So I am this quasi person, living a quasi life, stuck in a quasi job: the beauty of the quasi life is that to a third person it would seem to be the perfect existence: what with the perfect labels, the perfect lifestyle and the perfect ingredients that make your life, well perfect! But the only problem with this perfect life is that doesn’t quite feel right- yes, you are grateful for it, but at the same time you crave for that little imperfection, that would make your life a little more meaningful, a little less empty and a little less “quasi!”
So my quasi job requires me to write endless meaningless reports which allow me to clock 20 hours on the sms (another inane jargon to make my work sound impressive and important) for a project which is tossed into the bin in less than two minutes. My quasi job also entails some “responsibility” like collecting money, organizing team lunches (during which nobody talks by the way), ordering cakes and buying gifts. But yes, the most important aspect of my job is to ccp email ids and addresses of high profile executives of the hedge fund industry on an excel sheet. But no, I am not complaining. I have been taught to respect all kinds of work, especially work that pays this kind of money. I am just wondering why I invested in higher education, when I could have done the same kind of work ten years back.
My quasi house (for I am still not used to my new abode with its new sofas) demands a lot of my time and attention and I am amazed at myself and the way I spend my weekends: bargaining with the carpenter, giving instructions to the plumber and the electrician, fighting with the Airtel technician (ironically his name is Sangram) over the phone, trying to figure out the elaborate application process for a gas connection and forgetting to sign the deposit cheque for our patient avuncular landlord who sits by watching us struggle through setting up a house as he kindly gifts us a spare TV. When I have some spare time to breathe, I wonder when my life turned so sickeningly domestic, when I became so abnormally dull that it takes me a herculean effort to drag myself out of Hiranandani. Let alone plan any get together, I can barely coax myself into meeting people, calling people, or even answering phone calls. It takes too much effort to order food for myself, or even go down and buy biscuits. So while that one afternoon take away is a luxury for me, the rest of the weekend usually finds me in bed, with a book (I finished Unaccustomed Earth and in spite of Jhumpa Lahiri’s obsession with Bengali diaspora, it’s a good read) or watching little known movies on the laptop. And most alarmingly, I have even given up shopping! No partying, no socializing, not even watching the US Open on the big screen.
So yes, it’s very much a quasi life: a life full of waiting and wishing and wanting- call it the www effect…