Written by Arismita Ghosh
When I opened my eyes for the first time, I awoke on the back of a sheep. I was surrounded by others who looked like me, felt like me, sounded like me. We were engulfed in a sea of white fibres. Everything was so simple back then: we went wherever the sheep went, saw whatever the sheep saw. I quickly learned the lay of the land, memorizing every detail of the farm that I managed to see.
I remember one specific farmer’s callused hands, tending to each and every one of us with the same care. She was always gentle with us. If any one of our sheep ever fell ill, she was always the first one to notice. Sometimes she would come out to just sit with us, absent-mindedly petting the sheep and combing through our tangles. She was loving and kind, dedicated to her farm with single-minded passion. I am forever grateful that I was lucky enough to have her as my first point of human contact. I’m completely certain that the only reason I can be as healthy as I am today is because I was raised under her care.
Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months. I barely realised how quickly time was passing by. I was just getting used to my new life, gazing up at the sky as the sheep wandered freely through wide meadows. More of us had started springing up on the backs of our sheep—so many of us, in fact, that I almost felt like we were about to weigh them down.
It was on one such lazy day that the farmer started leading all the sheep into the barns, one by one. My sheep had never been inside one of those. I was curious, even a little excited.
Imagine my surprise when I saw the huge shears glistening in her hands. They were sharp and almost menacing, but her smile remained the same as it always had. Even though I was confused and unsure about what was to come me, I knew that I didn’t need to be afraid. And I was right. She worked with practiced hands, gently and painlessly gliding the shears through my fleece as if she had done it countless times before. In a few quick motions, I was on my own, no longer part of the sheep that had given me life.
I was sad to say goodbye to the farm, of course. It had been so good to me for the first chapter of my life, and I often look back on those days with fond memories. Back then, though, all I could think about was how eager I was to see the rest of the world.
The weeks following my shearing are still blurry to me. I was suddenly surrounded by humans instead of sheep for the first time; they combed through my threads, cleaned my fibres, left me out to dry in the warm sunlight. I felt like I was born again. Nurtured by the hands of shepherds, ready to start a new chapter and serve a new purpose.
When they finally brought me up to the spinning wheel, I was dizzy with exhilaration. My fibres stretched wide and long, beyond what I had known was ever possible for me to reach, coiling into something stronger than before. Gone were the days of my fluffy and ephemeral youth. I was sturdy, unbreakable.
I’m not sure how much time I spent waiting in boxes with the others, but every second left me more eager to find out whose hands I would find myself in next. I loved my new form, wrapped around myself in long skeins of yarn. I felt like I could take on any shape in the world.
It wasn’t long before I felt the knitting needle pierce through my threads. I never learnt the name of the man who spent all those weeks working on my next form, tirelessly looping strand after strand. He reminded me of the farmer; another gentle soul pouring his heart out into the work he cared deeply about. He was deeply patient, putting the same amount of care into every stitch, no matter how long it took. I was growing everyday, shape-shifting into something I didn’t recognise. I couldn’t wait to see what I would become.
The needle wrapped itself through my yarn without pause, until it eventually came to resemble a beautiful pattern. My threads had wound together to create something with a neckline and sleeves, something that could keep anyone warm in the winter months to come.
I never realised I was capable of such beauty. The tailor looked down at me with proud eyes.
When he was finally finished attending to every single detail, he put me up on display in a large glass window. I saw the faces of everyone who passed by me on the streets, from throwaway glances to awed stares. I knew that it was only a matter of time before someone would want me in their life.
I was right. I knew immediately when I saw her that she would be the one to take me home. She ran a gentle hand down my sleeves, relishing the softness of the fabric and the charming pattern. She welcomed me into her house that very day.
What passed after that was years of bliss, a mutually loving relationship. She took care of me, delicately hand-washing my fibres and laying me out to dry, the same way that I’d been tended to back when I bore no resemblance to my current shape. She eventually added more sweaters to the racks next to mine, but she never forgot about me.
I can’t even begin to count the years we spent together. I saw her through so many changes: new houses, new styles, new jobs. I stayed by her side through it all. I was always the first one she would call on the second the temperature outside started to dip.
I’ll admit that I was scared for a while. Worried that I would someday be thrown out like I’d seen her do with the polyesters and the nylons. I hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
In the end, I had nothing to worry about. She was always as kind as one could be. Even when I started fraying at the seams, when my carefully knit fabric unravelled with wear and tear, she didn’t give up on me. I watched her as she carefully followed video tutorials to learn how to darn, fixing my damages with the same respect she always had for me. I had been more lucky than I ever imagined.
I lived a long life; longer than most of my kind. I had nothing to complain about when it came my time to pass. She was wise enough to dispose of me correctly, dropping me off at a facility full of others like me. Some of us were born on the backs of plants, others had been raised on sprawling pastures. We all came from the earth. And it was to the earth we returned.
(It might take years before I fully become part of the soil again. I don’t know what awaits me beyond the knowledge that I’ll be able to feed the earth that once fed me. But maybe—just maybe—I’ll wind up in the grass, spread out across wide meadows. Maybe I’ll somehow find myself in the mouth of a hungry sheep. Maybe I’ll grow again. Maybe life will continue as it always has, in cycles.)