Early on, my song of Sea Free was often stories or parables of plants. There was one in particular I couldn't get out of my head, it almost haunted me. It spoke of big, beautiful plants bursting forth from the tiniest, insignificant seed, and being ripped apart for the good of a hungry community, returning back into the tiniest seed.

As I listened intently, I kept seeing images of mustard fields near the Hooghly River that winds near Kolkata and under the Howrah Bridge. Cultivated since at least 3,000 B.C., generations of my family have survived on its stems, shoots, flowers and seeds. Every part of the plant is edible for us – a gift bursting forth from something akin to a speck of dirt under my shoe. Today, when I sizzle the seeds as the first step in my curry pan, letting me know the oil temp is just right, the way my uncle taught me, I am taken back to Sea Free with the touch of humility on my tongue.