Lately, I’ve been thinking about who we are beneath our conversations, our declarations, and even our rage. What remains when there’s no one left to impress, no one left to fight, no one left to prove anything to?
In the middle of this reflection, I came across something strange and old-fashioned the Proust Questionnaire. Originally a parlor game, it asked people not who they were, but who they believed themselves to be when the world wasn’t watching.
So I tried. Not to impress, but to arrive somewhere closer to truth. And this is what I found:
What do I value in a woman?
Her protectiveness. Her endurance, but her ability to protest. Her pursuit of someone she loves, even when the world works nonchalantly.
In a man?
His softness. His empathy. His ability to wait without making noise about it.
My greatest fault?
My moods arrive like seasons. Predictable and still surprising.
My favorite occupation?
Writing. Letting the silence speak first. Waiting to see what remains.
My idea of happiness?
To be in the middle of a thought no one interrupts. A desk, a pen, and enough time.
And misery?
To succeed in ways that betray who I am. To be praised for things I never wanted.
If not myself, who would I be?
A lone woman in a faraway town, walking home under a mountain sky. Nobody knows her name. And she prefers it that way.
Where would I live?
Anywhere with a library and a mountain. I trust books and silence more than people. Sicily maybe.
Color and flower?
Black and sunflower. One hides me. The other heals me.
Favorite bird?
The crow. It remembers faces. It uses tools. It grieves. It’s always closer to human than we admit.
Heroes in fiction?
Winston Smith. Jay Gatsby. They all chased something invisible and loved too much.
Heroines?
Lizzie Bennet. Ammu from The God of Small Things. Women who broke, survived, and remained unknowable.
Composers who understand longing?
Bob Dylan. Leonard Cohen. Kabir Suman. They each write like they’re still searching for a home.
Real-life heroes?
Single working women. Especially my mother. Quiet strength disguised as routine.
Names I find beautiful?
Aliya. Ankhi. Meera. Rumi. Names that could belong to rivers, or winds, or poems.
What do I dislike most?
People who claim religion but carry no love. Who build walls around what was always meant to be open.
A talent I wish I had?
Forgiveness. Not as a performance, but as a quiet practice.
How I wish to die?
In the middle of a dream. Somewhere between memory and surrender.
Faults I forgive easily?
The need to lie to protect something soft.
My motto?
To grasp the fleeting beauty of ordinary things.
The sound of tea boiling.
A book left open.
A room warmed by silence.
This is not an attempt to define myself. I don’t believe we ever really can.
It is only an attempt to name what I carry when I walk alone.
Thank you for meeting me here.
