Let’s walk through three meals at the farm and get a vibe check?

There’s something comforting about the way Ino, our greyhound, greets you in the morning, like she has known you forever. About the hens pecking around like they own the place. The sound of Laxmi, our cow somewhere, doing her thing. And the horses, watching from a distance, like calm old friends.

Mornings here are unhurried. The air feels like it's still waking up. I usually walk out barefoot, sometimes chai in hand, still wrapped in the dreams I was dreaming before waking up. The sun creeps in slowly over the Aravalli hills.

Breakfast isn’t fancy, it’s real. Farm eggs, maybe some fresh fruit, bajra rotis when the mood strikes. And always, curd or chaach (buttermilk). We don’t do hotel-style buffets. The kitchen follows the farm's rhythm. And your body, somehow, agrees.

After that? You just… be.

Tanya - farm's friend, with Cookie - farm's moody queen

Some guests read under the neem tree. Others help feed the cows or collect eggs. Some lie in hammocks and stare at the sky for hours. No one tells you where to be. There’s no itinerary. It’s a rare kind of freedom—to follow your own pulse. Sounds familiar? 

Lunch is served like how it would be at home. Hot, simple, made with love. Most days, people eat together—conversations start over ghee-smeared rotis. I’ve watched strangers talk like old friends by the end of a meal.

By the time dinner rolls around, the fire’s usually lit during winters. Some nights we talk. Some nights we sing. Some nights it’s just the stars and the sound of food being shared.

And when you go to sleep, it’s not out of exhaustion.

It’s because you’re full. Not just in the stomach, but in your heart, your breath, your senses.

This is what slowing down feels like to me.

Not escape. Just remembering.

Your pace. Your peace. Your own rhythm.

Farm Aavjo isn't a place to stay. It’s a place to return to, inside and out. 

When you visit us, let yourself flow and feel, because you are free, just like the birds.