Yet Untitled 107 - Hermit and Son

I have a thing or two to say to dad as I become more and more like him

Dad, Australia, c. 1966

Dearest Yet Untitler,

I’m seeing myself change. In mirrors, in photographs, I see more and more of my father in my visage. But it’s not only in obvious facial and bodily resemblances. It feels more than that. It’s also habits. Inclinations. Preferences.

One of these preferences, which I’m seeing emerge more and more in me, is relishing being by myself. Initially, I caution myself against it.

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I’m writing this instalment from (relative) solitude. The family is away, spending the dregs of the summer holidays in wild abandon elsewhere while I bask in silence. That’s what my home becomes - silent - in their absence.

I don’t live like a hermit, but being a hermit isn’t repugnant to me. Give me the chance and I will withdraw from my full-contact collision with life into a state of floating, minimal engagement. Were I left alone on a remote hillock with the nearest village miles away, I would likely - after all the firewood is collected and the poisonous mushrooms sorted from the consumable - manage, perhaps even thrive. Lately, it feels as if this need has accumulated to the extent that the moment there’s an opportunity for solitude, a vacuum in my chest starts pulling me towards it.

Vasant on a hillock, Wayanad, Kerala, c. 2007

But I’ll admit - I’ve spent some of this silence thinking about the noise. Fondly. In my life, noise cancelling headphones are the oximeters of the pandemic: you keep one within reach for your life’s sake. In my absence-of-the-noise, my noise, I’m very aware that soon I’ll want the noise back.

My noise! Mumbai, c. 2024

Both impulses are real. Both feel important. But I wonder - am I at some crossroads where I will eventually choose one over the other?

And, being my father’s son, will I eventually choose his version of solitude?

The man in his castle. Dad at the farm, Panipat, Diwana Village, c. 2001

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Dad took solitude seriously, sometimes taking it all the way to building walls around himself; sometime even to the extent of misanthropy. But there was a lot in his castle that kept him happy. And for others too, the ones who chose to spend time with him in the gardens of this said castle. But, for that, you had to come to the castle. He would have it no other way. Sometimes he made himself difficult to access, and eventually he started preferring it that way.

It came at a cost. He lost friends. He frustrated his family.

But that said - I’m pretty sure I learned my love for solitude from him. And he was very generous with his solitude - he could share it. You could be alone with him together, if there can be such a thing. I have many memories of enjoying this kind of quiet companionship with him. But then, I’d leave when life called me elsewhere. He stayed right where I left him.

The man in his castle II. Panipat, Diwana Village, c. 2009

I like to imagine that I built myself a very different life from dad - choosing to live in a city that’s constantly electrified by its own energy, working with collaborators from all parts of the world, travelling more frequently to places where he hadn’t gone. But now, the circle-back has started, and I find myself circling back to him; to my horror (and amusement), to wanting more of what he wanted!

Life is funny…

…and the treasures of solitude are many. The Buddha found his enlightenment in solitude under a tree, but he didn’t choose to remain there. The legend says that the god Brahma entreated the Buddha not to keep his findings to himself, to take the treasures he gleaned from the great silence to the others who were drowning in the noise. Even 2000 years ago, I’m sure life was as noisy with multi-vocal desires screaming down everyone’s ears.

Karumadikuttan Buddha shrine, Alleppey, Kerala, c. 2005

I think about the universe, with its cold, expansive and very silent space in which live millions of burning suns where chaotic fires rage. Life was born from those very fires, and life contemplated what lay beyond it by staring out into space - into the dark Silence. Chaos and Silence don’t feel mutually exclusive. They feel connected, constantly tumbling into each other.

Ravan falls to fire, Dussera, Panipat stadium, c. 2009

I’m reminded of my favourite story about Leonard Cohen, about how he used to spend months in retreat at a Zen monastery in Mount Baldy, California, and then, every once in a while, drive back to his apartment and watch Jerry Springer while eating chicken McNuggets. Pico Iyer tells this story in detail in his book The Art of Stillness: Adventures in Going Nowhere. Who says that a retreat has to be permanent?

I’m thinking: to understand anything - silence or chaos, refuge or exposure - you need to step away from it a bit. Bullet Journaling - because of its systematised prompts for reflection - has been allowing me this distance to some degree every day ever since I started practicing it five years ago. As advocated by the method, taking deliberate moments in the day to think about the day in the context of a week; taking some time each week to think about the week in the context of the month; a month within a year and eventually a year within a life. For each you have to carve out time. That too - the carving out of time - sounds to me like a kind of retreat.

My Bullet Journals, c. 2022

Purposeful Retreat rather than Retreat as Refuge

Suddenly - I feel less guilty, less selfish - about my need to embrace solitude. Because I know I’m coming back. I’m not running away, just stepping away. I’ll take what I need, then it’ll be the Return of the Jedi, baby!

Austin Kleon, whose book “Show Your Work” is in many ways one of the seed inspirations behind this newsletter, says in it:

austinkleon

A post shared by @austinkleon

I know I’m coming back because I’m a child of both the Silence and the Chaos. We all are. We burn for a bit and then fall to silence, only till we burn again.

Firework. Date and venue unknown.

A small note to dad

Oh dad. You hid because you were running. I wish I had understood sooner. Perhaps I did and didn’t know what you were running from. Perhaps I knew that too and didn’t know what to do about it.

But no. Before you left, we had one talk after I had understood this about you. I was able to tell you that there was no need to run, and that there was more waiting for you on the outside than you allowed yourself to think.

I saw you in a dream last night. Guess what? People go on and on about how I look like you. In that dream, you looked like me! And you looked happy. I felt happy seeing you happy. I’m glad I could do this for you.

Dad, Australia, c. 1966

Thanks for listening ❤️.

Before you go, tell me - if the above moved you in any way - about the places where you retreat purposefully and what it does for you. I’d love to hear from you.

Lots of love,

V

PS

Brandi Carlile wrote a song about not wanting solitude. I really enjoyed this Song Exploder podcast episode about this really lovely track about companionship.

PPS

I miss you.

And you, dad. But this instalment is already loaded with photos of you😄.