Recently, I watched "The Sheep Detective", and I absolutely loved it. And if you’ve seen it too, don’t tell me you didn’t cry at the ending.
There are so many things I loved about the movie, from "Wolverine" Hugh Jackman playing the perfect supporting role, to the way the script and direction were executed. His death itself didn’t evoke much emotion from the audience because that was never the primary intention. And no, that isn’t a spoiler because the trailer clearly showed that he dies.
Instead of making his death the emotional centre of the story, the movie scattered many other painful moments throughout, from the goat fight scene to the references to winter lambs. Okay, I won’t explain those in detail because those would actually be spoilers.
But what really struck me was that Hugh Jackman’s character was a vegetarian. He loved his sheep and raised them only for their wool, not meat. The flock was happy. He had even named every one of them and would read them bedtime stories every night.
The reason this resonated so much with me is that I have more or less experienced something similar.
I live alone at my farm, and after more than six years of living here as a farmer, I have realised that I am definitely not meant to be one.
I am not talking about the physical labour involved or the simplicity of the lifestyle. I can handle all that. What I have unfortunately come to realise is that I had a complete misconception of what farming actually involves.
Six years ago, when I left the corporate world and said goodbye to the concrete jungles we call Mumbai, Pune, Bangalore, etc., and moved into an actual jungle, I was really looking forward to becoming a farmer.
Back then, I thought farming was all about nature, loving animals and birds, feeding them, and living like... I would be this male version of Snow White in the forest, with birds, deer, and rabbits surrounding me as I worked the fields, watered the plants, chopped firewood, planted more trees, and stuff.
Oh, how wrong I was! I blame Hollywood for painting such a misleading picture.
First of all, many farmers hate trees!
Okay, perhaps “hate” is a strong word, but they certainly do not view trees with the same romantic affection that I do. Trees block sunlight, and too much shade can affect crop growth. So, from a farmer’s point of view, any tree standing between the crops and the sun is simply an obstacle.
When we initially set up a large Iskut plantation (Squash), followed by a Khanghu plantation (Climbing Wattle), all my labourers suggested that I chop down all the surrounding trees. I refused, and they laughed at me as if I were a fool.
Secondly, farmers are not necessarily fond of animals either.
They will kill almost any creature that enters the farm because those animals damage crops, steal produce or attack livestock. Frankly speaking, I am okay with killing rats and snakes. But hares, squirrels, porcupines, mongooses, wild boars and even jackals... I just couldn’t bear to watch them trap and kill these beautiful creatures.
They weren’t particularly fond of birds either. Any bird that came near the crops was treated as a pest, and people would shoot at them using a sairukherh, our traditional Mizo slingshot. :(
This was very far from the kind of farmer I had imagined myself becoming.
But the final nail in the coffin, the thing that made me realise I would never become a proper livestock farmer, was how easily I became emotionally attached to the animals.
And that is also why I resonated so much with "The Sheep Detective".
To be an effective livestock farmer, you cannot afford to become emotionally attached to every animal you raise.
There was this one time when we started rearing chickens.
We bought what were called “Rainbow Roosters”, a colourful dual-purpose variety raised for both meat and eggs, unlike Broilers (only meat) and Layers (only eggs). Every morning and evening, I would give them food and refill their water.
Aaaand... I started getting emotionally attached to them.
Every morning, I would wish them a good morning while pouring out their feed and water. I would talk to them, ask how their day was going, enquire about their plans for the afternoon and generally have meaningless conversations with them. :D
I even thanked them whenever I collected their eggs.
Eventually, the day came when it was time to slaughter one for meat.
I felt this deep pang of sadness, but I reminded myself that this was the entire reason we had raised them in the first place. So I asked my chowkidar to slaughter one. They plucked its feathers, cleaned it, chopped up the meat, and I gave them a portion as well.
His wife then prepared a lovely chicken dish for me.
And it was right there, sitting in front of that plate, that I realised I simply could not eat it.
Man, I just couldn’t bring myself to take even one bite.
I tried forcing myself, but the moment I put it near my mouth, I felt like throwing up.
It was such a strange feeling. And hypocritical too, because I can still happily eat chicken at a restaurant or chicken prepared at home.
But. Just. Not. My. Chicken.
Turns out, I have no problem eating meat... as long as I never knew the animal personally.
I had fed that chicken. I had spoken to it. I had watched it grow. Somewhere along the way, it had quietly stopped being livestock and become one of the creatures under my care.
I was just like Hugh Jackman’s character in "The Sheep Detective"... except for the vegetarian part. :P
Later, we tried raising pigs, too, and even built a proper pigsty for them.
But after what happened with the chickens, I already knew how that story would end.
I would feed them, talk to them, name them, get attached to them... and then refuse to eat them. And for the love of God, pork is my favourite meat in the world and I do not want to be repulsed by it!
And so I finally accepted the truth.
I may live on a farm. I may grow crops, maintain fences, clear weeds, repair broken pipes and wake up to the sounds of animals every morning. But I am definitely not cut out to be a livestock farmer.
Apparently, I am just a sentimental idiot who keeps accidentally turning dinner into family. Perhaps it's because I've spent so many years living alone on a hilltop, where conversations eventually find their way to whoever is nearby. Or maybe it's the beating of a lonely heart that is simply looking for a rhythm to resonate with.
Maybe my heart simply doesn't know the difference between something to care for and something to care about. It just quietly does what it has always done - finds a pulse, forms a bond, and refuses to let go. Which, now that I think about it, probably explains why I'm still single too. :P
I suppose that's just who I am. If you spend enough time around me, chances are you'll get a nickname, an unnecessary amount of concern over whether you've eaten, and a terrible dad joke or two to cheer you up. Chickens, dogs, people... my heart doesn't seem to discriminate very well.
Cheers.
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