The Person Behind the Performance

How would you introduce yourself to someone without referring to your name, occupation, family background, religion, caste, marital status, income, social circle, address, achievements, or anything you own?

What would you say?

Not what do you do. Not where are you from. Not who are your people. Not what have you built.

Who are you?

I think most of us would struggle.

I did too. But I do sometimes automatically revert to accepted responses.

Because so much of who we are, or who we think we are, is built around visible markers. The things people can quickly understand. The things that place us somewhere in the world. The things that say: this is my status, my background, my success, my taste, my tribe.

But lately, I’ve been thinking about value.

Not market value.

Not resale value.

Not brand value.

But the quieter kind. Personal values.

The things we value without always realising we value them. The things we chase, admire, judge, protect. The things that make us feel more like ourselves — or sometimes, less.

For some people, value is appearance. Presentation. Looking put together. Wearing the right clothes, carrying the right bag, driving the right car.

For some, it is financial security. The comfort of knowing there is enough. Or more than enough.

For some, it is peace. Others, love. Family. Freedom. Achievement.

And I don’t think any of these are wrong. We all come to our value systems honestly. They are shaped by our homes, our childhoods, our insecurities, our ambitions, our fears, and the worlds we move through.

But I keep wondering — is there a hierarchy inside each of us?

And does that hierarchy change as we grow older?

Because mine has.

Today, I think I value peace more than presentation. Meaning more than noise. A few good friends more than a large circle. Conversations that stay with me more than evenings that only look good in photographs.

There was a time when I could tolerate noise better. Not just actual noise, but social noise. Large groups. Repeated conversations. The performance of being present even when I had mentally left the room.

Now, I don’t enjoy meeting large groups of people as much.

I prefer one-on-one conversations. Or small groups. I withdraw when conversations don’t engage me. Not always rudely, I hope. But I know myself enough now to know when I have nothing to add.

I have a few good friends, and that feels like plenty. I’ve never been someone who was integrally bonded to one group. I am part of a few groups, yes, but not groupism. If that makes sense.

I like people. But I enjoy them most when there is something real to talk about (real by my definition). Something thoughtful. Something funny in a way that isn’t just performative. Something honest. Something that makes me feel like there is a person in front of me, not just a role being played.

Maybe that is one of the things I value more now.

The person behind the presentation.

Which brings me to another kind of value — the value we place on things.

Clothes. Shoes. Cars. Brands.

I remember growing up in boarding school. We changed into “colour clothes” in the evenings and on weekends, and I’m sure there must have been some awareness of who wore what. Children notice things.

But I don’t remember brands being such a large part of identity. Maybe they were there and I didn’t notice. Maybe we simply had fewer options.

Even in college, we became more fashion conscious. Of course we did. That age has its own vanity, its own experiments, its own desperate need to be seen a certain way. But fashion didn’t feel like the centre of everything.

Partly because we had fewer choices. But maybe also because our identities had not yet been turned into such visible displays.

Today, children and teenagers seem so aware of what they wear. Brands are not just brands anymore. They are signals. Of money. Taste. Belonging. Aspiration. Knowing what is current.

And maybe that is not entirely their fault.

They are growing up in a world where everything is seen, photographed, compared, posted, judged, and remembered. A world where you don’t just wear clothes. You appear in them.

That is a lot of pressure.

But before I sound too wise and detached, let me be honest.

I’ve had my own version of it. My weakness was heels.

I am short. And oh my God, I loved my heels. I’m talking stilettos. Proper high heels. The kind that changed how I stood, how I walked, how I felt. Wedges and platforms were, for a long time, on my snob list.

They made me feel taller, obviously. But not just physically. They gave me a kind of inner power. A little lift that was not only about inches. It was attitude. Posture. Presence. The sense of entering a room slightly differently.

And then, of course, my body had other plans.

Years of abusing my feet and legs caught up with me. I developed a dysfunction that now prevents me from wearing them the way I once did. I have to be very selective about footwear.

Ugghh.

There is no graceful, philosophical way to say this.

I miss them.

And yes, when I came down a few inches, I did feel like I lost some of that inner power.

Which is strange, isn’t it? That a pair of shoes could hold so much meaning.

But that is what value does. It attaches itself to things. Sometimes deeply. Sometimes ridiculously. Sometimes in ways we only understand when the thing is gone.

So maybe the question is not whether material things matter.

They do.

A sari can carry memory. A watch can carry love. A house can carry history. A pair of heels can carry confidence. A car can mean success to someone who grew up taking buses. A branded bag can mean arrival to someone who was once made to feel small.

Things are not always shallow. But they become shallow when they replace the person.

And lately, I find myself tired of how much value we attach to the outside of things.

The logo. The label. The visible proof.

There is so much noise around brands now that I sometimes feel I would rather be brandless. Not because I am above it all. I’m not. But because I am tired of being constantly sold a version of worth.

Wear this and you are stylish.

Carry this and you have taste.

Drive this and you have arrived.

Holiday here and you belong.

Eat here and you know what’s happening.

At parties, or in large social settings, I sometimes look around and feel as if everyone looks strangely similar. 

Which is funny, because earlier too, we probably looked similar. We had fewer choices, so of course there was sameness. But somehow, the sameness then felt less manufactured.

Maybe we stood out more through conversation. Through personality. Through humour. Through how we thought. Through the stories we told.

Now, sometimes, all I see are brands in my face.

And behind them, I struggle to find the person.

Maybe that sounds unfair. Maybe I am becoming older and less patient.

Maybe every generation thinks the next one is more superficial.

But I don’t think this is only about age. I think something has shifted in how we talk to each other.

So many conversations now seem to circle around status in some form or the other.

Money. Holidays. Restaurants. Bars. Schools. Houses. Who knows whom. Who went where. Who bought what.

And I am not saying these things should never be discussed. Of course we talk about where we went, what we ate, what we bought, what we liked. That is normal.

But sometimes I miss interactions with people. Not updates, performances, social resumes.

People.

What are you thinking about these days?

What has changed your mind recently?

What are you struggling to understand?

What do you believe now that you didn’t believe ten years ago?

What still hurts more than you admit?

What makes you feel like yourself?

Maybe these questions are too intense for a party. I can already imagine someone backing away slowly.

But still, I miss the possibility of depth. The possibility that a conversation can move beyond the surface. That we can meet each other somewhere more honest.

Maybe this is why I prefer smaller spaces now. Because in smaller spaces, people perform less.

There is less need to compete with the room. Less pressure to be entertaining. Less temptation to become a version of yourself that will be understood quickly.

And perhaps that is what I value now.

Being at ease.

Being understood.

Being seen.

There is a difference.

Visibility is external. It is how many people notice you.

Being seen is intimate. It is when someone notices the right things.

And maybe, with age, I am less interested in being visible.

There was a time when I cared more. I think most of us do when we are younger. We want to be noticed. Chosen. Admired. Included. We want proof that we matter.

But over time, some of that softens. It has for me.

You realise that being admired is not the same as being known. Being invited is not the same as belonging. Being well-dressed is not the same as being comfortable in yourself. Being surrounded by people is not the same as having relationships that nourish you.

And value begins to rearrange itself.

Peace moves up. So does authenticity.

A good conversation moves up as does silence.

Ageing strips some things of the glamour. Slowly.

You start asking:

Do I actually want this? Or did I learn to want it?

Do I enjoy this? Or do I enjoy what it says about me?

Do I miss the thing itself? Or the version of myself I became around it?

Because once you remove the outer things, you are left with the inner architecture.

The values.

Not the ones we claim to have. The ones we actually live by.

What do I protect?

What do I make time for?

What do I judge?

What do I envy?

What do I dismiss?

What do I keep choosing, even when I say something else matters more?

That, perhaps, is where our true value system reveals itself.

Not in what we say we value.

But in what we repeatedly return to.

And the uncomfortable truth is that all of us have contradictions.

We may say we value simplicity but crave admiration. We may say we value peace but keep choosing chaos. We may say we value depth but spend more energy on appearances. We may say we don’t care what people think, while quietly arranging ourselves to be approved of.

Does it make us terrible. Nah. It makes us human.

But it is worth noticing.

Because if we never examine what we value, the world will decide for us.

AND THE WORLD IS VERY LOUD.

Maybe tomorrow, the hierarchy will shift again.

We change. Our values change. Life takes things away. It gives other things weight. It teaches us, sometimes gently and sometimes with very bad knees, that what once made us feel powerful may not be what sustains us forever.

So value is not fixed. It is something we keep discovering.

Through what we lose.

Through what we outgrow.

Through what no longer impresses us.

And through the quiet relief of finally admitting what does.