And its culture, too
I lean on the mud-slick bund of our one-acre paddy and watch the sun smack the water as it sets. It’s 5:47 a.m. on 10 August 2025. The field smelled of wet earth and fresh cow dung.
My father is already there, ankle-deep, guiding two oxen through the first plough. No big speech, no film scene — just the day starting like every other day in our village near Thanjavur.
Why rice runs the show. We don’t say, “Let’s grow food.” We say, “Let’s grow rice.” That’s the default.
Every calendar in our house is a rice calendar.
- June — nurseries
- July — transplant
- November — harvest
- December — thank the gods and sleep one full day
If rice fails, nothing else feels worth doing.
Grandpa’s first lesson
I was eight. He handed me a fistful of paddy and said, “Count.” I counted 73 grains. He laughed. “Seventy-three plates of food. Don’t waste one.” That stuck harder than any other school lesson.
One crop, many hands. Rice farming is not a solo activity. It is a group chat in real life. Neighbours walk in without knocking. We swap seeds, share bulls, and argue over…