Two Farms, Two Worlds

It begins, as these things often do, with an image.

Not an abstract idea of “a farm,” but two very specific landscapes—two childhood worlds that happen to share the same word, and almost nothing else.

If you arrived at Ismar’s farm in Brazil, you would first notice the house.

A wooden structure, painted yellow, standing quietly in the middle of a wide, open space. Around it, a large yard—alive, but not crowded. Guava trees, orange trees, tangerines, bananas. A small stream running somewhere close, not dramatic, just present, like something that has always been there. At one end, a simple wooden mechanism—handmade, functional—used to separate the husk from rice. Water flowing, wood moving, grain transforming.

It was a self-contained world.

Rice, beans, corn—grown, processed, consumed. Little need to buy anything. A cow shed nearby. A cluster of bamboo between the house and the animals. A fence marking the boundary, not aggressively, just enough to say: this is ours.

And beyond that?

Distance.

The nearest neighbour, five kilometres away. A few workers’ houses scattered further out. Roads stretching in three directions, leading eventually—after long stretches—to small villages, and then, much further, to a town.

Three thousand five hundred hectares of land. But for a child, that number doesn’t mean much. What matters is how far you are allowed to go.

For Ismar, not very far.

The farm was large, but his world was small.

If you arrived at Ritesh’s “farm” in northern India, you might hesitate to call it that.

Because here, the word itself starts to break down.

There is no single, unified piece of land with a house in the middle. Instead, there is a village. And within it, a house. And somewhere beyond that, fields—owned, cultivated, but not physically attached.

So you would first see the house.

Rectangular, aligned east to west. In front of it, animals—cows, buffaloes, bulls. Not at a distance, but close, part of daily life. Some rooms connected, some deliberately not. One section built so that animals could enter without crossing into the family’s living space.

Inside, a different kind of architecture: two levels in each room. The ground for living, sleeping, storing. Above, another level—reached by bamboo ladders—used for grain, or sometimes for people. No strict separation between functions. No strict separation between people.

Privacy, in the modern sense, barely existed.

Families slept together. Grandparents, children, uncles. When Ritesh’s sister was born, she moved to sleep with the grandmother—not because of design, but because space had to be negotiated.

And people kept coming.

Neighbours. Relatives. Others from the village who needed a place to sleep. The house was not just a home; it was part of a network.

Behind or near the house, there might be a small patch of land—used for vegetables, animals, or practical work. A grinding mill powered by a diesel machine. People from surrounding villages bringing wheat or rice to be processed. Activity, movement, exchange.

And then, elsewhere, the actual fields.

Disconnected. Reached by walking. Or by carrying loads on one’s head.

Two farms.

One defined by space and distance.

The other by density and proximity.

As children, their days unfolded accordingly.

For Ismar, childhood had a certain looseness.

He woke up around seven. Breakfast. And then—nothing structured. Time stretching until lunch. After that, wandering. Climbing trees. Picking fruit directly from branches—guava, oranges, tangerines. Sometimes falling, cutting himself, returning home with small injuries that were simply part of growing up.

There were few play options. No neighbours nearby. No group of children running around.

He had a sister, but there was a rule—unspoken, but strong—that boys did not play with girls.

So he was often alone.

He invented his own activities. Played with peppers once, not knowing their effect, and returned crying when the burning began. Used slingshots. Bows and arrows. Even firearms—his father, a skilled shooter, allowed him access early. At eight or nine, he handled a pistol. At ten, a rifle.

He killed birds. Reptiles. Things he later regretted, but at the time, it was simply part of the culture he inhabited.

There were no daily chores imposed on him. Occasionally, he was asked to push seeds into the ground, to wash dishes, to cut grass. But these were not routines. They did not define his day.

In many ways, he had freedom.

But freedom, in isolation, has a different texture.

For Ritesh, childhood followed a stricter rhythm.

Morning meant school.

No kindergarten. Direct entry into primary school at a young age. Walking there—sometimes alone, sometimes with others. Returning home for lunch, then going back again.

After school, there was no guarantee of play.

An uncle, not much older than him, enforced discipline. If Ritesh was seen playing outside, he could be called back, even hit. There was an expectation: time should be used properly.

So play existed, but often in fragments. Small escapes. Games with sticks. Moments stolen rather than freely given.

Work, however, was not something he was formally assigned—it was something he absorbed.

Farming tasks were collective. During planting season, everyone participated. Preparing the land. Removing unwanted growth. Carrying saplings. Walking barefoot over harvested grain to dry it properly.

He remembers the physicality of it—the excitement at first, followed quickly by exhaustion. Ten or twenty minutes, and the energy would disappear.

There were also responsibilities that came naturally. Carrying food to labourers working in the fields. Walking distances to deliver meals. Observing how crops were processed—how rice was separated, how wheat became flour.

And always, the presence of others.

Grandparents. Parents. Aunts. Uncles. Workers. Neighbours.

If someone in the household was absent, another family would step in—bringing food, sharing milk, exchanging essentials without calculation.

It was not an organised system. It was simply how things worked.

Authority, too, took different forms.

On Ismar’s farm, his father made the decisions. A man, as Ismar describes, “with his mind on the moon.” His mother was more practical, more grounded, offering advice—but the final word remained with the father.

On Ritesh’s side, authority was also centralised—but more layered.

His father was the decision-maker. Educated relative to others in the family. Responsible. But not unquestioned.

His grandmother would comment, advise, sometimes complain—especially about farming decisions. Timing of fertilisers. Methods. Experience versus theory.

His father, however, often followed his own logic. Not always aligned with local practices. Not always efficient.

It created a quiet tension—not confrontation, but a background dialogue between generations, between experience and intention.

And then, there is the question of connection.

Ismar’s childhood, when he looks back, carries a thread of solitude.

Even when he later moved to town, played football, interacted with others—he still felt, internally, like a lonely person.

Not dramatically. Not with bitterness. Just a recognition that he thinks differently, relates differently, observes more than he participates.

Even as a child, the lack of neighbours, the distance between people, shaped something fundamental.

Ritesh’s experience was almost the opposite.

He grew up surrounded—by family, by community, by constant interaction.

There was a sense of shared life. People borrowing, lending, helping without formalities. Children moving freely between houses. A collective environment where individual space was secondary.

But even he notes something important.

That this has changed.

Where once people would share milk without hesitation, now they hesitate. Where children once moved freely, now parents hold them back. Where community once felt natural, now it feels fractured.

He wonders whether it is age that has changed his perception—or whether the world itself has shifted.

Perhaps both.

And yet, despite all these differences, both carry something forward.

Ismar, who does not wish to return permanently to farm life, still finds himself drawn to nature. Eco-tourism. Animals. Quiet environments away from urban noise. Something from those early years remains—subtle, but persistent.

Ritesh carries something more relational.

A deep connection to people. To family. To shared living. Even as he moves through cities, through modern systems, he feels anchored to that earlier way of being.

Not unchanged—but not abandoned either.

If they could speak to their younger selves, their advice would diverge.

Ritesh would say: enjoy it.

Because childhood, in his memory, was presence. Playing meant playing. Living meant living. No constant thinking about future or past.

Ismar would say: prepare.

Because life, as he sees it now, is not only about those moments. It is difficult. It requires readiness.

Two perspectives.

One looking back at what was lost.

The other looking forward at what was needed.

And somewhere between a yellow wooden house in Brazil and a crowded family home in India, between silence and noise, between solitude and community, both of them learned how to live.

Just in very different ways.