Aside from eating mangoes, I planted them too

 It started with nothing more than a love for the fruit. I didn’t grow up dreaming of farming, and I certainly didn’t see it as a path to business or independence. But sometimes, it’s the small, almost invisible decisions we make—the ones that seem ordinary—that change everything.

The mango tree in my backyard wasn’t planted with profit in mind. It was planted with memories. I remember eating mangoes as a child—juicy, sticky, sweet, and full of joy. They weren’t just fruit; they were summer days, family stories, and laughter under the sun. So when I had my own space, I planted one. No business plan. Just soil, water, and patience.

Years passed, and that tree grew. Every season, it gave us more. At first, I shared the mangoes with neighbors. Then one year, someone offered to buy them. “These are sweeter than the ones at the market,” they said. I sold a few baskets. Nothing major. But it planted a thought in my mind that maybe—just maybe—there was something more to this.

That tree reminded me of something I had been missing: growth. Not just in crops, but in life.

I started reading more about planting, soil care, and crop rotation. I began to understand the seasons—not just the weather, but the seasons of effort, patience, and reward. One mango tree turned into three. Then five. But it was still slow. Mangoes, after all, take time. They are not crops you plant today and harvest tomorrow.

That’s when tomatoes came into the picture.

Tomatoes were different. They grew faster, and the demand for them was steady. Everyone used them—homes, restaurants, markets. And unlike mangoes, you didn’t need to wait years to see results. I decided to try. I prepared a small plot, bought quality seeds, and followed everything I had learned.

The first harvest was humbling. Some tomatoes were too small. Others ripened too early or too late. Some were eaten by pests I didn’t even know existed. I made mistakes. But I didn’t stop. Every mistake taught me something new. Every failure pushed me to do better.

Eventually, my tomatoes improved—bigger, brighter, and tastier. I began selling at local markets. That’s when I hit my next challenge: pricing.

At first, I sold them too cheap. I was excited just to sell, so I underpriced to attract buyers. It worked, but I barely made anything. I remember one older farmer pulling me aside and saying, “Don’t cheat your own sweat. Respect the work you put in. Price it right.”

That stuck with me.

From then on, I made it a rule: —not too high to scare customers, but not too low to lose the value of my time, labor, and knowledge. I learned how to talk to buyers, how to explain what made my tomatoes different—organic methods, careful soil management, and real attention to detail.

People started to trust me. Not just for the quality, but for the honesty. They knew I wasn’t trying to cheat them, and I knew I wasn’t cheating myself either.

Over time, my tomato business grew. I added more plots, hired a few helpers during harvest, and even started supplying to small restaurants. I also continued planting mangoes—not because they were fast money, but because they reminded me of where I started.

The mango tree brought me to the tomatoes. And the tomatoes taught me business.

Now, people ask me how I started. They assume I came from a farming family or had some big investor behind me. I tell them the truth: I started because I liked eating mangoes and one day decided to plant the seed.

What followed wasn’t luck—it was trust. Trust in the process. Trust in the land. Trust in learning from mistakes. And most importantly, trust in myself.

Farming is not easy. It’s unpredictable. The weather changes. Pests come. Markets shift. But when you stick to honest work, when you respect the land and your labor, it pays off—not just in money, but in pride.

One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned is this: people don’t just buy food. They buy stories. They buy effort. They buy trust.

That’s why I never hide where my tomatoes come from. I invite customers to visit the farm, to see the process, to taste the difference. I believe in transparency. I believe in quality. —a price that reflects more than just weight and quantity, but care and consistency.

Looking back, I sometimes smile at how it all began—with a mango seed.

What was once just a craving turned into a calling. What was once a backyard hobby turned into a full business.

I’m still growing—literally and personally. I still experiment with new crops, attend agricultural workshops, and read everything I can. The market changes. Techniques evolve. But the foundation remains the same: plant with purpose, grow with care, sell with honesty.

So when someone asks me, “Why farming?” I don’t just talk about the profits. I talk about the peace. The discipline. The patience. The lessons in every harvest. The quiet pride of knowing that you created something from the earth with your own hands.

And when they ask how I price my goods, I answer simply my choice