Adulting Can Wait—Let’s Jump!

It started with a drizzle. The kind of soft, sweet pitter-patter that smells like earth and childhood. And then came the rain—big, happy drops that splashed onto the dry mud like laughter.

I watched a 31-year-old man jump out of bed barefoot, sprint to the open courtyard, arms flailing, mouth open in joy. He looked 7 years old.

I laughed so hard, tears came. He shouted, "Baarish!" like he was announcing the return of a long-lost friend. I didn’t even realize when I joined him. We danced. We screamed. We played.

Last monsoon, a guest told me something I won’t forget. She said, "This is the first time in ten years I played in the rain without worrying about my hair. Or my phone. Or what I look like."

She was a high-powered lawyer from Delhi, constantly plugged into a hundred notifications a day. That afternoon, soaked and smiling, she said, "I forgot what fun felt like. Thank you for reminding me."

We hugged. It was the kind of hug only rain and realization can bring.

At Farm Aavjo, this isn’t unusual. Adults become children again here. Because here, you don’t have to hold it together. You can let go.

When did we stop jumping with joy? When did we start weighing our excitement, measuring our madness?

Rain doesn’t do that. Neither does a farm full of horses, dogs, open skies and soft soil. We do.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re still that child—the one who ran barefoot, who imagined big things, who wasn’t afraid. Maybe it’s time to meet them again. At a place that remembers.

The heart remembers what the mind forgets.

The rustle of leaves, The chill of wind on wet skin, The giggle that escapes before you can stop it. You once believed in magic without needing proof, You once danced without music, You once jumped, not knowing how high you could go.

And then, we grew up. We started carrying bags heavier than our dreams. We started folding our joy into acceptable sizes. We became careful, cautious, contained.

Maybe it's time to stop holding in your joy. Maybe it's time to run, to laugh, to shout "Baarish!" with your arms open wide, because at Farm Aavjo, the soil doesn’t expect you to be anything but real. It doesn’t judge your muddy feet or wild hair. It invites you to come as you are.

Farm Aavjo isn’t just a place you visit. It’s a feeling you remember. A version of yourself you once were—and still are.

When did you jump last? 

Come remind yourself what that felt like. Come find the child who’s been waiting patiently.