Reflections on ecology, excess, and humility on a cattle-heavy farm

f you were to visit Bhoomi on a typical morning, the first thing you’d notice is the sound —
the deep, slow rhythm of buffalo hooves on wet ground, the chorus of goats calling for feed, and the splash from the pond where the ducks break the stillness.

It looks abundant. It feels abundant. But lately, I’ve begun to see the hidden imbalance beneath it.

We have too many mouths for the land to feed.
Nine buffaloes, eight cows, thirty-plus goats, and fifty chickens — all dependent, directly or indirectly, on the farm’s limited green.
The manure they produce enriches our soil, yes, but the fodder they consume travels here from outside — sacks of concentrate, bundles of straw, truckloads of greens from beyond our fields.

The more we add animals, the more we drift from the self-sufficiency we seek.
Our system becomes heavier — financially, logistically, ecologically.
The manure enriches the soil, but the cost of feeding it multiplies.

It’s a strange paradox: the more productive the animals, the less regenerative the system becomes — unless balance is maintained.

Sometimes, while carrying feed buckets at dawn, I think of this imbalance as a mirror.
We humans often call something “sustainable” simply because it looks alive.
But true sustainability is quieter; it’s the point where nothing leans too hard on anything else.

I haven’t figured it out yet.
I’m still learning to listen to the numbers — how much land, how many animals, how much compost, how much patience.
Perhaps one day, Bhoomi will reach that gentle balance again — where no part of it is overfed or overburdened, and the ecosystem hums in quiet equilibrium.

For now, I take notes, adjust, and try again.