Our tubewell hums at 5 a.m., drawing water older than living memory to rinse the night’s sand away.
Leaves are pressed just once; the second press is discarded because first‑run juice sings the purest notes.
A copper pot catches the stream—its ions lend a trace of earthiness modern tanks can’t mimic.
We chill the juice in terracotta urns buried knee‑deep to borrow the desert’s cool underbelly.
A pinch of Himalayan rock salt balances the natural bittersweet profile without masking it.
Before bottling, we hold the jars against the sun; only batches that glow pale gold make the cut.
Sip slowly—you’re tasting the marriage of ancient groundwater, desert patience, and sunrise diligence.