There are days that begin as routine engagements and quietly unfold into moments of reflection—days that leave behind not just memories, but also a gentle reordering of one’s thoughts. My visit to the ICAR – Central Research Institute for Dryland Agriculture (CRIDA) in Hyderabad on the occasion of World Water Day, celebrated every year on March 22 under the aegis of the United Nations, was one such experience. What began as a social commitment turned into an encounter with science, governance, and, most importantly, the enduring fortitude of the Indian farmer. 

My journey to this moment has been, in many ways, a continuum of seemingly disparate paths. From my early days in defence research, working under the visionary leadership of Dr. A. P. J. Abdul Kalam on civilian spinoffs of defence technologies, to later stepping into healthcare and contributing to the development of affordable coronary stents, I have often found myself moving across domains. Telemedicine drew me further into global collaborations, connecting institutions across continents, and eventually, these experiences led me—almost organically—into agriculture and rural development. 

Perhaps that is why, when Dr. Vinod Kumar Singh invited me to participate in the Water Day celebrations at CRIDA, I accepted without hesitation. Dr. Singh is an alumnus of G. B. Pant University, my alma mater, and he worked for 18 years in Meerut, my native place. Also, there was a sense of returning to a set of questions that lie at the heart of our civilisation: how we use water, how we grow food, and how we sustain life itself. 

The morning unfolded in three distinct yet interconnected encounters. I reached the institute early, thanks to the quiet Sunday traffic, and spent some time with Dr. B. M. K. Raju, Head of Statistics. What he shared was both simple and profound. In a field study conducted within the same region, with identical seeds, soil and water conditions, maize yields ranged from 3 to 15 quintals per acre. Such variability, he explained, is not accidental. It reflects a complex interplay of management practices, timing, micro-climatic variations and subtle human decisions. 

In that moment, his observation crystallised into a striking insight: artificial intelligence, at its core, is nothing but real-time statistics. Behind the sophistication of algorithms lies the same fundamental principle—recognising patterns, understanding variability, and making decisions under uncertainty. What we often perceive as a technological leap is, in essence, a more refined way of seeing what has always existed within the fabric of reality.

The second encounter brought me face-to-face with the benevolent side of governance. I met Sri M. Kodanda Reddy, a seasoned political leader whose presence carried both experience and quiet conviction. As we spoke, he affectionately embraced me and said that I carried the aura of Dr. Kalam—a remark that moved me deeply, for it reflected not just personal warmth, but the enduring imprint of a great soul on those he touched. He then recalled his time as an MLA, when President Kalam addressed the Andhra Pradesh Assembly, and how that moment had left a lasting impression on him.  It served as a reminder of how ideas, when supported by committed individuals, can travel across institutions and geographies, leaving a lasting impact.

Our conversation turned to the role of elected representatives in translating ideas into action. A dedicated MLA or MP, he said, does more than allocate funds; he or she creates visibility, aligns administrative attention and brings the weight of the system behind meaningful initiatives. Publicity, often dismissed as superficial, can become a powerful catalyst when aligned with purpose. It ensures that good work is not only accomplished but also seen, replicated and scaled.

Yet, the most enduring part of the day lay not in discussions of data or governance, but in my interaction with the farmers who had gathered for the event. These were individuals of modest means, invited to be recognised for their work in water conservation. Their presence carried a quiet dignity—yet beneath it lay something stronger: fortitude shaped by uncertainty, climate variability and systemic inequities. 

There was a language barrier between us, but it seemed almost irrelevant. Many came forward, shook my hand and communicated through their eyes—a silent exchange of warmth and respect. There was something deeply moving in that unspoken connection, as though we were acknowledging, without words, a shared understanding of effort, endurance and purpose. 

When I addressed them, I spoke in Hindi, reflecting on their role in sustaining life itself. It is easy to overlook the sheer scale of what they do: producing just one kilogram of paddy requires nearly 3,000 litres of water. Yet, the economic structures surrounding agriculture seldom recognise this hidden cost. Farmers bear the burden of production, while much of the value is appropriated by intermediaries. The system, in many ways, remains deeply misaligned—both economically inefficient and ecologically unsustainable. One is compelled to ask: by what logic must India produce water-intensive Basmati rice for export—and for whose benefit? Is our water, after all, without value?

We speak of scarcity, yet continue to design systems that encourage waste; we celebrate productivity, yet rarely reward stewardship. What emerges is a deep paradox—one that technology alone cannot resolve. It calls instead for a fundamental rethinking of our incentives, our policies and, above all, our values. Water has never been seen as a commodity.

Rivers, in our civilisational consciousness, are not mere channels of water—they are mothers; and rain is seen as a benediction from the heavens. When I spoke of the Godavari and Krishna as mothers, the entire audience responded with spontaneous applause—an instinctive affirmation of a truth they have lived with, not merely learned. In that moment, it became evident that this is not symbolism alone, but a deeply internalised way of relating to nature. This cultural memory carries profound ecological wisdom. It reminds us that sustainability is not a modern construct to be engineered, but an ancient practice to be remembered—one that we have gradually drifted away from, even as its relevance has only grown stronger.

On a lighter note, I shared a simple thought with the farmers: that amidst all the discussions of water scarcity, each of us should at least ensure we drink three to four litres of water a day—the most basic foundation of health. It drew laughter and applause, but it also carried a subtle message—that even in complexity, there is space for simplicity. 

As the event concluded, I was presented with a Kondapalli bullock cart—a handcrafted toy that carries a history of over 400 years. Made from softwood sourced from nearby hills, these artefacts represent not just craftsmanship, but a way of life rooted in patience, precision and continuity. They are reminders that tradition, when preserved with care, becomes a living bridge between the past and the present. 

As I drove back home, I found myself reflecting on the quiet coherence of the day. Science, governance and culture—often treated as separate domains—had come together in a single narrative. And at the centre of it all stood the farmer: resilient, adaptive and quietly steadfast.

In a world increasingly defined by complexity, speed and abstraction, there is something profoundly reassuring about this grounded strength. It reminds us that beneath layers of systems and structures lies a core that continues to sustain us—a core built on effort, trust and a deep, almost instinctive connection to the land.

Perhaps that is the quiet lesson this day offers. That progress is not merely about adding new layers of technology or policy, but about rediscovering and strengthening what already exists. The future of water, agriculture and sustainability may not lie solely in grand solutions, but in the careful alignment of knowledge, intent and human values.

And above all, that amidst all our discussions of scarcity and crisis, there remains a quiet, enduring abundance—in the fortitude of our farmers, in the wisdom of our traditions, and in the possibility of doing things differently, if only we choose to see clearly.