A slave’s life

A few days back, it was raining heavily in the capital and was time for office. Every time it pours, especially during the time for office I always tell myself with a sigh, “This is slavery. At a time I should have been enjoying the rains with a beer I have to go to office in the downpour and spend ten hours doing more or less the same thing that I did the previous day.” I wonder what made me a slave to my circumstances that even if I try to get a life I can’t. I am so tied up to my work that I can’t even allow myself to enjoy the nature for even a day, if that day is not my off day. Call of duty? Yes, partly, because being a journalist isn’t easy, it is a very demanding profession and the perk of the job is that you get to spend quality time with your colleagues who, like you, don’t have a social life, thanks to the profession. The only excitement in life boils down to the ‘lively’ environment of a newsroom. The average decibel level at the typical newsroom is way over 65 and the content of verbal exchange can only be ‘beep-ed’ out if it is ever aired on national television. But that’s the power and energy of live news streaming in -- it excites you and makes you an entirely different ‘animal’, as a senior journalist used to say. The closest that I can imagine is that of a Parliament in session. But there is something that grows on you, more of an addiction that every sacrifice seems okay. But well, it is time to leave for office, call of duty, remember? I got ready, carefully put the papers in my Louis Vuitton macassar sling and looked my Rolex Oyester Perpetual Datejust for time, admiring it for two seconds, and then the second reason for slavery dawned on me. Yeah, the credit card bill, I have to write an obscene cheque with my Mont Blanc writing instrument.