The Friendly Recluse

That’s not my dog! That’s how I think people see me.

I have long believed that the world is divided into two kinds of people. There are those who rush towards parties with the energy of a terrier chasing a rabbit. And then there are the rest of us, who prefer to remain in a quiet corner with a cup of tea, hoping no one thinks of dragging us into a crowd. I fall quite happily into the second group.

It is not that I dislike people. I enjoy a proper one to one chat, the kind where thoughts and discussions move at their own pace and periods of silences are not uncomfortable. But put me in a room packed with cheerful chatter and my inner self begins to wave a small white flag. I find myself drifting towards the nearest window or corner table, searching for refuge. But, don’t be misguided into judging me.

I enjoy my own space and the time I spend in my own company. It gives me room to think and be mindful. I can catch up on my reading and try to improve myself, or at least make a brave attempt. Since I spend so much time here in the hills and often with guests at my homestay, there are moments when I have to create my own time and space. This means saying a polite no to parties and social gatherings. I prefer to meet people from my village over a cup of tea or coffee instead of spending the whole evening with drinks and dinner.

People label me an introvert, shut-in, high headed, snobbish, hermit, strange or even antisocial. Even though most of these are not the adjectives any sane person would feel happy about yet I find these remarks rather helpful. They prove that my message has gone through. I value my time and space and I am glad others have noticed it.

I do meet people but only when conversation can be real. I would much rather speak to one or two thoughtful humans than say hello to a dozen acquaintances and spend the night discussing the weather or hearing the usual complaints about the lack of city comforts. At the last party I attended almost a year ago the main topic was the joy of pressing a button on a phone and summoning a taxi or ordering groceries that appear before you can blink. Here in the village we do not have such things. Even couriers do not deliver. Speedpost brings letters and small packets but not parcels. What use was such a conversation to me? And I would never want this place to become crowded enough for those services to exist. That would be a sign of difficult times ahead for a region as fragile as ours.

I sometimes feel that people who have spent many years in cities find it hard to live without constant company. It is as if silence makes them uneasy or restless. One wonders if it is a sort of withdrawal syndrome, a tug that pushes them to socialise at every possible moment.

I follow my own small systems to avoid gatherings. The first is a polite no, sometimes supported by the timeless excuse of a cold and cough. After Covid people accept this excuse with great enthusiasm. Another method is to suggest a daytime meeting. Most city folks avoid drinking during the day, so the conversations stay clearer and kinder. The weather is also easier to handle and one can be outdoors in comfort, which is what I love about my village and the nature all around. And then there are the rare days when I spread the word that I am out of station and sit peacefully in my orchard with a book for company.

This balanced way of living keeps me focused. It gives me room to breathe. And in a world that forever hurries and lives in a fast lane, that feels like a small but splendid triumph.

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