The rainy season is ending, and the village paddies are entering the time of nakaboshi—the mid-season drainage. Pull the water. Dry the soil. Strengthen the roots. A principle of rice farming, handed down for generations.
“Is there even a rice field that skips nakaboshi?” Such silent pressure drifts along the levee paths.
But my field’s tillering is still weak. If I follow the neighbors now, I’ll be putting a brake on growth that has finally begun to surge. So—what should I do?
Experts disagree, and even asking AI yields no answer. Then the only choice is to keep the water. I know the risks. A typhoon could flatten everything.
Tillering is the branching of a single plant into many stems. The ideal is twenty stems per hill. It determines the number of panicles, and ultimately the yield. Normally, farmers drain the field now to prevent overgrowth and improve airflow.
Around me, everyone is deep into nakaboshi. Yet my field still holds water. I could say it’s a choice made in faith—faith in the soil, in the rice—but that may sound too noble.
Will it turn out well or badly? No textbook holds the answer. No expert, no AI can tell me. The field itself will reveal it in autumn. A solitary decision. And entirely my responsibility.