Conversations by the Bonfire: Stories, Silence & Stargazing at Farm Aavjo

The fire starts small.

A few crackling twigs, the dry rustle of grass from the day, a match struck with care.

They arrive in clean shoes and polite nods. But by nightfall, someone’s barefoot, someone’s crying, someone’s laughing like a child. And no one’s checking their phones.

That One Couple from Bangalore

They were both architects. Drove in from Jaipur after a long fight (they told me later). Said they needed "just a night" to reset. That night, they sat across from each other, shoulders still stiff. But the fire softened something. She said, “You never look at the stars anymore.” He looked up. “I forgot how.”

They stayed three nights.

The Solo Traveler from Delhi

She was burnt out. Corporate job, high heels, insomnia. We sat by the fire in silence the first night. She didn’t speak. Just stared into the flames like they were translating her thoughts back to her. On the second night, she whispered, “I didn’t know silence could feel this kind.”

The Israeli Guest and the Village Boy

This one still makes me laugh. A guest from Israel who didn’t speak a word of Hindi and one of our boys from the nearby village who didn’t speak English. They sat beside each other, giggling, miming animal names into the fire. “Moo!” “Meow!” “Baa!” Pure joy, no translator needed. The universal language of fire and foolishness.

Some nights, I tell stories. Not dramatic ones—just real ones. About the stubborn mare who taught me patience. About the first monsoon after I moved here, when the roof leaked and I cried but also laughed and also danced because I knew—this was mine. About how “Aavjo” became more than a word. About how I built this place not to be a host, but a human being who happens to hold space.

And then there are nights when no one speaks. When we all just lie back on charpais, letting the stars remind us how small we are and how okay that is. The fire cracks softly, someone hums a song, and the wind wraps us like a shawl.

So if you ever find yourself here, and someone asks, “Coming to the bonfire?” Say yes.

Come with your stories. Or your silence. We’ve got space for both.

And when you leave, the fire will remember you. Just like we will.