mustard among many others, but the tradition was withering away slowly. Her father, embittered by years of poor harvests and mounting debts, had recently begun using hybrid seeds and chemicals sold by outsiders. "We need yield," he’d say, brushing aside her grandfather’s protests.
Vandana loved her grandfather the most. He was a thin, frail old man with silver hair and a voice like faraway thunder. He was certain that seeds held spirits, that in every seed there existed a history that went back centuries. When Vandana inquired of him one day why he never threw away his clay container of seeds, he replied, "Because in this pot does not rest mere food, but our freedom."
One summer afternoon, Vandana followed him to their ancestral granary. It smelled of dried neem and memory. He opened a wooden chest, revealing cloth-wrapped bundles of seeds. "These," he said, holding up a wrinkled brown pod, "are from before your father was born. Saved year after year. Every seed carries the breath of our ancestors."
That evening, while her father was away at the market, Vandana and her grandfather planted a row of native beans beside the hybrid crops. "Let the land choose," he said. Weeks passed. Rain came gently. The hybrid crops grew quickly, lush and tall, but they wilted soon after a sudden pest wave.
Strangely, the native beans thrived. Their leaves were smaller, but stronger. Her grandfather smiled, saying, "Nature remembers her own."
One morning, her father stood silently before the bean row. No words, just watching. Then he turned to his daughter, "Teach me what your grandfather taught you."
Years later, Vandana would become a seed conservator, traveling across villages, exchanging native seeds, and stories. At her exhibitions, she’d often place an old earthen pot at the center.
"This," she’d say to the children gathered around, "is not just soil or grain. This is who we are."
Seed is not just the source of life. It is the very foundation of our being. - Vandana Shiva
