A Walking Oxymoron
The other day, I went to a play. One I had bookmarked in my mind ages ago, but only just managed to catch. The venue was a whole vibe - an old-world charm mingled with the scent of something deeply alive. The people in the audience were a curation in themselves - linen drapes, silver curls, charcoal sketchbooks, old jholas, unapologetic opinions, and eyes that sparkled like they knew secrets.
Oddly, I felt at home.
And then, not.
Because as I waited for the lights to dim, I met versions of myself in those rows.
Pieces I’ve lost. Pieces I’ve postponed. Pieces I nurture quietly.
And just like that, I began asking myself :
When did paint stains and unfinished poems quietly step aside for spreadsheets and pressed trousers?
How did drama, laughter, and late-night sparks of creativity get replaced by calendar holds and colour-coded responsibilities?
A few months ago, I read this term - closeted introvert - and it just felt like a lot of what I was feeling. As loud and animated as I may seem, there’s always been a part of me that wished the plan would be cancelled. I hoped the event would end early. I craved the comfort of routine over the rush of social energy.
And it’s not new. It was just quieter. Less visible.
Because being assertive about what I need has never been my strong suit.
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Each day, I feel like I wake up and pick an avatar.
Not deliberately. But intuitively.
There’s the woman, walking through glass corridors with a purpose in her stride and a PowerPoint in her hand. And then there’s the barefoot thinker who wanders around in her kolhapuris and block-printed cotton.
I live in a world of defined roles and deliverables, but I carry a backpack of loose threads - stories, stares, spices, and songs.
Somewhere between agendas and ajrakh, I live my life.
Between ‘we should align on this’ and ‘let’s drift and see where it takes us.’
I’m the voice of reason in many rooms and the mess of metaphors in my Notes app. Maybe being a walking oxymoron is my way of staying whole in a world that’s obsessed with halves.
This isn’t about returning to someone I once was.
It’s about keeping her alive - in side glances, in stories half-told, in the small expressions of fabric and footwear.
Because one day, this same girl - lanyard around neck, timelines in hand -might pause once again at dusk in Thripunithura temple, eyes lit up at a late-night kathakali performance.
Not as an escape.
But as evidence that both versions breathe the same air.
Why dim one light to let the other shine?
