Agriculture Advanced Consultancy

20/05/2026

Idili ...Hot idili... One rupee...
3 a.m. dawn. Chennai Central Railway Station.

People are asleep all over the platform. In the middle sits an elderly man—78 years old. White dhoti and shirt. In his hand, a bamboo basket. The basket is full of steaming idlis.

“Idli… hot idli… one rupee… just one rupee…”

No one buys. It’s 2026. You don’t even get candy for one rupee—idlis? People laugh, calling him mad.

My name is Aravind. I work in an IT company. Returning home after a night shift. AC car. Hungry. But at the station stalls, idlis cost ₹50.

I noticed the old man. Around 100 idlis in the basket. Not a single customer. His eyes looked moist.

I got down.
“Grandpa, idli for one rupee? Won’t you incur a loss?”

He smiled.
“Son, not a loss. It’s a profit.”

“How, grandpa? Rice price, gas price… one idli costs at least ₹5. You sell for ₹1?”

He closed the basket.
“Let me tell you a story.”

“1975. I was 25. A railway porter. Monthly salary ₹100. One day, heavy rain. No work. No money. Starving for 3 days. I fainted on a bench at the station.”

“Then a woman—she sold idlis on the platform. One rupee each. She lifted me, sprinkled water, fed me 4 idlis. Didn’t ask for money.”

“I cried… said I had no money. She told me—
‘Son, I too once starved. Someone fed me that day. I took a vow: till I die, I will sell idlis for one rupee so the hungry can eat. You also promise—when you grow big, feed someone hungry like this.’”

The old man wiped his eyes.
“She passed away in 1995. Before dying, she held my hand and asked, ‘Will you keep your promise?’ I said yes.”

“After that, I took railway contracts. Earned well. Three houses. Two children. Both in America. But from 1995 till today—every morning at 3 a.m.—100 idlis. One rupee. At this station. 30 years.”

I got goosebumps.
“Grandpa… ₹400 loss daily. ₹12,000 monthly. ₹1.5 lakh yearly. Over 30 years… ₹45 lakhs!”

“Son, by money, it’s a loss. By heart, it’s profit. In 30 years—how many people have I fed? 10 lakh idlis. 10 lakh stomachs. 10 lakh blessings. How many crores is that worth?”

Just then, a boy ran in. Torn shirt. About 12 years old.
“Grandpa… idli… haven’t eaten for 3 days. Mother in hospital. No money.”

The old man placed 4 idlis on a leaf, poured chutney.
“Eat slowly, son.”

The boy ate… and cried.
“I’ll pay tomorrow…”

“No need. When you grow big, feed another hungry person. That’s enough. That is the payment.”

The boy fell at his feet.
“I promise, grandpa. I too will sell idlis for one rupee.”

I took out ₹1000.
“Grandpa, please… I’ll buy all the idlis.”

He smiled.
“These are not for selling to one person. They are for the hungry. If you’re hungry, take one idli. Put one rupee. That’s enough.”

I placed ₹1. Took one idli. It was the tastiest food I’ve ever had. I ate it with tears.

“Grandpa, can I ask something?”

“Ask, son.”

“Don’t your children object… saying it’s a waste of money?”

He took out his phone. Video call. His son in America.

“Appa, did you sell the idlis? Are you fine? What did the doctor say?”

“I’m fine. A young man came today, heard the story.”

His son saw me and smiled.
“Sir, thank you. Please take care of my father. We send ₹50,000 every month—for the idlis. It’s his wish. That’s our blessing. His vow is our vow.”

The old man ended the call.
“See, son? My children have also taken the vow. Even after I die, this basket won’t stop. One-rupee idli won’t stop.”

Today its 2026. The old man is no more. He passed away last year at 79. Before dying, he held my hand:
“Son, take care of the basket. Keep the promise.”

Now, every morning at 3 a.m., at the same bench in Chennai Central Railway Station—I am there. Basket full of idlis. One rupee.

I didn’t quit my IT job. But I give 2 hours every morning… to idlis.

My company has 200 staff. Each contributes ₹100 per month.
“One Rupee Idli Trust.”

That 12-year-old boy—Ganesh—is now in Class 12. He studies… and in the evenings, comes to help.
“Anna, I’ve also taken the vow. When I grow big, I’ll do this too."
---

Friends, earning money is not great. Using money to earn merit—that is greatness.

If you have children at home, keep a small savings box.
“₹1 box.”
Ask them to drop ₹1 daily. ₹30 a month. With that, buy food for someone hungry.

Because ₹30 may be just a pizza corner expense for you…
But for someone else, it can mean 30 days of food.
---

Take a vow: feed at least one hungry person.
Money will go. Merit will stay.
The basket may empty… but the heart will be full.
🙏🏼🌹🙏

10/05/2026

*To My Mother — On Mother’s Day*

*Mother,*
Your hands held my tiny dreams
Before I even knew their name.
Your voice became my first prayer,
Your smile my safest home.

Through every storm and silent tear,
You stood beside me quietly strong,
Turning ordinary days into blessings
And teaching my heart kindness all along.

You gave without counting,
Loved without condition,
And filled our lives with warmth
Beyond words and definition.

Today, on Mother’s Day,
I bow with gratitude and grace,
For no treasure in this world
Can ever take your place.

May your days be filled with peace,
Your heart with endless joy,
For a mother like you
Is life’s greatest gift and pride.

*Happy Mother’s Day!* 💐

08/05/2026

*Lovely poem*

🎊 Good Morning 🌞

When wrinkles bloom and joints protest,
don’t teach the world—just give it rest.

Even if you're right (and you often are),
unsolicited wisdom leaves a scar.

Help only when someone pleads,
Don’t plant advice like stubborn weeds.

Don’t bubble-wrap your kin from pain.
Just love them deep, and not explain.

No moaning 'bout your knees or pills,
Or neighbours, netas, unpaid bills.
Don’t turn bitter, don’t be loud—
Grumpy elders aren’t allowed!

Don’t expect your kids to bow,
They love you—just not like wow.

Gratitude’s not their daily bread,
It’s us who dream about it in our head.

Avoid the dreaded elder speech:
“In my time…” or “I did each…”

“I’m older, hence I know it all!”
That’s not wisdom—it’s just gall.

Don’t waste your cash on youth’s disguise,
On creams or potions full of lies.
Better to travel, dance, and roam.
Than Botox your way back to home.

Stay with the times, don’t lag behind,
Learn new tech, expand your mind.

Read the news, decode the apps—
Don’t be the one who always naps.

Do what you love, while you still can,
Be your own fan, your biggest stan.
No guilt-trips down memory lane—
You did your best, now don’t complain.

Hold your pride, your grace, your name,
Don’t play the martyr’s aging game.

Keep giving love, your finest art—
That’s the secret to a youthful heart.

Author unknown.
Hope you enjoyed it. 🙂

08/05/2026

😪❤
Do read!

I am a delivery boy. I mostly work the evening shift.
That day, around 9 PM at night, I picked up the last order.
When I took the packet from the restaurant, I noticed—it was a small order, just plain khichdi, curd, and two bananas.

The address was in the old part of the city.
A rundown building. Third floor up.
I pressed the doorbell.

An elderly woman opened the door.
White hair, trembling hands, thick glasses on her eyes.
Her face showed fatigue, but her voice had a sweetness—

"Son, put it inside, please… my hands shake."

I set the food on the table and turned to leave when she asked—

"Will you sit for two minutes?
Eating alone doesn't feel good."

I checked my watch.
My shift was over.
I was a bit tired.
But for some reason, I sat down.

The room was silent.
An old clock ticked on the wall.
In one corner, a small picture of God.
And on the opposite wall, dozens of photos.

She opened the plate.
Started eating the khichdi slowly.
After every two bites, she'd look at me and smile.

Then she said—

"You know, son, I don't order food from outside every day.
Today, I just felt like it… to hear a human voice."

I stayed quiet.

She pointed to a picture on the wall.

"This is my husband. He worked in the railways.
He passed away five years ago."

Then another picture—

"This is my son. Lives in Canada.
He's doing very well… sends money every month."

Then she fell silent for a bit.
She smiled, but this time her eyes welled up—

"It's just… he doesn't have time to send."

Suddenly, the clock's ticking in the room sounded very loud.

She took another bite.

"This is my daughter. In Bengaluru.
She's happy in her own world.
She should be.
If children don't fly, what was the point of raising them?"

As she spoke, her voice cracked.
But there was no complaint on her face.
Just emptiness.

She asked me—

"Do you have a mother?"

I said—
"Yes."

"Do you call her every day?"

I went quiet.

The truth was, I too went days without calling home.
Fatigue, work, the rush…
Every time, I'd put it off thinking I'd do it tomorrow.

She read my silence.

She said softly—

"Parents don't count money, son…
They count voices."

Something inside me quietly broke.

The meal ended.
She drank some water.
Then she took 500 rupees from her purse and held it out to me.

"This isn't a tip.
This is the price for that half hour, when you didn't let me eat alone."

I refused immediately—

"No, Amma, I can't take this."

She smiled—

"Take it.
You didn't deliver food today…
You delivered company."

I took the money.
But I didn't put it in my pocket.
I held it in my hand.

As I was leaving, she said—

"And yes—
Go home today and call your mother for sure."

That night, I didn't start my bike at the bottom of the building.
I called my mother first.

From the other end came her voice—

"Calling suddenly today? Everything's okay, right?"

Just hearing that choked me up.

I said—

"Yes, Mom…
I just wanted to hear your voice."

There was silence for a few seconds on the other end.
Then Mom said—

"Have you eaten?"

And I stood by the roadside and broke down crying.

After that night, I started calling Mom every day.

And not just Mom—
Every delivery stopped being just an order for me.

Some homes need medicine.
Some homes need relief from loneliness.
Some homes need waiting to end.
Some homes just need a voice.

Now, when the door opens, I don't rush.
I look at the face.
I listen to the voice.
Sometimes I ask—
"And everything else okay?"

Most people just say "Yes."
Some smile.
And some faces tell me they haven't spoken to anyone all day.

Two months later, an order came from the same address.

I rushed over.

Someone else opened the door.
It was the neighbor aunty.

She said softly—

"Amma passed away last week."

I stood at the door for a few seconds.
My hands were empty, but something heavy had fallen inside me.

She brought out a small envelope from inside.
"She left this for you."

My hands shaking, I opened it.

Inside were 500 rupees.
And a small note.

It said—

"Son,
If you're reading this, I've gone.
Thank you for eating with me that night.
You didn't give me food—you gave me respect.
And yes—keep calling your mother.
Amma"

Even today, those 500 rupees are in the inner pocket of my bag.
I haven't spent them.

Because that night, I understood for the first time—

Behind every door isn't just a customer.
Sometimes it's a mother.
Sometimes it's a wait.
Sometimes it's a last conversation.

We're all living with our own hungers—
Some need bread,
Some need medicine,
And some just need two minutes of company.
Humans don't always need a delivery of money—
Sometimes, they just need a delivery of presence.

PS

Loneliness and old age are terrible indeed when they occur together. If lack of resources also joins these two it is the ultimate tragedy.

25/04/2026

19/04/2026

Wishing you ,on this auspicious day,a lifetime of happiness, health,peace and prosperity

14/04/2026

*🌾Happy Baisakhi!🌾*

Wishing you and your family joy, prosperity, and abundant happiness on the auspicious occasion of Baisakhi.

May this harvest festival bring new beginnings, success, and positivity into your life.

Mamik family