In the pulsating heart of India’s megacities, where the honking symphony of traffic competes with the clatter of chai glasses in narrow lanes, a quiet revolution is unfolding within the walls of apartments and studio flats. Millennials and Gen Z have a new dictionary of life—solitude, independence, choice, self-worth, renewal, privacy, connection... The transformation is huge: the rise of the one-person household. To outsiders, this may seem a mere demographic footnote, but it signals something more profound: a reimagining of life in a society long defined by familial intimacy and collective living. Career ambitions have played a significant role in this shift. The lure of professional fulfillment in India’s rapidly evolving knowledge economy often necessitates mobility, long hours, and sometimes geographical separation from family networks.
Young software engineers in Bengaluru or finance professionals in Mumbai may opt for studio apartments over inherited family homes, drawn by proximity to opportunity and freedom from the constraints of extended-family obligations. Friendships take on renewed significance in a context where family presence is not guaranteed, and social calendars are carefully curated rather than assumed. Delayed timelines for marriage, parenthood, and traditional markers of adulthood reflect broader demographic and cultural shifts. In urban India, a 30-year-old woman might prioritise travel, skill acquisition, or entrepreneurial ventures over settling down; a 28-year-old man may choose months of solo living to explore personal passions before entering long-term commitments. Solitude becomes a vessel for autonomy.
On one hand, living alone can signify independence, financial stability, and access to cultural and educational capital. On the other, it carries subtle psychological costs. Examples of urban Indians navigating this duality are emerging everywhere. In Delhi, a young architect may fill her one-bedroom flat with plants, books, and music, hosting small dinner parties rather than living with a noisy household; in Chennai, a software professional living alone in a rented apartment uses video calls to maintain familial bonds while enjoying the freedom to explore new hobbies. These lives, seemingly fragmented, are not devoid of meaning—they are carefully calibrated expressions of choice. Even as studies highlight the risks of isolation, they also reveal the rewards: introspection, self-efficacy, and the capacity to cultivate a life of one’s own making.
As India urbanises and fertility declines, the number of one-person households is projected to rise by 2050. Solitude is no longer merely a contingency or a transitional phase—it is increasingly a viable, even desirable, lifestyle. It is a space where career ambitions flourish, friendships are intentionally nurtured, and personal timelines are sovereign.
“I wouldn’t say I’m lonely,” says Shaaz Bazmi, a 28-year-old architect in New Delhi, whose weekends revolve around food delivery, Netflix, and digital conversations rather than bustling social calendars. “But I also don’t feel the need to meet people every day. I like my routine—work, food, Netflix, travelling and sleep. Social life is an add-on, not a default.” Bazmi is part of a growing cohort of millennials and Gen Z professionals quietly redefining connection in India’s cities.
In a society long built on collectivism and community, the quiet choice to live alone—or alone together—marks a seismic shift. Amid the noise of India’s cities, solitude is no longer the absence of company. It is becoming a form of modern presence.
Perks of Solitude
The Covid-19 pandemic accelerated this trend by dismantling the office as a hub of casual connection. For many young professionals, hybrid or fully remote work has become permanent. “The absence of water-cooler conversations, after-office chai breaks, or shared commutes has eroded everyday sociability,” says Dr Shilpa Deshpande, a Mumbai-based psychologist. “The vacuum is often filled with digital interactions, which simulate, but don’t replace, physical companionship.”
In her 20s, Shruti Lohriwal has built a life that many might call unconventional, but to her feels inevitable. She first moved to Mumbai at 17 for work and later stayed on for college, but it wasn’t circumstance alone that drove her toward solo living—it was independence. “I wanted the freedom to make my own decisions and create a space that felt entirely mine,” she says. Remote work now makes her home both office and sanctuary, and most weekdays begin quietly: coffee, journalling, a workout in the afternoon. Evenings often shift into small adventures—solo café visits, art events, or a movie alone. Over time, she’s come to see solitude not as an adjustment but as an intentional way of living.
That freedom is balanced by discernment. Rising housing costs in Mumbai meant compromises on space, but Pune offered her quieter neighbourhoods, affordable housing, and a slower pace that made solitude feel nourishing. She draws a clear line between being alone and being lonely: the former is physical, the latter emotional, and hobbies—painting, cooking, exploring—have been her antidote. Looking ahead, she envisions solitude as an enduring part of her identity, even if one day she shares her home. “I’ll always protect the independence and joy I’ve built for myself,” Shruti says.
Across India’s metros, solo living is no longer framed only as necessity—born of migration, career demands, or circumstance—but as choice. Rajat Khandelwal, Group CEO, Tribeca Developers, shares, “We’re witnessing a strong surge in demand from single residents and young professionals who prefer smart, fully managed homes that match their dynamic pace. With limited supply of quality studio apartments in the market, this segment presents a tremendous growth opportunity.” Gurugram-based Mukesh Bhatt’s journey into solo living began not as a conscious lifestyle choice but as a consequence of moving away from his hometown in Uttarakhand. After studying hotel management, he spent five years working with Marriott’s corporate office in Gurugram, where he first experienced the independence—and the challenges—of living alone. A career switch into data analytics brought fresh transitions, including a stint living with his brother in Noida, but the lack of privacy soon felt stifling. It was during this time that Bhatt began experimenting with blogging and video-making, eventually discovering music and content creation as outlets that required both focus and solitude. “Recording a song or filming something wasn’t easy with others around,” he explains. “It was a struggle to create freely. That’s when I realised how valuable solitude could be.” He admits it can be financially demanding and at times emotionally heavy, but insists that the independence it brings outweighs the difficulties.
Similarly, when Deepak Parikh moved from Kolkata to Mumbai three years ago, it was less an experiment than a deliberate step toward independence. A full-time content creator and host of the Chill Hour podcast, he had already experienced living solo during his Master’s in the UK, and the taste of that freedom proved unforgettable. His days now are structured but solitary—morning routines, scripting, and recording episodes that demand long stretches of quiet. Interactions come mostly through podcast guests, online meetings, or an occasional coffee with friends, but, as he puts it, “I thrive on silence, I thrive on solace. It gives me a sense of self, gives me a sense of freedom, and that helps me in my work as well.”
That solitude, however, is hardly without cost. Living alone in a 2BHK in Mumbai, one of the country’s most expensive cities, means absorbing a financial burden that might have been lighter elsewhere. But for Parikh, the trade-off is worth it. “I would much rather live in the city for work and feel settled than actually live in another city just because I have to pay a lesser rent,” he says. Free to host friends, nurture romantic relationships, and prioritise himself without obligation, Parikh sees solo living not as withdrawal but as expansion—an adulting rite that makes both his personal life and his creative work more whole.
Delayed Timelines
Attitudes toward marriage, family and friendship—long central to Indian social life—are also shifting. Census data shows that urban Indians are marrying later, with the median age for women rising from 19 in 1990 to nearly 24 in 2020, and for men from 23 to almost 29. Divorce rates, though still low compared to Western countries, are steadily climbing in metros.
It is this attitude that drove Vikas Bhaskar, 29, a cinematographer, to spend most of his hours inside his studio-cum-office in Timarpur, North Delhi. He recently moved out of his family home in another part of the city, a decision he says was as much about his work as his wellbeing. “I love staying with my parents, but they always knew that after a certain age there comes a phase when you start searching for adventure, whether in work or in following your passion. By my mid-20s, I wanted to see how I would function on my own,” he says. He tried moving out several times, but as the only unmarried child left at home, he felt bound by responsibility. “It began to take a toll on my mental health,” he recalls. A year ago, he made the leap and rented an apartment in Timarpur. Now, he devotes himself entirely to building his clientele and deepening his craft. “For me, solitude isn’t about the material perks of freedom,” he says. “It’s about the mental clarity that comes when you’re not weighed down by certain responsibilities.”
In another part of the country, Subhadarsi S, 38, a freelance photographer from Bhubaneswar, has also chosen to live alone, though his parents reside in the same city. For him, the decision was rooted in something fundamental: freedom and privacy. When he moved out, he did so with the belief that independence was not only for his own sake but also for those he left behind. “We often think freedom only applies to the one who leaves,” he explain. “But I believe it also transforms the lives of the people you leave. My parents, for instance, could now focus on their own relationship, their health, their way of living.”
There was another reason he sought solitude. Subhadarsi has no plans to marry, and in a traditional household, that choice can weigh heavily. “When you live with your parents, they sometimes see marriage as the solution to everything,” he adds. For him, living alone became less an act of separation than of clarity: a way to preserve love while also protecting the space he needed to live on his own terms.
Friendship, too, carries a different texture today. Or perhaps it was always complicated, and only now are we willing to acknowledge that not everyone fits into the tidy mold of having a circle of lifelong companions. Born in Gujarat, Devanshi Joshi, now 23, moved to Hyderabad seven years ago after finishing her 10th grade, following her sister in search of greater opportunities in a larger city. The transition was anything but seamless: a new language, unfamiliar cultural codes, and even episodes of bullying in her intermediate years made the shift a trial by fire. Yet, over time, those challenges reshaped her. By her third year of BTech, living in hostels and paying-guest accommodations, she began to carve out a sense of independence. “A solo trip to Mussoorie in my final year proved a turning point: a reminder that connection was possible, even if fleeting, and that solitude did not have to mean loneliness,” she says.
Today, Joshi lives alone, a choice that brings her both freedom and clarity. She journals nightly, finding steadiness in the quiet rituals of solitude, and has learned to embrace the peace of being free from the entanglements of group dynamics. Hyderabad, once a source of alienation, has also been her crucible, shaping her in ways her hometown of Vapi never could.
The Prosperity & Age Paradox
“Interestingly, while the surface behaviour may look similar, in the West solitude often reflects economic decline, whereas in India it is rooted in choice and upward mobility,” says Vidhu Shekhar, Assistant Professor of Finance and Accounting at SPJIMR. “This has become embedded into generational norms despite very different economic realities.” In India’s urban centres, solitude among millennials and Gen Z is less a condition of scarcity than a byproduct of prosperity. Morgan Stanley estimates that millennials now contribute nearly 70 per cent of household income, many of them as first-generation wealth holders whose parents never enjoyed such autonomy. Demographic change reinforces the shift. With smaller families, many young Indians grew up without siblings or with fewer children in the household. That dynamic increased per-child family wealth and normalised a certain degree of isolation from an early age. Now, as adults, financial independence enables them to prioritise solo living arrangements, home offices, and carefully curated social circles.
Anthropologists are also taking note. “Isolation is, in many ways, the new norm of neoliberal modernity,” says Krishna Kant, an anthologist from Delhi. “But it would be too simplistic to view it as pure detachment. People are, in fact, finding community in new ways—take Bengaluru, for instance, where residents are opening up their homes as reading rooms or co-working spaces to counter solitude.”
A recent report by the Agewell Research & Advocacy Centre—A Study Report on Solo Ageing: With Special Focus on Status of Older People Living Alone in India (September 2024)—documents the rising prevalence of solitude among the country’s elderly. According to the survey, 14.3 per cent of older respondents said they lived alone—slightly more in cities (15 per cent) than in villages (13.4 per cent). Gender differences were marked: 15.4 per cent of men reported living alone, compared with 13.4 per cent of women. The numbers sketch a telling portrait of old age in India—one increasingly defined not only by family ties but also by endurance, and sometimes the quiet dignity, of life lived in isolation.
The study underscores how stark and multifaceted loneliness in old age can be. Many older adults find themselves isolated due to the loss of loved ones, shrinking social networks, or the physical limitations that come with age. This isolation often takes a toll on health, manifesting as depression, anxiety, or increased vulnerability to chronic illness. The stigma around loneliness compounds the problem, keeping many from seeking help. Economic realities only deepen the divide. What remains, often, is a quiet resilience. Whether through daily rituals, work, or memory, India’s ageing population is learning, in different ways, to live with solitude.
Loneliness and the Mind
For psychologists, the rise of urban isolation presents a subtle but profound shift in the way disconnection manifests. “I am seeing more millennials and Gen Z clients presenting with issues tied to isolation,” said Arpita Kohli, a clinical psychologist from PSRI hospital in Delhi. “If solitude is chosen freely and brings peace, clarity, and satisfaction, it’s healthy,” she explains. “But if it’s driven by fear, discomfort, or past hurt, and leaves you feeling empty or restless, it may be avoidance. The litmus test is simple: does your solitude energise you, or does it leave you drained?” She calls this phenomenon “hyper-connected loneliness”—a state where constant digital contact paradoxically sharpens the sense of disconnection.
Dr Shaunak Ajinkya, Consultant Psychiatrist at Kokilaben Dhirubhai Ambani Hospital in Mumbai, sees similar patterns. “Research has consistently shown that younger adults report feeling more isolated and lonely than previous generations. Despite being the most technologically connected generations to date, millennials and Gen Z often lack genuine, in-person relationships.” The shift away from marriage and family as central to identity has also left many young urban professionals without the built-in emotional safety nets previous generations took for granted. Some clinicians note that solitude today is not always circumstantial, but increasingly deliberate. “A lot of young professionals today would rather be alone than always be around other people. This shows that values and ways of life have changed,” says Dr Rahul Chandhok, Sr. Consultant & Head Psychiatry, Artemis Lite NFC, New Delhi. “Some people choose this alone time for peace, privacy, and freedom from societal pressures.”
Remote work has untethered people from colleagues and offices, but digital communities have taken their place. Can they truly substitute? “Virtual relationships can provide genuine emotional support, particularly through shared interests and accessibility. However, they cannot replicate the warmth of in-person interactions,” said Chandhok. “They often miss little things that help build trust, like a smile, a touch, or a moment of silence.” Both clinicians point to the erosion of traditional relationship structures as a deeper cultural undercurrent. Ajinkya links this to a broader shift in identity: “Today, people increasingly derive self-worth from careers, personal growth, and even digital personas.”
As Bazmi put it, “Social life is an add-on, not a default.” In a country known for its collectivism, this cultural pivot is redefining intimacy, community, and what it means to feel connected.
