The silver cutlery gleamed under the soft chandeliers, and waiters in crisp uniforms glided between tables, serving food plated like art. Arjun sat alone at his corner table in the elite restaurant, the kind of place where the air itself seemed perfumed with exclusivity. He had chosen it not out of preference, but out of curiosity—two years of building Aequalis Global had made him almost forget how the wealthy dined.
The first bite told him something was wrong.
The rice on his plate was flawless in shape, every grain long and polished. Yet it tasted flat, lifeless. The vegetables were bright in color but lacked depth. Even the bread, baked to golden perfection, carried an aftertaste he could only describe as chemical.
Arjun chewed slowly, memories flooding his mind.
He remembered meals at the Malhotra estate in his youth: steaming basmati rice fragrant with earth, vegetables fresh from family farms, wheat bread kneaded by hands that knew tradition. He remembered, too, his years as a struggling worker in Mumbai—cheap canteen meals, yes, but simple, hearty, made with local grains that tasted alive.
This food, despite its price and presentation, tasted dead.
He set down his spoon and looked around. The wealthy around him ate happily, oblivious. They didn't notice—or perhaps they no longer remembered—what real food tasted like.
Arjun thought grimly: If even the richest eat poison in silver bowls, what are the poor eating?
Back at his lodge that night, Arjun sat with a simple bowl of lentils and rice prepared by his cook. The difference was undeniable—humble food, yet warm, nourishing, alive.
He summoned Equalizer.
"Assistant, research India's agricultural history. From the earliest records to today."
The overlay filled his vision.
Ancient India: crop rotation, mixed farming, cattle manure as fertilizer, water management through canals and tanks.
Vedic texts referencing the sanctity of seeds, preservation across generations.
Medieval times: spice trade flourishing because of diversity of crops.
Colonial disruptions: forced cash crops, decline of indigenous grains.
Green Revolution: 1960s—hybrid seeds, chemical fertilizers, pesticides, irrigation pumps. Crop yields soared, but soil health declined. Dependency deepened.
Charts showed rising productivity—but also rising soil exhaustion, water depletion, farmer debts, and malnutrition despite abundance.
Arjun leaned back. "They solved hunger by killing the soil. And in time, the soil will kill us back."
The decision crystallized in him. He would intervene—not with slogans, not with charity—but with living proof that agriculture could be different.
Arjun chose two villages as his starting point.
The first lay in Maharashtra, its soil dry and cracked, overworked with chemical fertilizers that had lost potency. Farmers here were desperate, caught in debt cycles, their fields barren despite years of effort.
The second lay in Punjab, once the pride of India's Green Revolution. Its fields were fertile but exhausted from monoculture wheat and rice. Pesticides saturated the ground, and cancer rates in surrounding communities whispered the hidden cost.
"These two," Arjun murmured. "One shows what happens when the land runs dry. The other shows what happens when the land is poisoned. Together, they will teach us how to heal."
Equalizer suggested a list of agricultural scientists, soil microbiologists, nutritionists, and water engineers. Arjun handpicked the best—some from India, some from abroad.
He met them in a quiet conference hall, not a boardroom. On the table lay not contracts but soil samples, seed jars, and handwritten notes.
"I don't want papers," Arjun told them. "I want solutions. You are not working on a project. You are planting the health of a nation. Work freely. Work boldly. And be paid so you never have to worry about politics or funding again."
The scientists exchanged stunned looks. Many had struggled for years with half-funding, bureaucratic hurdles, or corporate pressures to push chemicals. Here, for the first time, they were free.
Equalizer supported them, running soil simulations, predicting yield cycles, and mapping rainfall patterns. But the heart of the work remained human: restoring balance between people and land.
The plan took shape across weeks of study and debate. Arjun named it simply: Aequalis Agriculture.
Its pillars were clear:
Soil Restoration
Reduce chemical dependence.
Introduce composting centers, vermiculture, and organic manure.
Grow nitrogen-fixing crops between harvests to replenish nutrients.
Seed Sovereignty
Distribute heirloom and indigenous seeds, resistant to local pests and climates.
Preserve them through village seed banks managed by farmers themselves.
Water Wisdom
Revive traditional water harvesting tanks and ponds.
Implement drip irrigation systems powered by solar pumps.
Ensure water remained a shared resource, not privatized.
Fair Markets
Farmers sell directly to Aequalis Council Stores.
Transparent ledgers show exact prices and profits.
Guaranteed minimums protect them from market crashes.
The plan was ambitious, but Arjun knew ambition meant nothing without trust.
In the Maharashtrian village, Arjun stood before skeptical farmers. Their faces were lined with hardship, their eyes wary of yet another "scheme."
"You want us to stop using fertilizers?" one man demanded. "Without them, our crops will fail!"
Arjun nodded. "Yes, they will—for a season. But with them, your soil is already failing forever. I won't ask you to carry that risk alone. I will carry it with you."
He paused, then added: "If your harvests fail under this system, Aequalis will pay you as if they had succeeded. But if they succeed—as I believe they will—you will never again need to beg loans for chemicals that poison your land."
The farmers murmured among themselves. Slowly, a few nodded.
In Punjab, the skepticism was sharper. A farmer named Harjit Singh, tall and proud, crossed his arms.
"You say these ancient seeds are better than the hybrids we use now? Why should we trust you?"
Arjun looked him in the eye. "Because your father and grandfather trusted them. And they lived without cancer villages, without poisoned water, without debts they could never repay. Will you not at least try?"
Harjit hesitated, then finally nodded. "One field. One season. No more."
"That is all I ask," Arjun said.
The work began.
Soil pits were dug and tested. Compost centers built on the village edge, where waste was turned into nutrient-rich earth. Indigenous seeds distributed hand to hand, each packet marked with its lineage.
Children joined the work, curious. Women gathered to form cooperatives for composting and seed banking. Scientists guided, but farmers led.
Equalizer monitored quietly: rainfall forecasts, soil pH, pest migration. Alerts went to farmers' phones in simple language.
And then came the waiting. The planting was done. Now, the earth would decide.
Months later, the harvest arrived.
In Maharashtra, fields once gray with dust now shimmered with green. Yields weren't enormous, but the soil tests showed life returning—worms, microbes, moisture. Farmers, seeing this, wept openly.
In Punjab, Harjit Singh's experimental field yielded slightly less wheat than his chemical-fed acres—but the grain quality was higher. The taste was richer, the nutrition better. And when he sold it through Aequalis Council Stores, he earned more than he had in years.
He approached Arjun after the harvest. "One season," he said gruffly. "You promised. But I will give you another. This time, my whole farm."
Arjun smiled faintly. "That is all I hoped for."
The proof was alive—in the soil, in the grain, in the taste of food that nourished again.
Arjun stood at the edge of a field one evening, watching the sunset stain the crops in gold. Farmers laughed nearby, children ran between stalks, women collected seeds with care.
He closed his eyes.
"Empires rise and fall," he murmured, "but the soil must remain. If the soil dies, humanity dies."
The Equalizer pulsed softly.
"Observation logged: Agricultural renewal project successful. Expansion recommended."
Arjun nodded slowly. This was not about one season, or two villages. This was about the future of millions.
And as he walked back toward the village, his shoes dusty from the soil, he felt more grounded than he had in years. He wasn't just changing industries anymore. He was changing the earth itself.