Who am I?

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet."

 The famous lines from Shakespeare, probably read and will be read by countless people generations down the line.

Of late I got this strange feeling of wanting to find out who am I.  My name, the inheritance from my late grandma (May her soul rest in peace!), is what I am known as and called so.  But, what and who am I really, inside?  This has been nagging me for some time now.

My children call me “daddy”, my wife “my hubby”, my parents “our ata” (“ata” means an elder brother, which is also used to lovingly call the eldest son), for my friends I am a “friend” and sometimes my bosses call me “stupid”.  Then who am I actually?  I am a different person to each of them; father to my children, husband to my wife, son to my parents, friend to my friends and …

I may be known by different names to different people, depending on my relationship to them, but I am only one.  And who is this “only one”?  Finding that may answer my question.

I need to delve deep and look into my inner self.  Perhaps I may find “me” there, the real me, the person that I am.  But depending on my mood and many other factors, I like to believe that I am “so-and-so” sometimes and “some others” at other times.  It may prove to be like searching for the proverbial needle in the hay.

I like to believe that I am a writer and like to live in the fantasy.  But what do I have, to show for it?  A writer without a book to his name!  It sounds foolish and even childish.  Though I love to put down my thoughts on paper, the fact remains that I don’t have a book to my name and so, I do not qualify to be called a writer.

I love to sing and play the musical instruments (I play a bit of all the musical instruments fairly well), do some other art work in the form of pencil shading, wood carving and cloth embroidery, the result of my inquisitiveness.  (I do not have any formal lessons or trainings on them.  I tried all of them out of interest and on a “trial and error” basis and some of them turned out quite well.)  A friend once called me “a Jack of all trades...” and I completed the statement for him “…but master of none”.  I sometimes like to believe that I am an artist and an artiste, but without any artwork to prove it I am neither.

Then what am I and who am I?  Writer?  Artist?  Artiste?  What?  What?  What?  Who?  Who?  Who?  The only answer that comes to my mind is that I am me.  But who is this “me”?  I may never be able to find out.  As fickle minded as I am and my moods changing constantly, I am afraid that I may not be able to find out the “who” part of me?

For now I should then satisfy myself being what I am to different people; “dad”,” husband”, “son”, “friend” and “stupid ass”, till I make a name for myself, which seems like a Herculean task.  As of now I am so used to being all the above, that I can get into the role quite perfectly, and breeze through without even attempting to.  Then it is better to be all of the above and make all the concerned happy and be happy myself in the process.  But am I a clown, enjoying myself and making others happy, at my own cost?  Without thinking to answer this question, here I rest my case and get myself busy into playing the role that I am required to, as per the person I am dealing with at a particular moment, and end the woes of the readers too.