Chapter 2: The Compost Pit Plan
The rooster crowed just before dawn, its call echoing through the village like a sacred alarm clock. Aarav woke naturally, his body still sore from the previous day's fever but his mind buzzing with clarity.
He had always been a late riser in his past life. Morning meetings had required five alarms and two cups of coffee. But now, in the stillness of this new world, waking up felt… right.
The woven cot creaked gently as he sat up. His mother was already awake, kneading dough in the small kitchen corner. The smell of woodsmoke and ajwain filled the air.
"You're up early," she said, surprised.
"I feel better today, Ma," he said. The word 'Ma' slipped out naturally. It startled him how quickly he was adjusting. "Can I help?"
She blinked, then smiled. "Roll out the rotis, then. But round ones, not the maps you made last time."
He chuckled. Even reincarnation hadn't erased his clumsiness.
As the first rays of sun peeked over the mango tree, Aarav helped with breakfast. It was a simple meal: wheat rotis, boiled lentils, raw onions, and a bit of pickle. But it tasted better than any corporate cafeteria buffet he'd ever eaten. The food was alive—spiced not just with flavor, but care.
Once done, his father handed him a small wooden bucket. "We'll clean the cowshed today. Your fever's gone, and the gobar won't wait."
Aarav nodded, suppressing a grin. Manual labor didn't scare him. In fact, he was oddly looking forward to it. Sweat and soil felt more honest than spreadsheets and slide decks.
They stepped out into the courtyard, and he got his first close-up look at the cows. Two beautiful desi cows with curved horns and intelligent eyes chewed lazily at hay. The calves nudged his leg playfully.
"Good girls," he muttered, scratching one behind the ear. It licked his hand.
But his real interest lay in the compost pit behind the cowshed—a shallow trench, reeking faintly of rotting waste and damp straw.
This, he thought, is where I'll begin.
In his past life, he'd read articles on permaculture and watched documentaries about zero-waste living. He even subscribed to a YouTube channel that taught organic farming, though he never had time to practice any of it.
Now, he had the perfect lab.
He rolled up the sleeves of his cotton kurta and inspected the pit. Cow dung was mixed with straw and vegetable peels, but the layering was random. Flies buzzed in swarms. A few parts were soggy, others bone dry.
"Pitaji," he said, "what do we do with all this?"
"Use it in the fields once it breaks down. We throw the waste in, cover it with soil sometimes, and stir it once every fortnight."
"Can we do it better?"
His father raised an eyebrow. "Better?"
Aarav hesitated. "If we add dried leaves, mix in layers, and turn it every three days, it will compost faster and won't smell so bad. Also, covering it with banana leaves traps the heat."
His father looked intrigued but skeptical. "Who taught you that?"
He smiled. "I… heard it from a passing sadhu once. He said Lord Krishna used it in Vrindavan."
The lie felt a little guilty—but he couldn't explain YouTube here.
"Hmm." His father rubbed his chin. "Let's try your Krishna method."
And just like that, Aarav's first project had begun.
They gathered dry leaves from the banyan tree near the temple. Aarav insisted on chopping banana peels into smaller pieces, much to the amusement of the village kids who gathered to watch the "prince of the house" playing with trash.
He showed his father how to layer dry matter with fresh dung, how to sprinkle water to keep it moist but not soaked, and how to turn it gently with a wooden stick.
After an hour, the pit looked transformed. It still smelled, yes—but less sour and more earthy. Like a forest floor after rain.
Later, his father nodded approvingly. "Maybe your sadhu knew something after all."
Aarav beamed.
That afternoon, after lunch, he sat under the mango tree with a rough slate and a stick of chalk. He began sketching basic ideas: a small trench to channel wastewater into banana patches, a compost bin with a thatch roof, a simple bamboo fence to keep goats out of the vegetable plot.
"Planning for war?" asked a voice.
It was Kavita, his elder cousin. Fifteen, sharp-tongued, and fiercely clever, she was one of the few girls in the village who could read and write thanks to her mother's insistence.
"Planning to grow food without wasting anything," Aarav said.
She sat beside him, picking up the slate. "These are compost bin plans?"
"Yes. And a small vegetable patch. Imagine fresh tomatoes, brinjals, and chillies right here."
She looked at him curiously. "You changed after your fever."
Aarav shrugged. "Maybe Lord Vishnu knocked some sense into me."
Kavita smiled. "Or maybe you saw something we didn't. I won't tell. But if you plan to plant, I'll help. I like brinjals."
And just like that, he had his first supporter.
The next few days passed in a rhythm Aarav came to love. Morning chores with the cows. Breakfast with family. A few hours of digging, planting, or experimenting with compost. A nap after lunch. Storytelling in the evenings. He even began copying old Sanskrit verses from a tattered palm-leaf book his uncle owned, rediscovering his mother tongue in its most poetic form.
He didn't have the internet. He didn't have AC or fast food.
But he had peace. He had time.
And he had purpose.
One morning, as he walked back from the well carrying a copper lota, he noticed a thin boy coughing violently under the neem tree near the village square. His skin was pale, his bones jutted out, and his lips were cracked.
"Who's that?" Aarav asked a nearby woman.
"That's Bhola. Son of the potter. Always sickly."
Aarav knelt beside the boy. "You okay?"
Bhola barely nodded. Aarav touched his forehead—burning hot.
That night, he boiled neem leaves and tulsi, mixing them with a bit of black pepper and jaggery. The next morning, he took the concoction to Bhola's mother.
"It's not a cure, but it'll help," he said. "Boil clean water with these herbs and give it to him warm."
She accepted it with trembling hands. "Bless you, Aarav baba. May you live a hundred years."
Later, his father heard of it and chuckled. "Now you're giving medicines too?"
Aarav just smiled. "Only what Lord Krishna taught me."