In Ishwardi, the month of Phalgun typically ushers in a fragrant promise. By mid-February, the air fills with the sweet scent of litchi buds, and hundreds of gardens burst into clusters of vibrant yellow. This year, however, the scene is starkly different.
The litchi trees stand barren—devoid of buds, their branches sprouting young green leaves instead. For the first time in decades, farmers, garden owners, and traders in this litchi heartland of Pabna are gripped by a creeping dread: a catastrophic crop failure looms on the horizon.
Across the so-called “litchi villages”—Maniknagar, Mirkamari, Charmirkamari, Kadimpara, and Aotapara—the story is the same.
Where buds once signalled prosperity, new leaves now spell uncertainty. “I’ve never seen anything like this in 50 years,” says Mostafa Zaman, a seasoned farmer from Maniknagar, his voice heavy with disbelief. “I don’t know what will happen to us this time.”
Litchi isn’t just a crop here; it’s the lifeblood of the region. Ishwardi’s annual yield, valued at Tk 450–500 crore, sustains the livelihoods of lakhs of people—farmers, labourers, and traders alike. But with 17 days of Phalgun already gone, the usual bustle of fertilizing, spraying pesticides, and tending gardens has given way to an eerie stillness. Farmers, disheartened by the lack of buds, have largely abandoned their routines.
A season of scarcity
Abdul Jalil Kitab, known locally as “Lichu Kitab,” is a national medallist in litchi cultivation from Mirkamari village. With 45 years of experience, he’s seen seasons come and go—but never one like this. “This is a disaster,” he tells Jago News, standing amid his struggling orchard. “Not just for me, but across the country. I doubt we’ll get even 10 per cent of our usual yield this year.”
Kitab points to the weather as the primary culprit—an unpredictable shift that has thrown nature’s rhythm off balance. “If we can’t adapt litchi cultivation to this changing climate, it might vanish from Ishwardi in the next five years,” he warns. For the lakhs tied to this trade, the stakes couldn’t be higher. “The government needs to act now to protect this crop,” he urges, “or we’re all in danger.”
Other farmers echo his despair. Nayeb Munshi, a garden owner in Maniknagar, gestures toward his trees. “Buds are visible on maybe one or two out of a hundred—just a handful. The rest are covered in new leaves.” Liton Biswas from Purbapara village shares a similar tale: “Only 10 to 20 per cent of my trees have budded. The rest are bare. We depend on litchi to survive—it’s going to be tough this time.”
Weather or warning?
Agricultural officials attribute this anomaly to climatic shifts. Mita Sarkar, Ishwardi’s Upazila Agriculture Officer, oversees 3,100 hectares of litchi cultivation—a source of local pride. “This year, the bud count is noticeably lower,” she admits to Jago News. “We suspect adverse weather is to blame.” Yet she remains cautiously optimistic, noting that some trees have begun budding late. “There’s still time,” she says.
Ekhlasur Rahman, a Deputy Assistant Agriculture Officer, offers a broader perspective. “Budding isn’t uniform every year—some seasons bring less, others more. This year’s shortfall might even have genetic roots. We expect a stronger showing next year.” But for farmers staring at barren branches, such explanations feel like cold comfort.
A fragile future
The absence of buds signals more than a lost harvest—it threatens a way of life. In a typical year, Ishwardi’s litchi gardens hum with activity as Phalgun unfolds, each bud a tiny promise of income. Now, those promises have withered before they could bloom. Farmers who once planned their lives around this cash crop are left questioning its future—and their own.
For Abdul Jalil Kitab, the stakes are existential. “Litchi isn’t just about money—it’s our identity,” he says, gazing at a tree that offers only leaves where fruit should be. “If this continues, what will become of us?” As the sun sets over Ishwardi’s silent orchards, that question lingers, unanswered, in the still air.