I awoke this morning, minutes short of noon, feeling none of the things promised after a long night in bed. My body was paralyzed by the muscular stupor necessitated by the drama of dreams. Waking up on this side of the bed had become increasingly familiar.
The grating sound of the lawn mower wafted in through the window, jeering at my indolence. The air conditioner had spent the night whirring incessantly, but the room was stiflingly stale and muggy. This is what I wake up to, noon after noon.
In the last six months of uninterrupted home isolation, there have been countless such wasted mornings. Nonetheless, I amble my way to the mood-altering substance that’s coffee, the only thing I permit myself to count on. I always drink cold brew. It’s smoother and less acidic. But the fact that I have to prep the grounds at least one day in advance is the real reason I love cold brew. The process helps me plan my life, one day at a time.
Seeing that, today, I’m not working from home, I pledge to put my time to some use by writing about the wfh (work-from-home) phenomenon. There’s at least one thing to thank the pandemic for—a piece on working from home is now relevant to more than just a handful of ‘hippies’ who, at best, were described as ‘doing their own thing’.
Now that the wfh phenomenon has been fattened for mass consumption, its truths will finally be disclosed. For one, it will be known that wfh isn’t quite the same as lounging in bed, recovering from Netflix-induced decision fatigue, staring at the ceiling, twiddling your thumbs (those, too, are busy scrolling down the bottomless pit of social media feeds). It will also, finally, be known that wfh may spare you the shadow of a boss, but it makes you answerable to yourself, crushing you under the weight of lengthy to-do and to-be lists.
It will also be known that when I say I’m working from home, it isn’t that I’m effectively doing nothing. In fact, I’m using every bit of resolve to organize a backlash against the nothingness.
Lastly, it will be known that wfh is day after another of letting yourself down.
As a writer, I have worked from home for the better part of my not-so-long career. The primary motivation for doing so was a fondness for independence (which, in many a case, is an euphemism for the shackles of domesticity) and the incorrigibility of my longstanding nocturnal proclivities. Working from home has allowed me to find a way around the idea of ‘work’ with a respectable degree of ease. While the choice of work initially vacillated between and eventually evolved from insipid commissioned writing—the kind where they measure your life with word counts—to the creation of a personal brand (a somewhat pitiable celebration of becoming your own boss), the experience of sitting at a desk at home has remained unchanged.
Here are a few observations that I could repackage as tips.
Call it one of those days: Much to my dismay, we are wont to understand productivity, especially in the context of work, as a ritualised box-checking exercise. If, like me, all you’ve managed to do today is brew yourself a cup of coffee, and seat yourself at a desk, I’d say it’s been a productive day. Just as everyday is not great, everyday is not productive. And, just as everyday is just about okay, doing the bare minimum sometimes qualifies as good enough. Be it your bedroom, or your home office, you have the post-industrial definition of productivity breathing down your neck.
Get a room (of your own): According to Science, the modern-day oracle, the brain swears by its associations. The bedroom is synonymous with sleep, and the workspace with wakefulness. I dare say the bed is littered with the remnants of your dreams (or piles of dirty laundry), and is perhaps uninspiring with its sense of unassailable privacy. In the pre-pandemic world, I’d have suggested the confines of a café or a co-working space, but in this world, any space other than your bed—a sunlit nook or a cushioned chair (that supports your back, neck, elbows—yes, I have aged)—will do.
The perfect wfh outfit: Thanks to the virus, my sartorial sense has retreated into its scraggliest best. The Internet may be ruled by the easily identifiable brigade that vouches for a full face of makeup first thing in the morning, but I vote for comfort. Don’t get me wrong—I’m a big fan of looking good. But I won’t endure the crustiness of liquid lipstick and the structured shoulders of a blazer to enable the illusion of being in an office, because I’m not in an office. If productivity counts so much on the idea of illusion, then ought we not re-think it?
One step at a time: Among the long list of activities best enjoyed in isolation, I love the meditative quality of a solitary walk. Last night, I had a dream that I was in London. That I was free to walk the streets. The city was cool and sparse and safe. It was all the things that Delhi is not. The weather here is intolerable, and the jostling crowds too brazen, so I pace hectically on the patio that’s too small for just about everything.
An eye for distractions: Only a fool would think to banish distractions. Distractions existed long before we learned to pay attention. Read into your dreams; they’re forever distracted and beautifully desultory. Pay attention to the nature of your distractions, for they are busy attending to something else. Your distractions tell you about all else that yearns for your attention. Divide the attention, and lovingly so.
At home without work: The next time you’re asked to introduce yourself, don’t do so (only) by the work that you do. Find what that leaves you with. The nature of my work helps blur the boundaries between the social, emotional, intellectual and experiential. Sometimes, like right now, my work is to think about work. The obscuring of the so-called professional and the so-called personal has been to my advantage, for this note on not being able to work is also my work.
Feeling at home: Home is where the heart has always been. It is now where the desk is. And where the seat is. So, sit back, relax, and watch—the unending drudgery of unpaid labour, day after day, unembellished without weekends and bonuses. But, of course, there’s a little something by way of respite! It resembles an unnoticed, underpaid person who cleans up your mess—the one who doesn’t live to work, but works to live. Home is where the work has always been.
At the end of the day: There’s something to be said about the routines that help us wind-up and wind-down, day after day. More than the invigorating effects of the coffee, it’s the enchanting process of brewing that keeps me going. An onlooker would dismiss the ritual as an elaborate waste of time, but time is sometimes best used when wasted. Like bookends and like parentheses, the two things that contain either end of my day are cold-brew coffee and an emollient night cream.
So, what’s your truth about working from home?