Some of us never have any trouble with this. We relish the moments we spend alone. In fact, we try to snatch a few such moments from the sometimes overwhelming requirements of each day because we can handle our own undemanding company better than anyone else’s.
When we were young, we were encouraged to develop hobbies to help us enjoy solitude. It was considered preferable to do something that was creative and independent that would keep us quiet and absorbed for long stretches of time rather than constantly chase each other around the house and garden or complain of having nothing to do in the hours after school work. (In those days, we had no heavy burdens of projects and homework, no tuitions to attend, no competitive exams to prepare for from an early age.)
Naturally, our parents tried to interest us in their hobbies and activities since those had stood them in good stead over the years. Mother had the gift of music and when she got her piano into the house, she held regular classes for us, assigned practice time and hoped that the ‘good’ genes we carried were hers. Unfortunately, they were not. We laboriously and dutifully went through the music books, we practised on and off, we even did a couple of little duets to entertain each other and make her feel that there was hope — but there was none. Making music was out of the question.
Father stepped in next and tried to instil in us a love for plant and animal life. Each of us was allotted a small plot in the garden and under his tutelage we grew carrots and tomatoes for the salad, each claiming the sweetest or the smoothest or the reddest as their creation. We were encouraged to put water and food for the hens and ducks and geese, keep the rabbit hutch clean and take the dogs for a walk ...
But Father’s happy perspiring face as he did all these and dug pits, spread fertiliser in all our vegetable patches and fed all the animals and birds was not inspiring. It looked like work to us — not a relaxing hobby or something we would actually want to do in our spare time. So, instead, we did the only thing that was expressly forbidden by our fastidious mother: We sneaked a bunny or a puppy into our bed and spent many happy hours cuddling its furry warmth and playing nose to nose with it.
Finally, Father, too, gave up. Now we were free to experiment without guidance or advice and without the adults knowing what we were up to. Brother became an expert with a slingshot, a Y-shaped stick with a band of elastic that he used to hurl stones at his target. That our heels and other larger body parts were often the target was not mentioned to our parents, but in the process, he developed a keen eye and a steady hand for later sporting activity.
Sister One (when she was hiding among the trees avoiding being the target of the slingshot) went into a dreamy land of her imagination and spouted poetry — her own and some of the Masters’. Sister Two (also avoiding the slingshot — but in the safety of the house) took to wielding a paintbrush and from making birthday and Christmas cards for the family and friends went on to other artistic endeavours that pleased her eyes and heart more than anyone else’s.
Some of these hobbies were continued into adulthood — some morphed into something quite different ... but the end result was that all three of us welcomed ‘alone’ time and were ever ready to shut the door on everyone else — especially each other — and indulge ourselves in our own company.
Cheryl Rao is a journalist based in India.
