Each leaf stands like a soldier in tidy rows, yet bows slightly when the monsoon teases the horizon.
We choose only those whose tips point east—the elders say east‑facing leaves store morning energy best.
Cutting is followed by a cool bath in tubewell water, the same well that changed our village’s fate.
We pack them in dried khaakha grass from the dunes; it cushions the journey and carries desert perfume.
A wax seal of natural resin locks in moisture and hints at the tree it came from.
By the time the crate reaches you, the leaves still sweat gentle beads—proof of living freshness.
Slice one open and a tiny memory of Khichan’s dawn will glisten on your knife.