The Soloist

I have been thinking, how much our existence is defined as a complement of others. Parents, partner,peers, pals they are so essentially woven in the threads thats make each day. Can you imagine going through your day having no one else to think about, no second opinion on what to have for dinner, no one to answer to at work, no contention for which movie to watch in the weekend. These are not the most pressing decisions of ones life but isn't it these tiny little nothings that amount to so much in the end. When you make life changing decisions, you certainly dont think about how much you are going to miss that phone call during lunchtime everyday. But you move on, and try not to focus on the vacuum.


One of the most irksome things you encounter are the curious eyebrows shooting up. Its tireless how nosy people can be about the businesses of a complete stranger. So your vast list of outdoor activities falls into two distinct categories. The things you can do on your own without inciting speculation and the things you venture to do on your own, only when pushed to the extreme.


Reading a book in a cafe, hiking, going to a museum or art exhibition , lounging on a bench smoking - all respectable single person deeds. But eating alone in a resturant , especially a lady - nope. Imagine the whispering and pointing if the solitary lass seated in the corner enjoys a slow, three course meal with a meaty tandori kebab for starters, a grilled fish entree and tops it off with a kulfi.



Ironically, watching a play or a concert is accetable but slink into a movie theatre without company and people take notice. Which I don't understand, because other than the occasional jibe or joke shared, its more or less on way communication between screen and self.



Contrary to popular feminine beliefs, shopping is an ideal one man job. You can zip in and zip out as many stores you like, you can linger if you like or zero in on your purchases with robo-like precision, you don't try things on for others, you don't offer suggestions. And no one can fault you for your mono-meanderings through grocery aisles or clothing racks.


Let me go back to smoking. Thats a classic loner lane. Reclining lazily against a faded wall drawing mesmerizing twirls of smoke that waft up into nothingness , gazing into the distance with a faraway , lost look. Tell me , wouldn't you want to be that elusive enigmatic stranger? Yeah , yeah I know .. Its not a politically right or socially right thing to say. But there are so many times I wish I smoked.

And then there is this league of extraordinary diversions , these wild , artisitic things that I would love to do and be the eccentric recluse - but I am too run-of-the-mill and ordinary to venture into. Things like meditate on a cliff or set an easel up in a park and paint or start writing a short story watching the sunset from a beach cafe.

Sigh... yeah.. no... none of that for me. And I can't find anything more to say, except that I am reminded strongly of Wordsworth's Solitary Reaper.
Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?--
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;--
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
-- William Wordsworth