These modern times

There are times when waiting in the air-conditioned comfort of the office till late hours seems a better proposition than starting the long journey home

The modern world assumes that all technological innovation is for the good. Tech giants come up with ever-new versions of gadgets and car companies, old and new, race to launch the first driverless vehicle. The pace of change is too fast to keep track of, and that itself is taken as a sign of the wondrous Eden we are lucky to be born in.

I am part of the slim minority that, although it partakes of these treasures, is not sure how it feels about them. I hate the mobile. Its buzz is enough to raise my heartbeat. Rarely is the call from a friend. Mostly it is someone from office asking that I make another interminable trip from my residence to one of the many places I work. That, before I forget, is another boon of the modern age: dissipated workplaces that encourage you to connect with co-workers in the spirit of solidarity.

These long drives have no redeeming feature. If you have not been to Bengaluru recently, you will be hard-pressed to imagine the scale of traffic. People pool and there is public transport, and yet, the roads are forever packed. I know driving can be a pleasure and can even, in the right circumstances, induce contemplation, but not when it is so stridently imposed.

I also worry about the mobile buzzing because the messages have a habit of springing deeply unpleasant surprises. The modern workplace gives no credence to the concept of a 9-to-5 job. Since we are all connected at all times, we are expected to respond to emails, WhatsApp messages and SMSes at the drop of a hat. Failure to comply can result in the pelting of colourful terms like “unprofessional”, “duty” and “prerogative”.

The funny thing is that this is considered par for the course. None of us — this rare, gifted species regardless of whether you are a Darwinist or a theist — not one of us seems to realise that we were not meant to pass our lives in box-sized cars, detracting oncoming traffic, swatting messages on our tiny screens, as the world, doing precisely those things too, passes us by. 

My father’s generation never had the wealth of career opportunities that our generation does. Three of my uncles worked for public sector banks and another two for state PSUs. These were steady jobs, with little by way of creativity sure, but that generation would laugh if you told them that a job has to be creative. One did what was required. One got up every day, went to work and returned home to one’s family. 

Today, we are bombarded with a plethora of opportunities, another favour bestowed on us by the modern world. These jobs, we congratulate ourselves, give us the chance to explore ourselves; we see them as an extension of our personas. We have the apps to take us where we want, unlike our fathers, who made do with rickety scooters or bulky Ambassadors. Our offices are flashier and our desks smoother, and yet… 

Oh, and the traffic! I have tried making it interesting. I — and Uber and Ola — am indebted to Google for Maps for it is the ingenuity of this feature that enables me to take different roads home in the hope that it will make the commute less boring. It helps, to an extent. After all, traffic has a habit of discovering every last route, and the satisfaction that one might feel at being a know-it-all can quickly dissipate in light of others’ resourcefulness.

There are times when waiting in the air-conditioned comfort of the office till late seems a better proposition than starting the long journey home. Ours is perhaps the first generation that must include commute in its calculations. Our after-work mood corresponds to a 2x2 matrix where the rows pertain to our experience in the office and the columns to that on the road. It is a rare day when we find ourselves in a happy quadrant on both counts.
 

We can’t bring ourselves to overthink, of course. It is such a ubiquitous part of our lives that questioning it is akin to doubting our very existence. As the cab takes the last turn towards our house, neck deep in traffic, we suppress an urge to walk the distance home. We have earned the ride, we tell ourselves, and blithely sit with others in our own boxes ready to be deposited to a place that has parcels from Amazon and food from Swiggy waiting.

vjohri19@gmail.com