Essay Story: Halfway Through

The rickshaw jerked to a halt outside the office gates, its sharp metal handle brushing against my elbow. The driver muttered something inaudible as I handed him a crumpled hundred-rupee note, hurried to find smaller change in my wallet, and stepped out onto the dusty pavement.

Inside, the air was stale and too cold. Despite working here for six years, I never got used to the forced chill of air conditioning or the muffled hum of employees typing and speaking into headsets. My desk sat near the far end, by a small window that overlooked a street market that was always more vibrant in winter. Vendors with roasted peanuts, garlands of marigold, and rugs sprawled over footpaths - an ecosystem oblivious to the indifference above.

“Gayatri! Glad you could make it before the meeting,” Sharad said in his high-pitched but calculated voice as I plugged in my laptop. He had the aura of someone who picked his ties to match his mood. Today’s was maroon - confident, authoritative, with a touch of class.

“I’m ready,” I replied, though I wasn’t sure if it was true. I logged into too many tabs at once. There were days when even my fingers refused to move to their old rhythm - efficient, sharp, borderline aggressive.

As Sharad launched into yet another presentation about “target KPIs” and “strategizing success metrics,” I drifted to my usual island of escape. A place where childhood memories overlapped into bizarre mosaics of familiarity. Amma stirring steel pots in our kitchen, the smell of garlic merging with songs from a grainy old radio. A younger Gayatri, stubbornly clutching the cycle her brother had long outgrown, demanding she could make it to the top of the hill without falling. And of course, Appa, seated on the verandah, mending a torn sandal while the January sun rested lightly on his thin shoulders.

These were mere figments of my imagination, mental constructs that offered respite from the onslaught of corporate-speak and Sharad’s PPT slides. Appa passed when I was 29, just a few months before I accepted this job. His hands, I remember thinking at the funeral, were rough from every inch of work they had ever done.

"Gayatri, do you think this approach will tackle attrition effectively?" Sharad’s voice brought me crashing into the room.

"Yes, it would help," I said. Generic and safe. It’s not like anyone expected brilliance in these meetings.

By the time the workday ended, it was already dark, the market outside glowing with cheap fairy lights. I lingered at my desk, sipping cold, watery tea from a vending machine and glancing once more out of the tiny window. A boy - not older than seven, with ruffled hair - chased a stick aimlessly across the uneven road, his scream delightful, without a care in the world.

Back in my matchbox apartment, I flung my bag on the couch and turned on the light. Its harsh flicker reminded me of everything broken. The latch of my kitchen drawer - held together with cheap cello tape; the curtains fraying at their edges; the whispers from the neighbour’s constant arguments creeping through thin walls. I made no effort to fix these things, afraid that repairing them would prompt an even louder question: Do I want to continue this life or quit altogether?

At 35, my career - on paper, had “peaked.” Promotions and leadership roles followed accolades. Yet most days, I sat with an ache in my gut I couldn’t name. A hunger for something undefined, restlessness that existed just below the surface of mundanity. Everyone else seemed to move effortlessly through adult life, locking dreams away neatly into measured routines.

Picking up my phone, I opened Amma’s WhatsApp message. Gayatri, don’t forget. Priya’s wedding is on Saturday. Come early. Attached was a picture of Priya, my cousin, draped in yellow for her haldi ceremony, her face glowing with a happiness I found foreign. Amma would expect me to arrive with cheerful politeness - a carefully practiced demeanour honed from attending the many wedding ceremonies.

She’d likely fill my plate with an extra dollop of coconut chutney and say in passing, “Your Appa would have been so proud of you, but he always said it's the quiet evenings with family that complete a life. What do you think?”

The serving would make it harder to resent her words.

Instead of responding, I tucked the phone under a pillow and walked to the sink, splashing cold water against my face. That woman I saw every morning in the mirror seemed determined, sharp even - but she wasn’t me. I wasn’t sure who I was trying to be anymore. If this was halfway through life, where did the second half begin? Or had it already?

By midnight, the air felt too dense for sleep. From my balcony, I gazed at the faint moon’s reflection caught between tiny puddles on the street. A stray cat tiptoed across the parking lot below, pausing to sniff the damp ground before curling up on the hood of a car. I wondered if it chose that spot for warmth or instinct - its decisions seemed infinitely simpler than mine.

I had nothing profound to offer the moment, so I let it sit inside me - vague, restless. It lingered, heavy as my chest.

I didn’t move for hours.