Who Am I?

Hey. It's been a while.

Not because I haven't wanted to write. Trust me, I've wanted to. There have been so many days where I've opened this page, looked at the blinking cursor for a minute, typed a sentence, hated it, deleted it and closed the tab and gone back to rewatching brooklyn 99 for the nth time. I had things to write about. I still do. But every single one of those thoughts deserves its own blog and today... I don't know it just isn't a heavy talk day.

Today I just wanted to write.

Just cuz I haven't written.

Just me thinking out loud.

It's 6:56 p.m. My playlist has been on loop for the last hour and somehow ive decided this was the perfect time to write because mom is telling me be ready in 20 minutes and i know im gonna have to rush after this. 

So here we are.

If you've been around here for a while, you probably know me. Or at least I think you do. This is the 30th blog.

Thirty.

Which is honestly a little crazy because I don't think I ever expected myself to keep writing this much.

If you've read most of them, you'd know I could take on an argument about absolutely anything, anytime. I could discuss adulthood and why people still stick chewing gum under desks in the same conversation and somehow connect the two. I could spend thirty minutes convincing you why Bryan Adams is one of the greatest artists to ever exist and then spend another thirty telling you why naturally aspirated V12s are pieces of art.

I could make you laugh. I could probably annoy you. I could not care less about something. And then lose sleep over every possible outcome of that exact same thing. I am, unfortunately, an Olympic-level overthinker. I am an oversharer. I am overexcited. I am overworked. OVER - Everything. 

But is that who I am?

Whenever life starts becoming lifey, I somehow come back to one question.

Who am I?

Now technically, there is an answer. My passport knows. My Aadhaar card knows.

They'll tell you my name is Ambika Pande. They'll tell you I was born on the 12th of April, 2009. They'll tell you who my parents are.

But that's not me. That's... information. That's the body I happen to exist in.

If somebody asked me who I am and I answered with my date of birth, I'd sound like a government form.

That's not an identity. That's me telling the immigration guy im not a terrorist. So then who am I? I've realised something. I think we introduce ourselves through the things we love because it's easier.

"I like rock music." "I love cars." "I want to study some crazy course and change this unchangeable world." "I write." "I debate." "I travel."

Those are easy answers. They're safe answers. They're the kind of answers people expect.

But are they actually me? Or are they just things that happen to make me happy?

Because if tomorrow I stopped listening to rock music...Would I stop being me?

If I woke up one morning and decided I hated cars—which, let's be honest, is never happening, dad wouldn't allow it—but hypothetically...

Would I become a different person? If I never wrote another blog after this one...Would I disappear?

I don't think so. So maybe the things we love aren't who we are. Maybe they're just little windows people get to peek through. The house is still much bigger.

If I had to define myself after stripping all of that away...

The music. The books. The debates. The cars. The dreams. The grades. The achievements. Everything.

I'd probably just say I'm another girl you'd pass by on the street.

One carrying a handful of problems, an infinite amount of love, an equal amount of anger, a bag full of tears and a few thousand ships of laughter.

I don't know why I said ships. It doesn't even make sense.

Actually, if I were carrying all of that around physically, you'd definitely notice me because I'd probably need a forklift.

But we're speaking figuratively. I think. Or maybe not. Anyway. You'd probably walk past her. She'd probably walk past you.

And neither of you would know the first thing about each other. That's the strange part about people.

The quietest person in the room could have the loudest mind. The happiest-looking person could be carrying the heaviest week of their life.

The man buying vegetables could be celebrating something. The woman waiting for her train could be grieving someone. The dude smiling at his phone could've finally found his true love. A girl could be on her laptop and for all you know she's watching a series.

The little kid running around could have absolutely no idea that one day they'll also sit at 7:00 p.m. wondering who they are.

We never know. We just assume.

And I think we assume because it's easier than imagining every single person has an entire universe going on inside their head.

I know I do. When I'm alone...

I'm at peace.

Not because I don't like being around people.

I do. I love selective people. I especially love mine. If I vibe w you you’re unfortunately stuck with me. 

But there is something about being alone that makes me feel like everything finally becomes quiet.

Sometimes I'm listening to music and actually hearing every word. Sometimes I replay the same song six times because one line hit differently. Sometimes I'm sitting in complete silence. Sometimes I'm imagining what life will look like ten years from now. Sometimes I'm thinking about someone who smiled at me and whether or not he was cute. Sometimes I'm thinking about absolutely nothing.

And I don't think enough people realise how beautiful absolutely nothing can be.

Home is different.

I don't think anyone knows me the way my parents do.

Actually, scratch that.

I know nobody knows me the way they do.

With them, I'm everything.

I'm childish. I'm loud. I'm quiet. I'm dramatic. I'm argumentative. I'm lazy. I'm ambitious.

I'm the person who'll walk into the room and say, "Can I ask you something?" and then proceed to ask the most random question known to mankind.

"Can we stop time and call for chinese?"

Or,

"What do you call a fish with no eyes?" (Fsh) 

And they'll answer. Not because they know. But because they know me. They've seen every version of me.

Every phase. Every obsession. Every meltdown over something that, looking back, really wasn't that serious. Every dream I've changed halfway through. Every version has been loved.

I think that's what home is. It's the one place where you don't have to decide which version of yourself is acceptable. You just exist. I love my folks. Not just because they are my folks, but because they are not my folks and are the coolest folks you'll find. 

My friends know another version.

The loud one. The sarcastic one. The one that's constantly laughing. The one that's somehow become the designated stand up comedian. The one corrupting brains with dirty humour. I am responsible for why my friends are the way they are. I am quirky. I am funny. I am the most teenagey I can be with them.

I genuinely think I become louder the closer I am to someone. Mom particularly, doesn't appreciate the loudness but its just what it is. Which is funny because around strangers I'm actually pretty reserved. Give me a room full of adults, and I'll quietly observe and make negligible small talk unless I know them very well and then they are my bros and dudes.

Give me my best friends, and suddenly I've become a one-woman podcast. I will carry the entire conversation!

Different people bring out different parts of me. And I don't think that's like pretend. I think that's human. Me being me against all odds

One thing people get wrong about me is that I'm rude.

Apparently I have the face for it. I don't know. Maybe I do. People also think I'm a nerd.

That one...

Yeah, fair enough. I've accepted my fate.

Growing up has made me think about all of this a lot more.

Maybe because Grade 12 is ending. Maybe because adulthood isn't this distant thing anymore.

It's here. College. Driving. Taxes. Jobs. Living away from my parents. Falling in love. Getting married maybe. Having children maybe. Cooking without burning something. Remembering to pay bills.

How do adults just... do it? Seriously. Who taught them? Was there a class everyone attended except me?

Because I genuinely feel like one day someone's just going to hand me responsibilities and expect me to know what I'm doing.

The thing that scares me the most isn't even the responsibilities.

It's time. I'm seventeen. And I already feel like I don't get enough of it with my parents. Some of my favourite memories aren't birthdays or holidays.

They're random Tuesdays. Times I lay in dad's arms or rest my head in mom's lap and just be and laugh about something, discuss something, fully present to each and every moment. 

Car rides. Watching TV. Going to the stationery for the nth time. Having chai together. Talking nonsense. Doing nothing.

I didn't realise how valuable ordinary moments were until they slowly started becoming memories I cherish the most in our relationship. 

A while ago I watched Matthew McConaughey being asked who his hero was.

He said, "Me in ten years." I remember sitting there thinking...Yeah.

I get that.

Not because I think ten-years-older me will have everything figured out. Honestly, I hope she doesn't. I actually disagree with Maslow here. I don't think human beings ever truly become self-actualised.

I don't think there's a point where you wake up and go, "That's it. I've become everything I wanted to be."

Because then what? You stop dreaming? You stop changing? You stop becoming? I don't think that's how we're made. At thirteen, I thought I knew exactly who I was. I was confident. I knew I wanted to study biology. I had a major crush. I was delusional. Romance was my genre to read. 

Looking back, I smile.

Because now, I am confident in myself. I now study political science and legal studies and psychology as my core subjects. I am crushless. I have matured into understanding that half my crushes are out of boredom. I cut my delusions when they get to my head. I have stopped reading romance cuz its very repetitive. I like crime. I like mystery. I like biographies and autobiographies. I enjoy the occasional love story. I love rock music. I am mad for football. Henry Cavill makes me weak in my knees. I love posters. I love talking. I love writing.

At seventeen, I think I know myself a little better. Maybe. Ask me again when I'm twenty-seven. I'll probably disagree with half the things I've written here. And I hope I do. Because that means I kept growing.

So...

Who am I?

I still don't know. Maybe I'm not supposed to. Maybe I'm not one thing. Maybe I'm all of these little versions stitched together. The girl who cries when she's angry.

The girl who laughs too loudly. The girl who finds peace in silence. The girl who loves her parents more than words will ever allow her to explain. The girl who overthinks. The girl who loves deeply. The girl who gets attached. The girl who forgives but prolly doesn't forget.  The girl who argues. The girl who dreams far bigger than she probably should.

Strip away every certificate. Every percentage. Every label. Every achievement. Every possession.

And I'd like to believe what remains is honesty.

Loyalty. Respect. Curiosity. Kindness. An unreasonable amount of love. And maybe... I like that. 

That's enough for now. I feel nice now that I've written.

I have to start getting ready to head out. My playlist has started playing Take It to the limit for the 3rd time.

I think that's my cue to stop. If you're reading this ten years from now—

Hi.

I hope life has been kind to you. I hope Mum and Dad are still the first people you call when something exciting happens. I hope you still laugh too loudly. I hope Bryan Adams is still somewhere in your playlist. And I hope, more than anything else, that you never stop asking yourself this question.

Not because I want you to keep searching. But because I think the day you have one final answer...

You'll have stopped becoming.

And I don't think that's a life I'd want to live. 

SO PHILOSOPHICAL MAN. I STOLE THAT FROM YJHD BAS ENGLISH MEIN. 

HEHEHEHE

Peace Out!

As Ever,

Ambika