Why Working From Home Is NOT a Holiday

“So, how is your holiday going? Must be lovely to chill at home.”

“Actually, I am working from home.”

“Yeah, same thing, no?” Titter, titter, chuckle, chuckle.

Amidst large sections of the society lingers the belief that working from home is basically a fancy term for holidaying. You stay in your pyajamas all day, binge-watch your favourite TV shows, eat crisps and wafers and instant noodles, and, when tired of relaxing, turn on your laptop and send a few random e-mails. Working from home isn’t serious work, after all. You don’t have a boss to grill you; you don’t need to commute to the office; you are spared all the grime that comes with being a “working professional”.

Except: Most of that is UNTRUE.

Hot Vampires

“He is really hot. Hot enough to get me fantasising about, you know,” a distant cousin winked at me meaningfully. We were at a coffee shop, sipping cappuccinos and nibbling at a cake. The cousin had refused to order a slice of cake for herself because she didn’t want to “get balloon-y”. But that didn’t stop her from taking generous bites of the treat we were supposed to share between us.

“Really? That hot?” I enquired. “But isn’t he kind of creepy? I mean, he is a vampire who goes about slashing throats and sucking blood.”

“I wish he would suck mine.”

Her level of dedication amazed me. She was willing to donate her blood to satiate a random bloodsucker’s hunger only because he was, apparently, hot. This man appeared in a TV series about vampires—a “million times better than that crappy Twilight”—and was the latest obsession in the young girl’s life. Previously, she had fallen for werewolves, zombies, and tomb raiders. These mythical creatures were responsible for most of her sexual awakening.

When I was a child, vampires appeared in spooky Dracula films and classic novels. They kept me from going to the bathroom alone at night. I am pretty sure I had crushes on actors from televisions soaps, but they were usually people I could imagine running into in marketplaces, libraries or restaurants. They didn’t slink up on me from dark corners, pretending to like me only because they were thirsty for an iron-rich liquid.

Restroom Riddles

“I’ll just be back from the restroom,” she announced, proceeded to grab her purse, and walked away from the table. I continued to slurp from my bowl of soup. Her date (and a mutual friend) nodded, focusing on his chopsticks.

Twenty-five minutes went by. She didn’t come back. Was she all right?

We were at a Japanese restaurant renowned for its ramen and miso soup. Both dishes are delicious but light and I have never known them to irritate stomachs before. But how else could I explain her long absence from the table? Her date fidgeted and glanced at the restroom door every so often. I figured I should go and check. What if she had a stomach upset? A sanitary-pad incident? A nervous breakdown?

A Quarrel That Shook Me

In the building I live in, are many children, of different age groups. The kids are busy playing about in the evenings when I get back from work. Sometimes, I watch a few kids huddled over colourful picture books, examining and commenting on every page. The sight makes me pleased as punch. At other times, I see a squabble or two, usually over a misplaced shuttlecock. But rarely do I see a full-blown quarrel as ugly as I did that evening.

No, it wasn’t violent. The kids weren’t thrashing each other. It was essentially a verbal spat. A little guy about six years old was tugging at a book that was in the clutches of a little girl, perhaps about eight.

Parking My Stress

Lately, I have discovered a fabulous way to beat stress. It isn’t a novel idea by any means, but I didn’t know how therapeutic it could be until I started doing it regularly.

I go to the park and let my mind wander. I walk briskly for a few minutes, exercising my arms and legs (and trying out cool new moves I see fitness freaks practising). Then, I let myself sit on the bench in the early morning sunshine, listen to the chirping birds freshly woken from sleep, and pamper my feet with the luxury that is dew. I don’t look at my phone; I don’t inspect any to-do lists; no calls or messages are entertained. Frequently, I don’t even listen to music but prefer to tune in to the natural orchestra: whistling winds, birdies cooing in the distance, lightly rumbling thunder forecasting more rain in Pune, rustling leaves swaying in the breeze.

Please Stop Telling People You’ve OCD

Whenever I open my social media accounts or flip through a magazine, I find someone who has “come out” about his/her mental illness. People own up to being depressed, anxious, psychotic. It takes immense courage to accept something like that, even more so when you’re a public figure whose every action will be scrutinised. I have nothing but respect for anyone who has the courage to fight against their mental health condition and come out tops. But I have nothing but distaste and disgust for anyone who knows zilch about mental illness but claims to “have it” nonetheless, trivialising everything it means, assuming it is somewhat cool or stands for an attractive aspect of their personality.

The Nosey Gang

They sneak up on you when you least expect them to. You are sitting cozily in a park, soaking in the morning sunshine and the beauty of the quiet, when their jarring voices blare from behind you:

“Do you have a day off? Where is your husband? Where is your kid? Did you put on weight? Is that a blackhead on your nose? Have you been arguing with your domestic help?”

Lazy Weekends are Hard Work

It is a quiet Saturday morning. On my table are a fragrant cup of coffee and my favourite cookie. On my laptop is the wallpaper of a far-off land, somewhere with woods and lakes and song-birds, far away from the heat and grime I can sense is building up outside. Since it is a weekend morning, the housing society seems fairly quiet; utensils aren’t clanking in kitchens, and cars aren’t speeding off to offices and colleges.

At this time of the weekend, I feel lovely. The day stretches out lazily in front, full of potential. Yes, there are to-do lists to get through. (Thanks to my obsessive tendencies, these lists are often extremely detailed and super long.) But surely we don’t need to get on with them yet. I can soak in the quiet of the morning for a little longer as the day wakes up properly…

Karma, Please Wake Up

His children grew up terrified of him. He expected them to be eager little readers who understood and appreciated Kafka in primary school. Which six-year-old likes to play with mud and cement anyway, or worse—dolls?! His wife remained traumatised for as long as she lived; it seemed she could never learn to cook or do chores as “they should be done”. Today, he lives with a couple of servants in a big house—inherited, we hear—and has successfully and healthily outlived half a dozen family members. Worse: the 65-year-old man doesn’t look a day older than 45.

Jailed

All around me, so many people seem to be jailed outside conventional prisons. Indeed, in some ways, I am too.

I see colleagues open their tiffin boxes at lunchtime and whine about the chickpea-salad and spinach rolls they “HAVE” to eat. It is essential, they claim, to eat skinny food to lose weight, even though it makes them feel suffocated.

I watch as people suck up to their bosses, laughing at unfunny jokes, and staying back in the office after everyone has left to build a painstaking semblance of perseverance and dedication. It is a jail that they claim leads to better appraisals; well-versed with the work culture in many Indian organisations, I cannot even argue against this.