As an only child I was used to solitude, and it wasn’t just a state but a friend. I was happy playing alone as a child: books were a portal. Prose was a doorway that woke up something in me; as I looked to the pages first in the morning and sought them out again at dusk, and when I wanted to be left alone. Books had no beginning or end, literal or metaphoric, and as I write, to this day I see no reason why a novel should conform to that drive or need. In fact, I believe that it doesn’t and shouldn’t. So, I could easily have felt lonely as a child but instead, in my solitude, a deep fondness for my own company grew in me, and books were a great friend to have in the early years: a guarantee of company, a warm welcome with every venture into reading.
When I was little, my imagination became my most trusted friend while others safely socialised at playgrounds. When I missed school trips or birthday parties, reading was my best companion. With every passing page, I emptied the shelves of the bookcases and grew a new friend. Often, I yearned to be inside the pages with Pip in Great Expectations or in Wonderland with Alice, just to zone out from the reality of school bullies and awkward moments. They were not simply paper characters but my personal heart buddies; soul mates who taught me about resilience, empathy and the human psyche.
This childhood experience, in which solitude was often my constant companion, settled into my soul and made me adept at sweetly flourishing, rather than being annoyed or bored, in a quiet mood. It gave me a loving tolerance for anguish and solitude, so that, even when I was a child, I did not long to be with others, I was content to notice how fun it was for the stories that I thought up to roam free in my mind. Loving the company of my own self has never been easy for children to find, but for me it had always come in handy.
I started to realise that, as I got into my late 20s and then 30s, my set of older friends was thinning out as they moved away, as the set of new people entered an absorbing period of life and responsibilities, and as the roll-call of social events began to decrease. As a teenager, I had cultivated a liking for solitude, and so I felt comfortable with this adjustment as ‘friendship’ receded from my adult vocabulary. It began to feel like an almost natural reversion, because I still cared about reading, music and writing, and so, in this reduced version of adulthood, I tried to resume the activities I had pursued in my teens.
My home today is my comfort; my cats, Alladin and Dora, go with me everywhere, and the noise of two cats purring is a balm for the soul; the books on my shelves are there because of the happy hours I have spent reading them; and the music of Lennon and the poetry of words which is sound-track of my life.
I have found companions in several figures: Charles Dickens for his story-telling grace; John Lennon for his acute pain, bold spontaneity and honest sensibility; Karl Marx for the impetus of his critical clamour and for his political imagination; Tagore for the grace of his poetry and the prose which still makes me feel like as if I am just a mere mortal who isn’t alone, that there is so much more to celebrate and so much more to lose.
And with the years, my sense of solitude has fine-tuned as well. Like all decisions, there is a light and dark side to choosing to live alone. When you are young, solitude is circumstance: you do not have much choice but the urge to engage and be seen becomes less acute, more a matter of spasm than necessity. I have never felt the tug and pull between being seen and being alone, between feeling I needed to kick up dust in the street to prove my worth or nestle in for hours at the page. I no longer believe my sense of self is tied to social interactions with others. Now I simply do not feel as if I need to be seen, to justify my existence by fluttering from occasion to opportunity. I get a deeper satisfaction from solitude, from reading, from watching a documentary, from thinking, and often playing and cuddling up with my furry roommates.
Most days are so loud, I have a hunger for it to be quiet. I want to spend the night alone, recapturing not only the ritual of privacy but also the special joy of having my own inner address. My home is comfortable, and familiar, like my own skin. Here, with my cats, my books and my favourite music, I do not have to say anything. I can be my own entire company. This is far from the desolation of loneliness; it is the site of pleasure and solitary creativity.
In this refuge I am free to be myself, to be the person I have always been; the books and characters I have loved are my friends, and the stories of my life play out through their tales, the music that has been with me all along takes me home to the place where I once was and the time when I lived through it, and the thoughts of Marx and Hegel and Tagore chart a pathway to a new understanding of the world.
When I welcomed solitude into my life, I realized that loneliness is not feeling alone, but feeling with the most profound part of your inner self, be part of that what really is important to your existence, and to see the joy of life in your solitude. And, so my friendship with solitude continues, without giving up: I owe myself that I stay like me.
Solitude is now a gift: the wise silence I need in order to understand others. Solitude is something to be thanked for: without it, I would struggle to live as though I had no greater anchor than the world out there, wouldn’t I? Solitude is a home — where I now keep my books and my cats, blast my music, and remember that in order to be happy with what you have around you, you must first be happy with what you have within. In this place of silence, my happiness is both permanent and profound.
abhishek purkayastha 