Under a searing sun, India's peasant plods endlessly behind his scrawny bullocks, scratching at the badly irrigated soil with tools of a thousand years ago. Most of his cow's dung cannot be used as fertilizer, for it is needed as fuel; his patch of land is tiny, and his life is mortgaged to the local moneylender or landlord. He has a deep distrust of foreigners' slick schemes for greater yields; yet the fate of all of India's 415 million depends on the stubborn peasant's ability to expand production. Six years from now, crowded...
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