Essay: The Privilege of Company

Ankita Kanda shares a thought-provoking essay on how the people we are surrounded impact us in different ways.

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This piece is available for free reading this week

My parents left home for a religious retreat last week. I was supposed to be all alone with my cat. My sister found this the perfect opportunity to spend time together without the watchful, responsible oversight of our parents. She and her fiancé joined me since they had to work from home and write 2 exams in the same week.

I had great company and therefore, I had fun. However, in the midst of all that fun, I did wonder how well I would be if I had nobody. Would I be lonely? I thought about it for a while. Previously, something in my chest would burn with this question. I dare not articulate the thought even in my mind, but I knew the answer.

You see, like most people, I, too, have been left behind. The pain lingers. I have irrational fears of being unimportant and not needed. Regardless, there are plenty of situations in your life which can make you feel as though your presence or absence makes no difference. No exposure therapy needed.

For most part of the day, they did their work and I did mine. I had exams coming up too. We interacted, joked and played silly when talking about food, watching a show we all like and had idle conversation before bedtime. Nothing very relevant but I knew what value it held.

Eventually, I realised that if I woke up to nobody in my vast home, then I would be fine.

My sister was my last thread. My sister was the reason my chest burned, and I never knew it until last week. When she left for her work, found someone she loved, got busy with her life, I was thrilled for her. But as time passed by, I realised that the space I held in her life had immensely shifted. Not our love, of course. The frequency of conversation, laughter, quiet time and mind-blowing fights had all reduced to merely decimals.

Passively, as the year ended, my fear was processed. She was my last safe person, nay, my only safe person—ever since I took my first breath in this world. As long as she stayed, I was well-versed with company. As long as she stayed, I knew someone would come to get me. As long as she stayed, I knew that I would always wake up beside her and listen to her voice in conversation or otherwise, even when I myself stayed painfully silent.

It was the privilege of company.

I realised I do not need it anymore. I need her, of course, but if, ever, I was forgotten, my heart would not ache.

This realisation did not come to me in that week. Rather, after she left and my parents came home. I am attached to my mother but not as much as my sister. I think she is intense. She thinks my speech is blunt. My mother told me that she was hungry and that we would eat Ramen together. I ordered the Ramen. 10 minutes to delivery.

In this mere 10 minutes, there was friction. Her intensity could not be restrained on a matter I find feeble and my tongue could not hold back on commenting about it.

She did not open the door for the delivery man and insisted that I should. She cooked herself dinner and instructed me to make Ramen for myself and have a full dinner since I had not eaten anything past breakfast.

I stayed silent and did my work. This is the moment I realised that I am content alone.

My heart did not ache from the loss of anticipated company, conversation or presence.

I sat all alone in a lightly dimmed room, having no idea when the other lights were switched off, and sat in my little corner with my laptop; typing away at the speed of light. I was happy. My mind did not wander and think about how I had to eat dinner alone. Dinner that I had to cook first, all by myself. Just me and stove.

I even listened to a forgotten song which gave me insurmountable peace.

I finally had the answer I wanted.

If I have to wake up alone to nobody, I will still wake up to the sunlight seeping through the gap between the curtains, to the chirping cuckoo I find annoying tirelessly screaming (maybe for me), to the rustling trees and that beautiful, beautiful wind that fills my room when I open the window.

And of course, to my little kitten sleeping on my head.