I am presently writing this piece from my home in Dharamsala. It is the same place where I plan to settle down after another 10 years in my pursuit to become an author. I have been to Dharamsala after a long time (it has been six months, and even then, I was here with a group of friends; so its my first trip "home" after December last). This is the place where I spent my formative years, the five years from completing my fifth standard till my inter years in Chandigarh; where every afternoon I spent hitting the tennis ball to the wall, where most evenings I spent watching "Krishi Darshan" or "Mere Pind Mere Khet". (yeah Krishi Darshan and Mere Pind Mere Khet..you got it right...that just sums up how very isolated I was as a child).
I was among the very few children I know who love going to school. And why not, as that was my contact with the outside world. Well I lived in a place which even the satellite cable boom had not been able to pierce, and my only device for entertainment was watching Doordarshan.
That is the kind of isolation you have to face when you stay in the middle of nowhere. Actually, our house was located, not in the middle of nowhere, but in the between two streams. I was even tempted to name the place Mesoptamia, not knowing that the Doaba word in Hindi refers to exactly the same thing.( Finally, though, I didnt have a say in the naming of the house, otherwise I would have had got confused between the two. The house, ironically, hasnt been named yet).
Well I wrote the above piece yesterday, and as I am back today, and dont exactly know how to continue, I shall start something else. I was just wondering as to what levels has narcissism taken control of me (I am sad because of this, and at the same time I am happy, because this is the first time I have managed to spell narcissism correctly). The title of this blog reads me, myself and I; and most of the posts here have had me as the central theme. And guess what, I always thought myself to be among the least self obsessed guys around. Infact I so much hated self obsessed people I even coined the term SOB for them. Now not to be confused with the more popular Son of Bitches, this SOB was an acronym for Self Obsessed Bastards. And now finding myself in that league makes me feel ill and sick, now that the initial euphoria about spelling narcissism correctly has worn off.
But I believe blogging is probably about following your own sense. It is kind of writing a diary, a very personal diary, whom everyone can read, and what you want everyone to read. And I also believe it is because you want people to know you that you want to write. And so there is no point in writing about others. So I am probably not as self obsessed as I think I am. The thought makes me happy again. I am nothing probably. Or I am everything. Or maybe I am just the gin soaked boy (going by my habits though, whisky soaked would probably be a better description). All in all, I am not a SOB. Hence Proved. QED. Happy.