Every January, when the eucalyptus groves of Punjab begin to flower, a quiet migration begins. Beekeepers load their hives — fifty, sometimes a hundred wooden boxes — onto flatbed trucks and drive north. They follow the bloom. They have been doing this for generations.
This is migratory beekeeping — an ancient rhythm shaped by the land, the seasons, and an intimate knowledge passed down through families. From the plains of Punjab to the foothills of Himachal and back again, beekeepers read the landscape like a map, tracking bloom cycles, rainfall, and temperature. Their routes aren't on any GPS; they're remembered.
January through March belongs to eucalyptus. The trees flower for a brief window, and the nectar flow is abundant but fleeting. Miss it, and you wait another year.
To follow the bloom is to accept uncertainty. Roads wash out. Flowers sometimes fail. Colonies grow restless. Yet the beekeepers go, because they understand something essential: great honey is not made, it is received. Their job is to be present when the land is generous.
I don't see myself as a honey farmer. I see myself as a translator — between what the land offers and what the jar holds.
