“No. You have no self.”

“What do you mean?”

“It is like… um, you know, like they say people wear masks, right? You know, modify their behavior according to the people around them?”

“Yes?”

“Well, you don’t just wear masks, you transform, you know, transfigure yourself into these completely different people.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ok. Look at this. You know, around thatha-patti? You have a Tamil accent. A Tamil accent, for God’s sake! And when you talk to some of your friends from college, you have those slightly elongated vowels, you know, that just hint at a Bengali accent. And when you talk to your old school friends, you have a very distinctive Hindi accent. And when you talk to me, and to some of your friends, you speak flawless English. What is that?”

“What is what?”

“This. Your… your chameleon reflex. Why do you have this obsessive need to blend in?”

“I don’t have an obsessive need to blend in. Most of my friends at college laugh at my Bengali, which they shouldn’t, because it’s almost perfect, but it is like the standing joke. So you don’t call that conformity, do you? If I was so good with accents, I could have faked that, right?”

“ No. You don’t care about surface stuff like that. You wont fake a Bengali accent, but you will adapt your English accent to put them at ease. Your stance, your expression, your entire um… ethos, you know, it… just completely changes. Fundamentally. I bet you are brisk at your college, and you stand around like the rest of our relatives at family things, you’re this joke-cracking, funny-thing-saying person around your friends, and I’ll bet you walk around, drawling slightly, and being consciously oblivious of things, like the JU people, when you go there.”

“Oh, come on.”

“No. You know, your blog?”

“What about it?”

“You know your writing is fantastic, right? It is wonderful. But have you ever written anything personal in it?”

“Sure I have.”

“No. No vague allusions. Something definite, something about what you are feeling, or something?”

“Well-”

“No. You haven’t. Because your blog is not an outlet, it’s a mouthpiece.”

“Oh, come on. I’m just not that much of an exhibitionist.”

“Ok. Have you ever written anything personal? Something so visceral that you couldn’t bear to let anybody see it? Ever?”

“Well…”

“See. That’s what I mean. It’s like you’re always watching, and you project to people what they want to see. And you are good enough to do it. You’re like that ‘Pretender’ guy. You are put in a situation, and it’s like a new, complete, fully-fleshed, made to order personality leaps to the fore. Its no illusion, either, you manage incredibly detailed personalities, you know, with… with depth, you know? And I have no idea how you do it.”

“Oh bullshit. People are different around different people. I’m sure you don’t act the same way around your teacher and your best friend.”

“Yeah, but I am the same person. My thoughts, my opinions, for God’s sake, my accent doesn’t change!”

“So you think I let myself be swayed by any argument? I beg to differ.”

“No. You argue really well. That’s what I am saying. You can argue any side of a debate. It’s just what I’m saying. Whatever the argument is, you can conjure up a personality that believes implicitly in it. You see?”

“Oh, blah. I refuse to listen to this scurrilous nonsense. Go study or something.”

***

“So that’s what she said to me.”

Silence.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“As in, I’m still waiting on the oh-no-of-course-nots, and the words, that like soothing balm ease a fractious spirit.”

Laugh.

“Well??!”

“You know, she’s not completely off the mark.”

“Oh, come on!”

“No, just think about it. You do do it, you know. Switch personas.”

“Yes, but so does everyone else.”

“Not to the extent you do. She is right, you can argue any side of an issue. Convincingly, you know. I can’t, I believe something, I can probably come up with some views from the opposing camp, but with you, it’s...”

“Yes, that just means if I put my mind to it, I debate well.”

“I don’t know. Ok, tell me this. Of the different personas, you say you put on like everyone else, which is the real you?”

Pause. "What do you mean, the real me?"

“There. See?”

“No, I don’t ‘see’!”

“Sometimes I think the real you is the poet, and sometimes, I think it’s the goof. But I can’t tell, either. Because you can’t tell. Its like you are under the spotlight, always, in your own grand opera.”

“Ok. That’s it. This conversation is over. I’d rather go talk to the dog.”