When the Farm Came Alive

Learning Safety, Belonging, and Trust Beyond Humans

Today, our farm feels alive—complete in a way I had never fully imagined.

We have dogs, cats, cows, and soon, chickens. Beyond the animals we care for, the land is already shared with many others: native rabbits, reptiles like snakes and mongoose, and countless birds, including peacocks and peahens. Together, they form a living ecosystem that makes the farm feel whole.

Many times, I live alone on the farm. There is no house within a 1.5-kilometre radius. At night, apart from a few distant lights along the approach road and near faraway villages, there is little visible sign of civilisation. And yet, I feel safe. I feel accompanied—by this extended, non-human family, and most of all by my dog Rocky, who stays close, quietly alert, always present. This sense of comfort did not come naturally to me. It was learned.

Our Rocky

Growing Up Human, Apart from Animals

I grew up in Prabhadevi, in central Mumbai, in a Chawl-like building fronting a busy main road. Space itself was scarce for people; having pet animals was unimaginable. My childhood unfolded between my home and my school at Shivaji Park. I travelled by school bus or BEST buses. I don’t even remember noticing stray dogs or cats—perhaps they existed, but they were invisible to me.

Animals entered my life only through occasional visits to the zoo. I observed them, but without curiosity or emotional connection. I grew up in a deeply human-centric environment, where animals did not belong to the everyday mindscape.

Seeing the World Through a Child’s Eyes

My first meaningful relationship with animals began much later, in Malaysia, after my first daughter was born. As a new mother, I was eager to introduce her to the world. In doing so, I myself began noticing things I had never paid attention to before.

She was just a few months old when I would show her leaves, flowers, birds, and pet animals in the garden. From very early on, she was drawn to animals. Malaysia—with its zoos, bird parks, and national parks—offer

ed rich exposure. I remember being amazed at how comfortable she was, even holding a python without fear.

When we returned to India and moved to Navi Mumbai, close to a bird sanctuary, animals continued to be part of her world. We often saw different birds, including flamingos. There were many stray dogs, and she loved touching them. Her school had horse riding as an activity, but feeding the horses mattered more to her than riding them.

My younger daughter followed the same path. She, too, began petting stray dogs without hesitation. Once, we found a lost puppy. That was our first real experience of bringing an animal home.

For me, it was not easy. Even touching the puppy felt unfamiliar. But responsibility slowly softened my resistance. Unfortunately, our parents and extended family—having grown up in similar urban conditions—were deeply uncomfortable with the idea of pets. Eventually, we had to give up the dog.

That separation left a deep mark, especially on the children.

 Entering the Land With Limited Imagination

Many years later, when I began dreaming of a farm, my imagination was still limited. I thought of open skies, fresh air, and greenery—but not of ecosystems, coexistence, or shared territories.

Fear, Control, and the Illusion of Security

When we bought the farm and began infrastructure work, practical concerns quickly surfaced. How would we protect construction material? The villagers insisted we needed night security or everything would be stolen.

Our farm being nearly a kilometre away from the main road, we didn’t understand local dynamics. One of the landowners offered to guard the site at night. Yet within days, a theft occurred—locks broken, materials disturbed, but strangely not much was lost. But fear crept in. For months, we were led to believe that our farm was unsafe without human guards.

Slowly, patterns became clear. Many villagers were interested only in night security—not in working on the farm during the day. It was easy income without physical labour. We began to see how cleverly we had been made dependent on this narrative of fear.

That’s when we decided to bring a dog to the farm.

Animals Living Their Full Lives

Living with animals on the farm made me realise the stark difference between having animals in an urban home and allowing them to live in open landscapes.

In limited urban spaces, especially dogs do not grow naturally. Their instincts—to run, chase, hunt, guard, assert, and explore—are constantly controlled. They live adjusted lives, not full ones.

Rocky & Jinjar

On the farm, watching dogs run freely at great speed is pure joy. Seeing them spot you from a distance, run to greet you, or follow your vehicle until it disappears—these moments create a deep, wordless bond. They are expressions of freedom, trust, and companionship that urban settings rarely allow.

When we shifted our cats to the farm, we were worried about how  our dog Rocky would react. To our surprise, they soon became a team. Watching their relationship evolve—negotiating space, hierarchy, and comfort—was a learning in itself.

Cats may appear lazy and always hungry, but they play a crucial role. They protect our living spaces from snakes and rats, quietly doing their work without seeking attention.

Gauri, Shweta, and the Politics of the Farm

We got our first cow from a neighbouring village mainly for cow dung and urine, essential for natural farming. We were told she was old and unlikely to deliver again.

About eight months later, while we were travelling abroad, we received a call from the farm saying the cow had delivered a calf.

We were shocked. None of us—including the villagers—knew she was pregnant. She had looked healthy, and we were simply happy she was well cared for.

The cow was named Gauri as she was spotless white, and the calf—who looked exactly like her mother—was named Shweta.

We never took milk from Gauri; everything was for Shweta. As she grew, Shweta became strong and confident.

During this time, Rocky began feeling uncomfortable. He considered himself the king of the farm—after all, he received the most attention. But as Shweta started asserting herself like a queen, small tussles emerged.

Watching these dynamics unfold—the shifting hierarchies, negotiations, and boundaries—was fascinating. The farm revealed itself not as a static place, but as a living society.

What the Farm Has Taught Me

Today, the farm is slowly settling. Labour is stabilising. Animals are increasing. And I realise that the farm has given me far more than land or livelihood.

It has taught me that safety does not always come from walls, guards, or systems. Sometimes, it comes from relationships—across species. From learning to coexist rather than dominate. From trusting the rhythms of life beyond the human world.

The farm did not just give me space.

It gave me a family—and with it, a deeper sense of belonging.

A couple who helped us find the land gently warned us: although we would be “owning” a piece of land, it already belonged to animals who had made it their home. Coming from a city background, we would need to be mindful.

Not fully understanding—and therefore not being afraid—we stepped into this unknown world of species beyond humans.