Aspi Shroff: We are in a loneliness epidemic.
And the irony is, we’ve never been more connected. Group chats light up every evening. Emojis substitute affection. Instagram tells you who’s getting married, who’s gone abroad, who’s making reels about growth.
But no one tells you they cried in the shower. No one tells you they sat with dinner and silence for the fifth night in a row. Loneliness doesn’t always look like isolation. In India, it often looks like ritual. You show up for Diwali dinners. You wear the kurta. You pose for the photo. You smile. But inside, something is missing.
We were never built for this much distance. For centuries, India functioned as a web of closeness. Families lived under one roof, not out of compulsion but culture. Your neighbors knew your name. You shared dahi. You shared grief. You fought over mangoes. You borrowed sugar. You didn’t need to ask, “Can I come over ?” You just did.
But then came the upgrade.
We moved into better houses. Bigger salaries. Smaller lives. The kids who once played gully cricket now swipe through reels. The women who once shared evening tea now compare Amazon deals. The men who once sat together reading newspapers now forward news they don’t read.
We replaced intimacy with information. Now everyone knows where you are. But no one knows how you are. We are lonely not because we lack people, but because we’ve stopped showing our hearts.
I see it when friends text me “All good” and then confess breakdowns at 2am. I see it in people who work late, not because they love the job, but because going home feels emptier. I see it in fathers who haven’t hugged their sons in years. In daughters who fake laughter so their mothers won’t worry.
Even in love, loneliness hides. You live with someone. Share a bed. But the silence grows. The touch fades. The conversations reduce to logistics.
“Did you pay the bill ?” “Are we going to your cousin’s wedding ?” “Did you order groceries ?”
You forget to ask, “How’s your heart ?”
We are raising a generation that knows how to hustle, but not how to hold each other. And when someone breaks — as they inevitably do — we send them a playlist. A meme. A quote. But we forget the oldest Indian tradition — sitting. Just sitting. With someone. In silence. Without answers. Without fixing. Just presence.
We don’t need more content. We need more company.
The next time you feel alone, pause. Don’t scroll. Don’t perform. Call someone. Ask nothing. Just stay.
And the next time someone says, “I’m just tired,” Listen carefully. Because tired often means — I miss.
A piece of myself that I no longer recognize. Sometimes, what we miss isn’t a person, but a version of us that laughed without filter, cried without shame, and felt life in its rawest form.
So let us return — not to the past, but to presence. Let’s bring back slow conversations, soft hugs, honest eyes, and unapologetic warmth. Because no matter how fast the world runs, the heart heals only at the speed of connection.