I give up. Throw in the towel. It is an impossibility,and whoever said the word impossible does not exist came out with this premise one bleary-eyed, grey- faced morning. Not one for casting out the positivity component — remain positive and what with all the WhatsApping burping out the likes of Happy Mondays binning the scientifically cum statistically proven Monday Blues and Images screened in your face of gurgling babies being unending fountains of joy — post-partum depression, what in the heavens is that?! Positivity, by all means, bring it in but with a sense of realism — don’t go absolutely delusional. Working out of the House? No cause to break into a jig, at least in India that is Bharat with the endless parade of “alleged” household help thinking — no, believing — that you with your doodling on paper, phone or tablet are quite unemployed and so can be interrupted at every corner.
This, despite you wearing a sombre look and hoping that the newly acquired glasses perched on your nose provides you with the literally no-time on hand countenance and so you can, with the clock ticking well past noon, get on with the article you have been commissioned, with a deadline readying to tear out your innards. Or finally write the first sentence of the first story that you had written in your head around X-Mas down to the unexpected ending, where the dog has to go in for counselling for stress-related ailments (prognostication worked out on account of excessive barking due to the coming and goings) but with the constant lynching by a cook who, the previous eve, was given polite instructions what carry-overs in the fridge had to be packed the following morn, in the tiffin that was meant for the Significant-Other to take to work, where goes the story?! Forget about the book-to-be.
It is only when “official work hours” end and the gate is locked that you flog yourself hard, attempting to cram in the lost hours of work — coffee the only petrol that gets you through this jam.
Again you are asked what was to be carried for luncheon, accompanied by the Indian yes-no head roll. This is just the top tip of the iceberg. While making workathon phone calls — no love-talk unfortunately so — without a care, the cleaning lady complains that this detergent is wanting or announces she intends to abandon the washing of the soap-soaked clothes mid-way since her mobile’s been ringing hoarse, as some prior commitment awaited her. Speaking of phones, send a “supposed” help to the market to procure, literally four things, and expect a missed call to re-ask what was to be bought. The Maali, no better, blind-eyed to the endless weeds that need to be tweezed out unless you make mention of them, but you, working out of the house, a miscellaneous person; while you think you should break for a cuppa’ before finally at last getting started, pops inside, eyeing your tea, knowing his too, would be on its way, having made his blooming presence. In the same waft, moans the fact, that two and half seasons had gone by toiling over a flowerless garden. The reason, dear gardener, is blowing in the wind: after my father’s passing on, who I miss beyond measure, have so far, had no wish to rear flowers galore. Admittedly another cause: discussions on which to be planted, some rare as snow in summer, you are informed, followed by dismay over the neglected ready-to-wilt ones, not to put aside the wallet skimming bill of fledglings and what not, to create a forest of flowers.
And the Poor Postman is long dead so the Courierwallah ferrying junk-mail persistently rings the door bell four times over; wanting your signature and mobile number and sometimes, gawd, proof of your identity. Another ding-dong, the announcement of the electricity man come to take the reading of the metre. Why the broadcasting in the first place — you desirous of asking the maid who wears the overworked face while apprising you, the idle one. So when people enviously tell you your life is one exhilarating walk in the park — no commuting, the amount of time saved on petrol to give a free run to your consumerist gene, no stuck in lumpy hour-long traffic snarls, not having to bear with the grating schlp-schlp of a colleague sucking his mint, working flexi-hours as you fancy and so in-between footloose breaks you can catch up on the array of Oscar awarded films, while pouring a glass of wine to celebrate impromptu movie-hour and clinking it against the screen for cheers, then it is definitely time to do a rethink. With all the action on the household front where and when can you gather your thoughts to get down to work?! It is only when “official work hours” end and the gate is locked that you flog yourself hard, attempting to cram in the lost hours of work — coffee the only petrol that gets you through this jam. (Knowingly forgetting the high levels of acidity that awaits you the next morning).
So a burial for working from/out of home unless you live in a cave with excess to WiFi and make light of surviving on raw vegetables and fruit and a flask of coffee. It is unambiguously unworkable. As unthinkable, as Maths marrying Romance.