Tag: Fiction

A Day of Duties

duties

We all live in a world where we have tasks to complete and responsibilities to uphold. At home, at work, in the street, in public places — everywhere we go, we have to abide to certain rules and regulations. We call it law and order, control and regulations. We call ourselves civilized because we follow rules we set upon ourselves.

And it so happens that these rules and regulations are aplenty, and as a consequence we get to prioritize our needs, our tasks based on the rules that we insist on. For instance, I have a task to complete by the end of the day. It’s office work, urgent and my job depends on it. On the other hand, my wife is pregnant and we’re expecting the baby any day now. To cap the situation, my boss is out of town, and wouldn’t know even if I put off the task ’til tomorrow. I just pinged my boss, affirming that I’d finish the job when my phone rings — it’s my wife.

According to the “rules” I should stick to morals, which is to finish the job. Because a) my wife didn’t sound distressed. Yet. And b) my mom’s at home taking care of my wife. It’s understandable if I go home a little late.

But when I weigh my priorities, my wife and child are my life. My job just feeds my stomach, but my family feeds my soul.

In that moment of urge, I drop my work — no one would know anyway — and head home. The baby doesn’t come for another 36 hours. But I was there, with my family, supporting my wife. And that meant the whole world to me.

Which is all nice and emotional.

Now what happens to my boss? He was expecting a reply tonight, and I wasn’t there. He called me, and I didn’t pick up. I knew he would be furious with me. He must’ve tried to contact me online, offline and through my colleagues. And all he would’ve got was an ignoring bastard.

Did I have a choice? Could I have told him how important it was for me to be with my family? Sure I could have, but he wouldn’t have understood. Because his children are grown ups, he was a widower, and had nothing to home to.

His work was his life. And he wouldn’t understand when someone else insisted that their work wasn’t their life.

And so, I ignored him. But I couldn’t ignore my job; I checked in on work from my mobile phone from the hospital cafeteria. My boss had left messages and mails. All he wanted was a response. And all I wanted was my wife to remain strong.

I spoke to a few of my colleagues, asked them to cover for me. They said they would, but I know they wouldn’t hold under pressure — they have families too.

The truth is, my job is vital. I’ll lose everything if I lose my job. I am well aware of it. I have no back up plans. But my family was important too. I was torn between the two, until I decided to choose my family. And now to defend my choice, I have to run away from the truth that keeps threatening my next rise and paycheck.

Don’t we all do that sometimes? Run away from the truth hoping that ignoring it might somehow make it go away?

*Fiction. Really. Replace the ‘family’ with movie marathon, and that sounds more like me.

Just Another Day

just another day

It was a grey Monday morning and here I stand facing a puffy face and bloodshot eyes. It’s been a month, and I’m still struggling. Therapy didn’t help, and neither did wine. Which is sad because there’s nothing that wine can’t fix. Or was that supposed to be chocolate?

Oh, but I’m no child anymore, we all have to grow up, and I grew up from chocolate milk to wine. But it still didn’t help.

I stood watching my dark circles, musing on how they are gradually becoming a part of my look. I turned away. Time to get the menial tasks done.

Brush. Wash. Coffee. And another round of coffee.

I locked the door to my house and stepped out for some freshly polluted air. After breathing in the usual carbon dioxide, I walked over to my bicycle that I had tethered to the lamp post.

I rode. And rode. And rode some more before coming to a screeching halt in front of the high-rise glass building.

I looked upwards at the glitter of sunshine on the building’s curves. I could see one or two black tuxedos walking to and fro, closely followed by white short skirts in horn rimmed glasses carrying notepads.

It was time to go in there and be what I was. A slave. And so, I strode in with a confidence I didn’t feel, a glow make-up gave me, and with a smile that didn’t reach my eyes.

There was Bob, dozing off in his chair. He jerked awake as he heard my dragging feet, and relaxed when he saw me. “Oh you. Hey.” he managed to stifle his yawn.

“Good morning, Bob!” I rang in the cheeriest voice I could muster. But I needn’t have bothered; Bob knew. Bob understood. We were the same, Bob and I. We work, day in and day out, washing and cleaning up after the people in leather jackets and fur boots. As they carried the burdens of their electronic books and the weight of the stock market, we just lumbered on with soaking mops and dry towels. We aren’t Bob and Lisa. We are the maintenance.