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Who am i?

It's a painting, of a person. a person for sure but the portrait is pretty vague. I am trying to find myself in that picture. Who am I? For the past couple of weeks, I have been thinking a lot. I have been thinking about myself. I might seem selfish at this point but I needed to have a clear picture. I need to know how I portray myself in front of others. and before making any judgments i would want you to read this very carefully.


To get the complete image we need to get to the roots of the issue, to the time when the question popped up. I was in class ten as I recall. I was a coconut one might say, rough on the outside and soft within. there were reasons for this; not always was I rough. Boarding school was my home ever since class three. I came in as this scared young lad with a spark within, a fire that wanted to blaze into that spectacular fire. Life in the hostel was tough, but I was good at making friends. I thought everyone would be my friend. Sure got this idea wrong when one such friend lied to me about sharing a very precious gift of mine that my grandpa got me. I was naive then and I think am naive now.

Growing older, the cheerful me died down and emerged a frustrated me.A wall started developing around me to keep away from the bad company. I was pushed, used, betrayed, tormented which caused the wall to be stronger. Training hard enough got me recognized as a boxer, artist, and writer. I thought I had taken a step to cause the spark in me to burst into flames, but the inner me was not satisfied. I lacked one thing all this while, something I lost a long time ago. it was love .....

now it's not only the love of a girlfriend. it was the love of parents, siblings, and yes also of someone I could grow close to, a constant companion. I longed for love but only got engulfed by hate. I was always rejected for a proposal, my father left us, other relatives grew distant . Not all bad happened though. I finally found stupid, silly old douchbags who would listen to me, crack jokes, and eventually turned my frustration into laughter. I became this friendly guy who cracked silly jokes and even then my friends would laugh at it.


I loved to be this comic who would make everyone laugh . Eventually I had to leave the boarding school to pursue further studies. Being one of the average student brought me to the decision to change schools. I would miss my friends but I was taking back with me the fun memories and the art of cracking stupid jokes which don't work half the time. Everything changed when I came to my hometown. Way of speaking, way of portraying oneself, everything was different. Here I realized that people can be fake at times. This fakeness hit me hard and caused a lot of pain. Back in the hostel people were real. I had an idea of everyone's personality, but this was uncalled for.

I tried to stay focused but I let my guard down. The barrier I created came crashing down at the wrong moment. I started to feel hurt by a lot of things but I constantly hid my emotions. After all, I had the great art of cheering people up with my stupid jokes, which required me to create a fake smile. People just think now that I am this guy who is immune to every shitty thing that happens because I might believe the so-called "Chalta hain", "Bhai nahi hain", and "Mazak tha" attitude . And just because I don't wanna go back to the way I was in the hostel before and try not to be rude, doesn't mean I am okay.

I am not a stand up comic. I love to be funny and I wanna try to stay happy.but even I have feelings. I am a person just like you all. I try to be there for all my friends. I sit and listen, try to cheer things up but when it comes to me, there is rarely someone there for me.


The portrait is clearly visible now, it is the one who wants to be cheerful me, the one with all the scars that define him. The person is the one to give out a fake smile at situations,the one who really longs for someone to be there standing by him. He wants his friends to really understand him and to bring out the blazing fire back in him.




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