Labels

As far as I can look back in time, I have been told that engineering is in my blood. I come from a family of engineers and come from a country where engineers are revered. My parents thanked all the gazillion deities in my religion when they realized that I had a natural inclination towards technology and science. They were happy that they would not be forcing me to do anything. I was labelled as the next engineer in the family.

But here is the problem with labels, as much confidence they give you, they also limit you. I lived my life as ‘the engineer’ for a very long time. Too Ironically, science came to my rescue. Out of curiosity, I gave my fingerprints to understand the geometry of my brain. From that test, I found out that my brain’s neurochemistry was meant to be for creative thinking and not for analytics. This simple revelation destroyed the label that I had carried with myself for years. I refrained from writing for years because I thought I was not the ‘writer’ type.

From thereon began the quest of finding the writer that was buried under the façade of an engineer. I had always been an avid reader. Starting from Geronimo Stilton, I made my way through Rick Riordan, Cassandra Clare, Dan Brown, Dante Alighieri, Paulo Coelho and Ayn Rand. And every time I picked up a book, I shed my identity and entered the universe of that book with no labels. I have developed the character traits from the characters in the book. Jace Herondale made me love piano and the Shepard from the Alchemist made me want to search for my destiny too. I wanted to a vagabond like Elizabeth Gilbert eating the margherita pizza in Naples, Italy.

Somewhere along this road of adopting character traits, I lost myself. I lost the writer, the engineer, the pianist, the traveller, the daughter, the sister, the human. Because I was trying to be so much, I ended up being nothing. If someone asked me who I was, the first word that would come to my mind is ‘empty’

So where does writing fit into all of this?

Well, nowhere. It is another one of those aspects that I wish to own but afraid I might not. There is an interesting concept in forensic linguistics. They use the writing styles to identify the criminals. They used the same technology to prove that Shakespeare’s plays were indeed written by him only. But for someone who does not have a sense of self, would the writing style be same every time that person wrote?

I tried to answer my own question by drudging through years of articles that I had written for the School’s science magazine, the college essays for the US universities and the journals I kept since I was in class nine. All these pieces of writing were written in different contexts and environments. Some pieces were conjured up with Mozart in the background and others in a bathroom stall. Some had contemporary piano music playing in the background and others had people shouting in the background. Despite everything, there was a distinct voice in those writing pieces. The voice that belongs to me.

I have been trying to find the person that voice belongs to.

The topic of ‘Identity’ has been my research topic for this chaotic year of 2020. In The Fountainhead, Ayn Rand said “To sell your soul is the easiest thing to do in this world” and somehow in the 21st century, her words are more relevant than ever. While using social media, I feel like a I’m being pulled in different directions. I have to hold on to something otherwise I will end into an abyss of hopelessness and chaos.

On this road to discover myself, writing has been my tool. No matter how hard I try to pretend, how much I try to lie, I cannot force myself to write what I don’t feel. I can betray myself when I am talking but never when I am writing. It is as if my hands are directly connected to my heart. The brain is completely left out of the process of writing. My hands just type away the words and I am staring at the screen, dumbfounded, watching the series of words come together to make sense. After I am done writing, I feel what I feel after doing a exhaustive physical workout. The body is tired but the mind feels rested. The voice that is buried under years of labels and self-loathing breaks out as I write. Who would have thought that the girl who told that she is not the ‘writer type’ would ever find refuge in writing?

After reading seven hundred and eighty-eight words of discussion on the connection of writing and identity, as a reader you might be wondering where I am getting at? What is the aim of all this? Have I found where the shore of identity to which I am trying to sail to using the boat of writing?

If you were in my place, through my eyes, all you would see is vast unyielding majestic ocean. The ocean that is made up of labels. Beautiful, smart, funny, quiet, boring, ugly and myriad of words that we use to describe ourselves. This is ocean that most of have drowned in carrying the weight of labels that others have pushed on us. This the ocean where we drown after we let our past get to us. The ocean where countless ‘I wish’ are floating around.

When I try to imagine this ocean of labels, it is worse than Dante’s levels of hell. The stench of despair is really thick and it only has glimmers of hope. All I see is innumerable drownings with a few like me who are trying to navigate this ocean. Near me, there is no sight of the shore and the journey is just getting more depressing. I wish that I find the shore soon. Otherwise the two fates that await me are giving up and drowning or even worse, being pulled down and drowning.