Harvest begins while the desert sky is still violet; we work by torchlight so the leaves stay cool.
Grandfather’s old sickle guides the first cut, a ritual that reminds us whose hands shaped this land.
Within minutes the gel is scooped into clay bowls that have served our family for decades.
No machines, just patience—each scoop carries the scent of wet earth after a rare Khichan drizzle.
We strain the pulp through cotton the colour of sunrise, keeping fibres intact for authenticity.
Every batch is tasted by the youngest cousin—if she smiles, we bottle; if she frowns, we start again.
What reaches you is the unfiltered soul of our dawns, pure and simple as the sand that raised us.