I thought I would be a someone by now. But I am not.
It is that time of the year again. The clouds have taken over the bright blue sky and it has transformed into a dirty grey. The overbearing summer heat in the air is relieved with the damp coolness of the monsoon breeze. The tips of my toes and fingers curl up into themselves with the sudden drop in the temperature. Rains everywhere. Rains that remind me of happy things. Of promise. Of romance. Of better things on their way. How I wait for the rains every year.
But with the rains come something I feel rather ambiguous about. With the rains come my birthday and with it the inevitable, unforgiving nature of the resulting introspection.
What have I achieved this year?
How far have I come?
Am I what I wanted to be at this age?
And with each passing year, the answers grow more and more dismal. And the distance between what I thought and what I am grows exponentially,
I am nowhere close to being where I wanted to be.
I had never imagined so many things that now are the realities of my life. Mostly happy things, some not so much. But the question that overshadows all small successes and losses is the same.
Where am I ?
Whatever happened to my fire. I thought I would be brilliant at something. One thing, not everything but something. And that something will be enough to fill in the empty spaces and colour over the drab realities of life. I thought that something was writing. But that itself has become a big question in my life. Am I really a writer? Or am I a woman who turns to words when life stops making any sense and finds consolation in the lines and curves of the alphabets. The arc of the a’s and the dots of the i’s. The tap-tap of the keyboard that catches my painful thoughts, peels them off my mind and traps them on the screen. The muffled hum of the CPU that sounds like the hmm of a faithful friend, almost like that. I am a woman who finds it easier to write than to say and prefers it that way.
But, I write. So, that has to make me a writer. Right?
Otherwise, who will I be?
So this is not the life I had planned for myself. Plans don’t always come true anyway. But a lot of my life is a result of my choices and I like that. I like that it is my choice that I live independently. I like that I have chosen my profession on the basis of my interests and not on the basis of how much it would pay me (ok, I do regret that one sometimes). I like that I am not married yet and that it pisses off and confuses some people. I like that when I come home, I am surrounded by my books. I like that I am responsible for my own meals and have the privilege to cook for my loved ones at times too. I like that some people think I am a rebel.
I like that sometimes I don’t know who I am.