It's not the END.

“This post is a part of #UseYourAnd activity at BlogAdda in association withGillette Venus. 
 +Srilakshmi Indrasenan  Thanks for the tag. So, here it goes....

“Can I have a volunteer please?” asked our Art-of-living instructor. I heard a ripple of sarcastic laughs which translated the earlier request as “Can I have a scrapegoat please?” I chuckled unable to imagine what the next gig is like. For the past couple of days we were goaded to perform Navasana, Makarasana so on so forth that we dearly longed to perform nothing more than a prolonged savasana.  Not to mention the ego busting program. Men were asked to enact like hijras and women were asked to wrestle like Japanese sumos. We all had belly bursting laughter until it’s our turn. On a second thought, it’s not that bad. In fact it’s been great fun like our good ol’ college days. Before I could recoup I found my hand flying high in the air.

“There! There! We got a pretty volunteer. Please put your hands together and welcome her” I heard an excited instructor announce. I walked amidst ridiculing laughs and pointing fingers. “I would ask you some questions. Would you kindly close your eyes, dwell deeply in to your mind and answer them satisfactorily?” she asked me. “Satisfactorily? What does that mean? And what is with this closing of eyes? I can answer them with open eyes as well” I thought. However I agreed and closed my eyes.

“Who are you?” she asked me in a pleasant monotonous voice. I heard the jeering and cheering audience in the back drop. “Oh that’s pretty easy” I heard a gentleman complain as if he was denied his rightful share of property.

“I am a Doctor” I replied without a second thought

“Who are you?” she repeated. More jeers, less cheers.

“I AM A DOCTOR. A PEDIATRICIAN” I replied again.

“Who are you?” she asked as though she never heard me. This infuriated me for a second but then her clause jumped at me. SATISFACTORILY. So, my answer never satisfied her. What the hell should I say to satisfy her?

“I am a daughter” I replied thinking of my dad. That’s the role I like the best out of my life – being dad’s lil princess, throwing tantrums, giggling, cuddling…Oh I love you so much dad. I noticed my lips stretching in to a wide smile.

“Who are you?” she questioned again.

“I am a sister” I said as my Fred and George weaslyish brothers jeered along with the crowd.

“Who are you?” she repeated patiently.

“I am an artist, a painter” I replied running through the pages of my art journal.

“Who are you?” she asked with a sense of urgency as if I were facing a rapid fire round.

“I am a writer” I said happiness overflowing me as I browsed through the posts of my blog in my mind.

“Who are you?” she rushed me.

“A gold medalist”

“A book worm.”

“Who are you?” She never gave me time to think.

“A movie buff.”

“A foodie.”

“A cook.”

"A travel freak"

I am running out of answers as well as my breath. I heard people gasping “This is not as easy as we thought it is”

“Who are you?” “Who are you?”

I am not my profession. I am not a hobby. I am not just a relation.  I am not what people admire me for. Nor what they envy in me. Who Am I? I thought.

“I am a doctor and a daughter and a painter and a writer and a cook and a friend and a sister and a wife and a mother. I am a complete woman. There is no end. There is always an “and.” I said feeling content with myself. I heard the best applause of my life that refused to die out.