The rain pattered down as I walked through the mud, the ground a milky-chocolate river. As the water subsided, it left many things uncovered. The first was plump, fleshy and writhing. Earthworms—flooded out of their subterranean homes, waiting for the water to drain so they could burrow back to their world. Millipedes climbing walls to escape the mud river, the smell of wet leaf everywhere.
Two hours later, I looked more closely at the soil around me. Little balls of mud, the size of tiny mouth-fresheners, lay in heaps on the ground. These were evidence of earthworm industry. Worms go through soil and leave digested heaps behind; this is excellent fertilizer, the turned soil is good for the growth of plants and aids the penetration of water.
The presence of earthworms, those soft-bodied, eyeless, toothless animals, indicates the soil is mostly chemical-free. But as our cities concretise, it is becoming increasingly rare to find patches of chemical-free soil, especially where its most needed.
In our bid to make areas manageable, neat, and formal looking, we have slathered concrete in areas that don’t require it. Sidewalks should have perforations, and open areas should have the chance to ‘breathe’ with free soil. And the things we plant in ‘greened’ areas need change too. Lawns with imported grasses, fed with copious amounts of water, are a colonial legacy. Native grasses and plants should be planted at regular intervals to hold the soil down.
This monsoon, I went soil-watching. There were baby weevils, newly emerged on low plants. There were earthworms and ants, mortal enemies locked in their silent battles. Woodpeckers, which eat ants, called from the canopy, as the ants circled the earthworm. But I had to walk some distance to find a strip of clean soil that was still alive with microbes, earthworms, and the promise of life.
Part of the problem is we look at soil as dirt—as the thing that sticks to our shoes and muddies our rugs. We forget that soil cradles food, plants, and thus life itself. It requires the respect we often save or larger animals.
There are many kinds of earthworms that live in the soil (a 2022 study by S Ghosh and others have made a checklist of over 440 earthworms in India), but planners, and gardeners, don’t know their names. We know of hobbit-homes and dwarf caves, but don’t think of soil in our urban or landscape planning.
Perhaps the monsoon can be a time for us to look at soil more closely, and the things that emerge from it. These are rich worlds that have survived even without our help. And if we can’t save natural soil, we can at least leave it alone; we can think a little before we pour, we can halt the march of heating, crushing concrete.