Two Fields Nearby

The village was small, but its fields stretched far—green in the rains, golden in the sun. Two farms sat side by side on the eastern edge, separated only by a low stone wall and a winding footpath. On one side worked Arun, calm and quiet. On the other, Dev, restless and driven.

Both men had inherited their land from their fathers. Both woke with the sun. Both knew the weight of soil under fingernails and the ache of backs bent too long. Yet their farms told two different stories.

Arun’s land looked like it had been painted with care—rows straight as ribbons, tools neatly lined, trees pruned just enough to shade but not block the light. The birds sang louder in his trees, or so it seemed.

Dev’s land, on the other hand, was cluttered with half-finished work. One day he dug trenches for irrigation but didn’t finish. Another day he started clearing the barn, only to rush off chasing a better idea. He planted seeds but forgot to water them. When crops failed, he blamed the weather, the pests, the seeds—everything but his scattered methods.

Villagers often whispered, “Dev is always busy, but nothing ever grows.”
And, “Arun moves slow, yet his harvests never fail.”

It burned in Dev’s chest. He hated being compared.

One evening, after a particularly hard day—his ox had broken free, and the wheat was wilting again—Dev sat on a rock at the edge of his field, staring at the bounty across the wall. Arun was walking the rows, checking each plant with quiet patience.

Dev muttered under his breath, “Why him? I work just as hard.”

He didn’t expect Arun to hear.

But Arun paused, looked up, and said nothing at first—only walked over, calm as always, and sat beside Dev on the rock. The silence between them stretched.

And then, with a quiet sigh, he muttered to Arun “I worked just as hard as you,”.

Arun smiled gently and replied, “Maybe. But not just hard—I worked wisely.”

Dev frowned, clearly not satisfied. “So what are you saying? That I’m lazy?”

Arun shook his head. “No. I’ve seen you work late into the night, sometimes even harder than me. But effort without direction is like planting seeds without knowing the season. It may grow—or it may die.”

Dev looked at his hands, rough and calloused. “Then what should I have done?”

Arun motioned for Dev to walk with him. They strolled through Arun’s fields, golden and full.

“Each morning,” Arun said, “I picked just three things to do. Not ten. Just three that truly mattered for the farm that day. I stuck to those. Some days I worked a little slower, some days faster. But I kept moving forward—step by step.”

Dev’s eyes followed the perfect rows of crops. “And what about your tools? They look almost new.”

Arun nodded. “I clean and sharpen them at sunset. A sharp blade saves more time than a strong arm.”

They stopped under a tree heavy with fruit. Arun plucked two apples and handed one to Dev.

“This farm didn’t grow from working harder in a single day. It grew because I showed up every day, even for a little while, and gave my best to what mattered most.”

Dev bit into the apple, thoughtful. The sweetness surprised him—he hadn’t tasted fruit like this in years. Maybe never.

He looked across at his own land, not with frustration now, but with quiet determination.

“Will you teach me?” he asked.

Arun smiled. “Of course. But the land teaches best. Walk it every day. Care for it as if it were your own reflection. The results will follow.”

From that day on, Dev began to change.

The very next morning, he knocked on Arun’s door before sunrise.

“I don’t know where to begin,” he admitted, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

Arun handed him a notebook. “Begin here. Write down three things you’ll do today. Just three. No more.”

Dev hesitated. “Only three? But there’s so much I’ve left undone—my tools, the weeds, the broken fence—”

Arun held up a hand. “Choose three that matter most. The rest will wait. The farm is patient, if you are.”

So Dev wrote:

·        Fix the broken fence on the west side.

·        Pull weeds from the vegetable rows.

·        Sharpen the hoe.

He stuck to those three. No rushing. No distractions. When the sun dipped behind the hills, he looked back at what he’d done—not everything, but enough.

The next day, he returned with his notebook.

“Three more?” Arun asked.

Dev nodded, this time with a small smile. “Three more.”

As the days passed, the wild patches of his land began to fall into order. His tools, once lost in the grass, now hung neatly in the shed. He no longer worked until midnight or wasted hours deciding what to do next.

One evening, while putting away his hoe, Dev chuckled to himself. “A sharp blade saves more time than a strong arm,” he repeated, remembering Arun’s words.

Arun, walking by with a sack of grain, smiled. “You're learning.”

“I thought I had to hustle nonstop,” Dev said. “But this… this is calmer. I’m not exhausted all the time.”

“That’s because you’re no longer chasing time,” said Arun. “You’re walking with it.”

As the weeks turned into months, the change became visible not just in Dev’s habits, but in his land. Neat rows replaced chaos. The vegetables grew in lines, the wheat stood tall, and birds returned to his trees.

One morning at harvest, Dev stood in the middle of his field, looking around in disbelief.

“I did it,” he whispered.

Arun, arriving with two baskets, handed one to him.

“No,” he said. “You kept doing it.”

They harvested side by side, two farmers, two golden fields—each born of the same soil, but grown through different seasons of learning.

And this time, Dev didn’t sit on a rock in confusion.
He stood tall, basket in hand, smiling—not because the work was done, but because he had learned how to keep going.

Moral of the Story:

True productivity is not measured by how long or hard you work in short bursts, but by the consistent, focused effort you put in over time. Working with clear priorities, taking small but meaningful steps every day, and caring for your tools and environment lead to lasting success. It’s better to work wisely and steadily than to rush and burn out.

If you work with haste you will mess up.

Once you light the matchstick and then blow it out you don’t try to relight it, it will break.

When you show up with intention and patience, progress happens naturally—like a well-tended field that grows golden through steady hands and thoughtful care.

Author:

Raphael D'Souza