when i loved my work



I came in early today.

Like all those days before today, as i walk into the warm familiarity of this place, smiles, “good mornings”, nods, “hi”, smile-in-the-eyes… , i realise that this place feels like home, in fact, to confess, quite a few days, I cant wait to get back here in the mornings. Its not just work space, not just another office, it almost feels like an identity, like extension of the self.

I am almost at the verge of quitting. Not because, I hate this, au contraire, I would give anything to stay; and yet there are those material considerations, like the career not doing too good etc, like i want to do bigger things, like there are policies which prevent "so-called" anarchy...


So, I came in early today, I mean earlier than my average days. The population was quite sparse then. Strolled down the aisles, to my desk, the welcome comfort of the corner seat, the most collaged soft board, most clean and decorated desk and the conceptual wallpaper on the desktop… somehow, today, I seem to be noticing all these details with an abstract detachment.

Perhaps, I can see the inevitable happening. It’s time to move on. And, then in some obscure corner, a feeble voice protests against the understanding of inevitable. I want to stay. This place sculpted quite a lot of me, “the me”, today. Knowledge, professionalism et al… only happen to be incidental details. And, yet, I know, I can’t. Not anymore. It IS time to go. When exactly, remains to be agreed upon and then…


I sat staring at the red and white logo, so proudly displayed on soft board, and the mind does not reel back to the first day at work or any other day… I just sat staring at it. Why? How does this happen? When do things like working for organization transcend into the realm of emotional quotients? est-ce que je suis stupide?


Among these thoughts, the "automaton" began the process of taking turns between checking mails and doing what they call productive...

Time has strange ways of taking turns! Imagine, they teaching me it was cyclic, perhaps!

Copyright © Neerja Yadav