I have a confession: whenever I see a black sheep, I feel a strange desire to stand up and applaud—to express how grateful I am for its existence.
I have an affinity with the black sheep; I have always felt like one within my extended family and my wider Indian culture. The way I live my life is seen as unconventional and quixotic. Some of my “experiments in living”, as the 19th-century British philosopher John Stuart Mill would call them, such as partying on MDMA at the height of the club scene in the 1990s, have been particularly unpopular with my family.
I am comfortable with the feelings of “otherness” this brings me. We travel to faraway lands searching for this feeling of separation; to lose our sense of familiarity. Everyday drudgery, such as going to the supermarket, becomes an adventure on foreign soil. However, I cannot deny that feeling so different from those I share my blood with has sometimes left me feeling lonely. We all yearn—at some point in our lives—to feel like we belong.
My farmer friend told me that black sheep are not worth as much as their white counterparts: black wool is hard to dye. But this isn’t the case when it comes to people, according to Mill. In his book, On Liberty, Mill places great importance on the freedom to develop one’s own individuality. Those who do not adhere to society’s expectations are usually seen as strange—but eccentricity has its purpose, Mill would say. Often, this is to help people see the world differently, to offer a diversion from the well-trodden track.
In London, where I’m from, eccentricity is embraced. Cities usually attract those who are a bit different. In any city centre, you’ll find the world. When I moved to the countryside, I feared that being different would be frowned upon, that a small village would be less open to those who didn’t conform. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
In my village, I have noticed everyone’s uniqueness; people’s idiosyncrasies are on full display, unabashed. Jane, a woman in her seventies, rides her pink tricycle with silver ribbons attached to the handlebars and wears bright purple gloves and an orange helmet. Hara down the road welcomes each new season with a dancing ceremony in the village hall. No two people are alike. Each person stands apart: a collection of misfits.
The city has its own individuals, but they seem more curated and cultivated, lacking the randomness of the people in the countryside. Here, people seem unaware of what Mill calls the “tyranny of the majority”—the pressures of society and the majority to make people conform. They are not resistant to it, there is no rebellion, they are just being who they are.
This part of Wales, like so many rural areas, is predominantly white. I am literally the only Indian in the village. But sitting in my living room, where the valley is in full view, I smile to myself when I see the farmer deliver a black sheep into the herd; my affinity with the beast has grown stronger.
Just as black wool is hard to dye, there is no way in hell you could make the inhabitants of this village conform. I’ve felt like a black sheep all my life—but out here in a field of white, I feel less like one than ever before.
