Operation Vermicompost

Since yesterday, I have been on a quest for something that sounds deceptively humble – vermicompost. Pantnagar’s agricultural university sells it, and I thought it would be a simple errand. Drive down, buy some bags of worm magic, and return triumphant. But no. This little adventure has turned into a full-scale logistical opera, complete with phone calls, negotiations, last-minute changes, and the occasional dramatic sigh.

We make our own compost and vermicompost, of course. But our orchard is largish and the soil is still in that hungry teenage phase where it eats everything you give it and asks for more. One day, when the soil matures and the orchard becomes self-sufficient, I hope to simply watch the worms and homemade compost do the work while sipping coffee in peace. For now, I am still the desperate middleman between hungry trees and reluctant trucks.

The university sells vermicompost in 40-kilo bags. Great for economies of scale, terrible for the back. I can squeeze a maximum of six bags into my car before the suspension starts to weep. This year, I estimate we need another 50 to 60 bags on top of what we produce ourselves. Buying the stuff is not the problem. Getting it from Pantnagar to our hilltop orchard, however, is starting to feel like organising a small military campaign.

My idea was to combine orders. A large project near us wanted 100 bags (40 quintals). A neighbour fancied 25 bags (10 quintals). I bravely volunteered for 75 bags (30 quintals). What a treasure that would be – mountains of rich black vermicompost, all quietly wriggling with life. We finalised a collective order of 80 quintals. Then came the truck problem.

Small pick-up sized trucks can’t carry that much. Mid-sized trucks can, but they quote prices that make you wonder if they plan to sprinkle gold dust on each bag. I started making calls like a stockbroker in a market crash. One contact promised to arrange a truck but quoted a rate so high that the neighbour with the modest 25-bag order threatened to retreat. Meanwhile, the university sales counter, blissfully unaware of our growing drama, had already started packing the bags and putting workers on overtime. Backing out was no longer an option.

The neighbour with the smallest order suggested reducing the order to 50 bags and hiring a smaller truck. That would have been easier, if slightly disappointing. But before I could agree, the big project people called in a panic. “Don’t go ahead without us!” they said, as if I was about to elope with the worms.

Enter the fourth player. A friend-of-a-friend offered to arrange a truck—if we added another 20 quintals for his personal use. Suddenly our modest 200-bag mission ballooned to 250 bags (a whopping 100 quintals). By then the word was out, and a fifth person called. He wanted to know if I could manage another 10 bags for him. At this point, the compost was practically multiplying faster than the worms themselves.

I even found a small trucker willing to take on the job at what sounded like a bargain until he revealed the catch. He proposed making multiple trips over the next month, ferrying just five to ten bags at a time. To sweeten the deal, he offered me a “special rate” of one bottle of alcohol after every trip. Technically quite affordable in rupees but completely against my principles and definitely a recipe for logistical chaos. I politely declined.

After endless calls, counter offers, and quiet calculations about who would pay for what, a truck was finally secured. The person with the largest order graciously agreed to cover the cost difference for the smallest buyer. Not the tidiest ending, but if all goes well the bags should start their journey tomorrow. The final order tally as of now stands at one hundred bags from the big buyer who will also shoulder the extra transport cost, seventy five bags of mine, and twenty five bags from the neighbour who gets a slightly gentler shipping bill. And to top it all off, I will also have to make a trip to Pantnagar to pay in cash, then chase down the others to collect their share. Truly, the worms are easier to deal with than humans.

All this drama just to move a few tonnes of worm poop from Point A to Point B. Farming, once again, proves that it is never only about soil and plants. It is about the delightful chaos that sneaks in when humans and their opinions enter the picture. The quiet lesson for the future is simple but sharp: never assume that a clever plan to share costs or create mutual benefit will automatically win hearts. Most people are not quite ready for the act of cooperation for mutual benefit, yet. Getting a seed to sprout in a drought sometimes feels easier than getting a group of grown adults to agree on a truck. I will get my vermicompost tomorrow, and I am not losing hope in cooperation. Perhaps in the future these joint efforts will fall into place more easily.

ADDENDUM: Day 2: The vermicompost reached me. Yet to settle the amounts.

Click here for all related posts – Browse my blog on slow and sustainable living !