Bujji’s father, Peddiraju, was a man of tradition. He had already chosen a match for her: a wealthy buffalo trader from a neighboring village with gold rings on every finger and no poetry in his soul.

"This is a new breed," he said. "It survives any storm. It bears fruit in drought. It is immune to blight. I grew it for her. Because she taught me that soil is not data. It is love. And love, if you plant it right, is the only crop that never fails."

On his third day, Vikram set up his equipment under the giant banyan tree near the well. He watched Bujji fill her pot. "The pH of your water is excellent," he said by way of greeting.

Bujji stood beside her father, her eyes searching the crowd. Vikram was not there.