Identity

The darkness is a silent and welcome companion. I find myself much happier staying awake at night and doing some light (or, if not at all sleepy, heavy) reading, and love how contemplative I feel in the comforting shroud of the dark. While I love reading and have read much, I must somewhat shamefully admit that a lot of the world of ‘literature’ itself has been alien to me. I have often read some of the classics in truncated children’s versions; and will often pick a fiction book of comedy such as Terry Pratchett over, say, a Milan Kundera. I have, again, read some philosophy – but clearly not enough to honestly be able to say that I have grounding in that, either. Other than Nietzsche, Bertrand Russell, some Foucault, Chomsky, Gramsci and some J.S. Mill, all that I have read has been based on readings for class, or something of that sort. I just pretend to know enough, though I’ve probably gotten more from Wikipedia than actually reading anything.

I like pretensions, though. I have a lot of them. I like coming across as harsh and rude. In many ways, it’s a defence mechanism for having to shift around more often than Salman Rushdie during the fatwa (I only say this after reading a collection of his essays – a must read). As a new person everywhere you go, you swiftly learn that niceness is almost always likened to weakness. I remember a few funny incidents, and besides it being 2:48 AM, I have little reason to not talk about them. I had just shifted to Bombay from Calcutta; I had joined a school in the heart of the city, full of privileged brats. In my Calcutta school, I had been the privileged brat. Friends would gape at the size of my house, and I was perhaps the first student to possess a Nike t-shirt soon after it entered India. Bombay, however, proved to be the undoing of any pretensions I had of being cool. Being in a boy’s school in Calcutta had made me forget about how I looked, which was mostly irrelevant where there were no women to preen yourself for. At the age of 13, I was overweight, wearing glasses that can sympathetically be called ‘geeky’, and was sorely lacking in any kind of social grace. My awareness of pop culture was also coloured through the glasses of my elder brother and my father – I knew of Eric Clapton, adored the Beatles, was beginning to notice Aerosmith, and was smitten by the raw sound of the Guns n’ Roses. Yet, when I was asked if I know who Eminem was, I thought they were referring to the brand of chocolate (‘M & M’s) that I would often see on the covers of the Archie comics I sometimes read and wonder about.

So, the incident was when I pretended to know a little basketball. A new court had just been made in my school in Calcutta. Mom had been nice enough to buy us a plastic backboard, and we hung this from our window facing outwards and played in the driveway of our apartment building. It was nowhere close to being high enough; but I did learn some cool moves from a visiting elder cousin brother who was 6’2” and a state-level player at some point. Sure that I would dazzle the kids when I reached Bombay, even after having played perhaps 4 times before this, I told them that I knew how to play basketball ‘decently’, with an air of confidence I did not feel. That confidence was still in me when a boy named Karan Walia (I think; I’m not entirely sure) decided to divide up teams; he did so by pushing us one way or the other. Piqued at being touched and still buzzing with my false self assurance, I went up to him and pushed him back – and with forced indifference asked him not to take offence, since I’d always push back those who pushed me. When I’d been laughed at, with some “oooohs!” for effect thrown in, the game began; and sure enough, I was pushed down by Karan not long after. I did have a small miracle – I happened to score two three pointers during the game (and never have, since).

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I was discussing one amongst my many embarrassing stories (most involve women, my idiocy, miscommunication and some mishap or the other) and I wondered what I was really like. Most people perceive me a certain way, and it amazes me how varied some of these personas can be. Many see me as rough, rude and abrasive. Most know me to be someone who laughs with others about himself and his own follies. Some are convinced that I am offended when they make fun of me. Others are certain I could take anything they said and make it sound lewd. A few see me as a sensitive ‘emo’ person (especially with this blog). An individual believes I could be gay. Others believe that anyone could believe this to be unbelievable. Friends from Delhi remember me almost always wearing t-shirts and jeans. Friends from college will remember shirts with the folded sleeves. Friends from before law school will remember shoes; friends from after will remember slippers and sandals. If we are as transient as I know we are, then the impression we leave on people is our true legacy. Well, mine’s a jumbled up piece of shit.

Of course, some perceptions are just bizarre. Like a junior being asked if I’m hot when I happen to plan to visit somewhere, and/or opinions of that sort being carried around. Or people thinking that I’m a charmer of some sort, when as far as I can see (and trust me, I have a good view of how I interact, especially with women), cocky is the word that springs to mind – the kind of cocky that would use that word to chortle, and definitely leave far from a wholesome impression on any mind. All this coupled with my lack of belief in any sort of assertion that I flirt, and this leaves me completely befuddled. The cockiness is to hide my lack of confidence. My impressions on people are also reflections – these mould what I am. People laughing at my jokes spur me on to being a funny man. People appreciating an aspect of my character or appearance are promoting it. I feel like a tabula rasa, and I love having that ability to change. It makes me who I am.

So I don’t know who I’ll be tomorrow. But I’ll see you then. I don’t know what you’ll think – but while it might influence me, it might cause me to change something small, don’t forget that it doesn’t matter to me. Blank slates are indifferent to what is written on them; and what’s written can easily be erased. Patterns that have been formed can be grown out of. And probably will. Don’t get used to who I am. I’ll turn around and bite your ass. And when you believe I’m predictable, maybe you’re just setting yourself up for the fall.