A core memory of mine from college, my undergraduate days: The chapel doors were sometimes left open even at night, so that whoever wanted could come and pray in the quiet. Charlie uncle, the leper who was abandoned by his family decades ago, served as the caretaker of the chapel, so the doors were left open under his supervision.
There I was, 3 or 4 months into my first year of college. Of what was supposed to be my exciting new life. Crying to God, begging for a friend.
Not even a friend, just somebody to talk to.
I still remember the exact words of my prayers that night. As if asking for a friend itself was too much. Like I didn’t deserve it. That even a simple person to talk to would suffice.
I had failed to integrate into any of the groups that had formed in the class at the beginning of the year. Out of anxiety, I had turned down invitations to outings. Out of over eagerness, I came on too strong to some people.
I didn’t leave the college campus for three full months. It was as if the world outside kept moving while I stayed suspended in place, watching everyone form their little orbits without ever stepping into one.
The years passed, slowly. Excruciatingly so. I did manage to make a few friends,
However, I was always their “other” friend. They had their primary friend group whom they would always prioritise, and then there was me.
When the global lockdown began, my entrance exam prep became an unexpected shelter for my bruised and battered mind. I was like a crazy bird, who wanted to stay inside the unlocked cage. It gave me the time and space (I acknowledge the privilege in that) to really think, and reflect on my life, on my psyche, on everything I had done or said, everything I had failed to do or say at pivotal moments.
I had always stubbornly held onto the narrative of “always be yourself”, “don’t change for anybody else”, “you are fine just the way you are” that had always been sold to me by all the popular media I had been consuming. I believe this was to my detriment.
I realised that you can’t take, without giving something.
You can’t earn profits, without investing something.
You can’t hope for success, without risking something.
So alongside the hours spent solving MCQs and revising notes, I found myself drafting something else entirely: a quiet, deliberate social comeback. I decided all the things I would do, the things I would say.
Then residency arrived,
This was my new stage. My new chance. I could not afford to mess this up.
“Do you want to go for this movie you don’t care about in a language you don’t totally understand?” Oh yes absolutely, lets go, even though it’s the late late show and I would much rather sleep.
“Do you want to go drink poison and dance to songs you don’t particularly enjoy? Maybe risk our lives while we are at it?” Sounds utterly stupid and far too expensive but yes, lets go!
I had inadvertently lost weight during the course of residency (that tends to happen when the only fully solid meal one has is dinner, and one has to run more than 10 thousand steps per day). I was suddenly getting a lot more attention and dates on “the apps”.
I didn't always speak my mind; listened, more than I spoke. Maintained some mystery, offering glimpses. An elegant dance of seduction, with measured amounts of to and fro, catered to the other's steps. Graceful abandon. Calculated nonchalance.
A year later, and I did something I never thought I would be capable of doing : I threw a birthday party. With 150 people on the guestlist. It was one of the best parties in my batch’s history.
Yet between the verve and turbulence of this new life, there was always a steady, dull hum in my ears — an unshakable tiredness.
It was great to have friends.
Great to do things like “party”, go for “long drives and listen to music”, “window shop”… but somehow I just felt tired.
So fucking tired.
Of having to conform.
Of having to laugh on cue.
Of having to match everyone else’s hurried strut when I wanted just to amble about.
And yet, despite all of that - I had earned a lot of social currency.
I was always able to have favours done.
I had friends to support me when I needed help.
I had people who would speak up for me in rooms I wasn’t in.
I finally had a place in the social circus — a space I had carved out through sheer persistence and elegant social gambits.
All of this to say… being “yourself” is overrated.
You should be yourself.
But not all the time.
Not with everybody.
Does this mean you have to adopt a whole other persona for the outside world? Or just not express your actual self much? Be a blank placeholder?
I don’t know.
But I do know this: social currency works similar to financial transactions and money – you can’t profit without investing. You can’t take without giving.
I suppose I just have to make peace with how much I give. And find some space, however small, to be my true self. Instead of being miserable, I could instead be grateful for what I have.
Play by the rules.
