Addicted to Being Alone

As I begin writing this piece, I see two daring little songbirds, alight upon the rope outside my window, do a quick recee of what’s inside the room and then fly away. I wish I could identify and tell you, what those twittering tiny black birds were. But my knowledge in this regard is so limited that I only know what they were not. Normal times, I would not have noticed. Maybe I would have, but not this keenly and would certainly not have had the leisure to savour their brief company or smile in reflection at this chance encounter.

As 2020 lumbers to a not-so-remarkable end, I, like many, scramble to move on with the disjointed pieces of my life.  Early this year, when we were heading unawares into a prolonged period of lockdown, and the mayhem that was to follow, scarcely did I imagine that it would last this long. Cities around the world abruptly shut down, and India followed suit. Life came to a complete standstill. Soon after, my two flatmates left for their respective native places. All of a sudden, I found myself home alone in my rented 2bhk apartment in Mumbai. As I sat at my desk, ghosted in my house, day after day, my back to a plain blank wall, facing my laptop and looking past the long window from across the room, I saw seasons change. One day it was the onset of march, spring and sunny and the next it was stormy and rainy and then more rains and then bright and sunny again. Nine months have passed in this manner. This is in no way a recounting of the events, merely a fall-out. If I were to describe what this piece is about in one word, it would be, solitude.

At the outset, I would like to express gratitude for health and happiness, to have floated by unhurt in these uncertain times and thank my friends and family who have been understanding of my space, some of which over the years, has been toughly negotiated. I also understand the fortitude of having had people who are available, whenever reached out.

For me, like others, the impact has been profound in many ways, but not as much transformative. And there may be reasons to it. While I may come across as jovial, or fairly sociable or the one comfortable to strike conversations, I would rather prefer not to. I do not particularly enjoy pubs or parties or picnics or gatherings of any form, save a very select group, who also, I actively seek space from. I find comfort in holding a book, scribbling on my notepad, listening to music, watching movies or a quiet wee hour jog. As far back as I can remember, my social interactions have always been short immersive experiences that I wish to quickly retreat from. I am, at all times, drawn within. I have always been far at ease in my own company.

So, it should not come as a surprise if I say, I am addicted to being alone. Maybe this after all, is only a rediscovery of something I have in my subconscious known all along. This extended period of seclusion has only brought it to the fore. To a lot of people, this might be unsettling. Not to me.

I feel there is a certain liberating quality to this solitude. A kind of freedom. That comfortable, secure space, uninvaded, unadulterated by anyone’s presence. Away from watchful eyes, it is when I let myself out. Everything around me seems to settle when I am alone. The silence and the deep calm. The unbidden, uninhibited flow of thoughts. I am amazed how someone’s mere presence restricts or changes how freely I think or even what I am allowed to think. I love how my mind space then takes material form and translates into a physical space. More real, boundless and un-impinged. Things slow down. There no longer remains any haste, nor a pressing urgency. There is time, and all of a sudden, a lot of it, to pause and reflect. I love how in the absence of everyone my eyes turn inward and see what my mind really shows, or what my heart feels. The noise of the outside world is filtered out. I can afford to be disengaged and remain so. Everything extraneous is slowly whittled away, the clutter falls apart, everything else that is not important just fades. I become more aware of what I and I alone feel, in all its rawness, its strength and purity. It is at times, numbing.

I wonder then, why people crave for distractions. I wonder, why they yearn to keep themselves so engaged and harrowed. Maybe when we are alone, we come to face ourselves, naked. Without pretensions, without layers of socially constructed image of ourselves. Maybe we don’t like what we see. Maybe we are forced to confront what is. In the presence of no one but ourselves, there’s no escape. Maybe it makes us truly, terribly vulnerable. Maybe our thoughts are discomforting, maybe our reality is. We face truth, unapologetic and unsparing, sharp and cutting. There are voices inside our head, voices which are otherwise drowned, voices that begin to speak, ask questions and we are forced to listen and answer. To many, this solitude may have an edginess to it. Some, it may even unhinge. But I find it unusually warm and comforting, something I can wrap around myself and snuggle inside. To me, it is indulgence. Maybe that is also why I love those quiet late nights or sombre early mornings, when I am in the company of no one, but myself.