On most days I wake up thinking I am an adult and that I have a perfectly normal adult life. Like most responsible adults I wake up pretty early. I have my inedible black coffee with a certain adult smugness. Followed by yoga, which I do with adult purposefulness and grit. Then I scan the newspapers like a good adult citizen. And, finally, it’s time to sit with my newly-acquired Apple laptop, which for a middle-class working professional is the ultimate sign of having arrived as an adult, at the workplace.
On days that are mind numbingly busy, I just lose my sense of self. Honestly, these are comparatively comfortable days despite being chaotic and draining. As adults we feel in control when our skills are put to test. Somehow being good at what you do is considered to be the most important adult duty. So, hectic work days mean you have a field day testing your professional skills. On such days, I hit the bed tired. Yet, overcome by the over stimulation of my nervous system, I find myself unable to sleep. All the chatter from work — the good, the bad, the ugly — cloud my mind and appear like apparitions. I feel stuck in a paralytic state after I am done with my work day and I am finally by myself. I am too stimulated to relax and too tired to even binge-watch a Netflix show. The work day never really ends. You are just on stand-by till the next task arrives.
In that intermittent free time all I can muster courage and energy to watch are Instagram reels. My favourites are food, baby and make-up or fashion reels, and in that order of preference. It seems I live vicariously through these reels. Food that I can’t cook, babies that I don’t have, and the contour, eye lashes and foundations that I won’t ever buy. The visual effect of a rich American eating cheesy meaty burger is extremely therapeutic.
Oh yes, there are other kinds of reels that I love sharing. Ritualistically, I send the man I am dating currently a bunch of lovey-dovey reels before sleeping. I try to derive that mushy romantic feeling of new love with the sharing of these overly cheesy reels. My sleep-time is his peak work-time. He has a different shift in a different city. So, the only way he can feel loved by me is by watching the reels in his DM when he wakes up the next day. By then I am in all likelihood solving a crisis at the workplace with the seriousness of the film version of American presidents or Secretary of State or other such seemingly important positions.
During his tea break, we do get some talk done over the phone. With work on the back of our minds, we engage in adult-talk about how the workplace sucks, how we are dead inside, how we are falling off our diet and fitness routine, and how we need to take a vacation, and then remember that won’t be possible any time soon because we only have a limited number of holidays that we must use to fulfil our respective family commitments. That’s adult life. Responsibilities over recreation. It's hard to believe that not long ago there was a time in our life when play-time was scheduled in our daily routine. We bargained hard with our parents to ensure we got a fair deal. When did we become such pushovers? How did in the process of adulting we give up on our will to negotiate and get a fair deal out of life?
To be honest, I don't resent the work. I believe no one does. On many days, I even enjoy it. All of us want to do an honest day's work. The problem is in the process of earning a living in our adult lives, we are stripped of our agency, our communities, and our emotional support systems. Modern work inevitably ends up attacking our dignity, irrespective of whether it is menial or intellectual. In such a scenario work becomes more like punishment.
We all are at work planning to quit one day, find our way to freedom like the characters in Shawshank Redemption. Like babuji says in Ankhon Dekhi: "I am trying to figure out a way that works for me." He resorts to gambling in order to make a living, much to the embarrassment of his family. But in gig economy of which we are all part of today, we are essentially betting on dumb luck. That something would free us and take care of us without emptying us. Our interior lives are under constant assault by the forces of market, by new thought leaders who come up with new narratives of living a fulfilling life, and bizarre solutions to the ennui and exhaustion we experience.
You may already be tired of this adult sob story. The optimist in you (which I often refer to as denialist) may shout, "So what! That's adult life. Grow up. And stop this lament. If you look at the brighter side, your life isn't too bad. Have some gratitude."
I believe laments get us through most days as adults. It's a safe coping mechanism. Lament is a space in which you can be poetically unhappy without being mad enough to quit. It is a space that allows for that sigh of resignation, the making of peace with reality without downright rebellion. The general lament of the insipid life of a regular modern millennial should be recorded. There is value in it. There is healing power in it. In a world that has a set format of telling stories, wake up, skill up, hustle, and success will be yours; in a world that's drunk on power, glories and fake positivity; that will only love you when you achieve something, laments of ordinariness and exhaustion are a dire act of rebellion. When done in large numbers, each lament is a data point that points to something that's larger than us. That we are living isolated, lonely lives not by choice but because the system incentivises atomisation and loneliness.
(The writer is a mental health and behavioural sciences columnist, conducts art therapy workshops and provides personality development sessions for young adults. She can be found as @the_millennial_pilgrim on Instagram and Twitter.)
