THE ART OF BEING ALONE

(probably a personal thought by an idle mind)

“I am free, and that is why I am lost.”— Franz Kafka

Ever since the dawn of humanity upon the gentle cradle of our Mother Earth, Homo sapiens have been colonial by nature. From the very beginning, we have sought company, clinging to one another for safety, warmth, and survival. There is science behind this instinct to gather, but perhaps even more so, there is a hidden story , one written in the quiet ache of those who could never quite belong.

In fact, the early human beings were entirely dependent on each other for survival. With the passage of time and the process of evolution, the concept of the self also started to evolve within us. This notion murmured, "Only I alone am responsible for my happiness." Thus, selfishness made its debut. Humanity, which was once a family of togetherness, started to embrace competition and benefit at the expense of another's suffering. Still, the cosmos always gets its equilibrium back. Karma, though silent, is very accurate in its returns; it always comes back to those who hurt others, teaching them that sorrow is a debt no one can evade.

When we became wiser, we also became more cunning. Instead of destroying evil, we figured out how to cover it up with charm and intellect. During this transition, a smaller, softer band of people appeared, the kind people who feared karma and still trusted in honesty, good, and compassion. However, in a world that prefers cleverness to kindness, these beings were often left behind, misunderstood, misfits, and displaced.

Two thousand and nine years after the birth of the Holy Christ, I came into this world in a small town called Konnagar. Gifted with nothing but a story of quiet solitude, I am not a great person to narrate. At the age of five, I went into Don Bosco School, Liluah, through its main entrance, small, eager, and innocent. I gave my laughter and little heart to everyone to share during my initial days of school. However, the warmth was soon to disappear. The very children I shared my opinions and thoughts with began to mock me. Both my parents were heavily engaged in working for a better tomorrow for me, and therefore, couldn't always be there to shelter me from harm. I resisted, but my hands were small and my spirit weaker. The words that were used to abuse me stayed longer than the times they struck me.

My parents told me to stay away from them when I informed them of the incident. I did my best, but you cannot avoid loneliness when it is always with you. It took me eight years to discover the hardest truth: no one is my friend, and I am alone.

Frequently, people say, "Your parents are your best friends." Maybe that is the case. My parents are like gods to me, loving, selfless, and giving without end. However, they are not my peers and thus cannot understand the pains of a teenager. While they are busy shaping my life, I am quietly trying to survive it.

By the time I was in the 9th grade, the social media revolution had taken place. The people studying with me stored on the web tons of photos — showing their happy faces, the laughter, and the never-ending cycles of friendship. I would go through their joy as a stranger who peeks through a window and wonders why she is never in those pictures. I did meet people from other schools via the internet, but the story was always the same — they talked to me nicely, but I was never really a part of them.

The most painful chapter followed after this. When I was taking my board exams, my father was diagnosed with lung cancer. I felt as if my world had been torn apart. I dived into a black hole that even words could not reach. My classmates inquired, out of courtesy more than care, how my father was doing. I could not share my pain with them as they never reached out to me. I did not want to be pitied. What I really wanted was to be understood. But no one came. None ever did.

Furthermore, on their way of telling me that I was maladjusted, my parents started to say that I never learned how to fit in — that I was too sensitive, too serious, and too different. Perhaps they were right. Maybe every moment of pain was my own fault — the consequence of expecting too much from a world that gives so little. Perhaps it is not that I was left out; maybe I simply did not know how to belong.

And so, I learned the hardest lesson of all —the art of being alone.

It is not a skill, nor a comfort. It is a quiet surrender — the acceptance that some souls are born to walk through life unseen, unheard, and misunderstood. And perhaps that is my destiny —to exist gently in a world too loud for softness, and to master the art of being alone.