Arils are spread on sun‑baked mud terraces where children race marbles at dusk.
The desert air dehydrates them gently, leaving sugars to crystallise like fine desert frost.
We flip them with peacock feathers—soft enough not to bruise, colourful enough to charm little helpers.
At night they rest under muslin, absorbing moonlight folklore says boosts sweetness.
Once crisp, they’re tumbled in earthen drums to knock away loose skin and gather uniform sheen.
A final winnowing in the evening breeze separates light husks from jewel‑red hearts.
Packets carry a pinch of local sand—unwanted by some, but for us the signature of honest sun‑drying.