The (Dis)Comfort of routine.
10.04 AM: The gap between my sandals and the edge of the platform is a little more than usual today. The alignment between them seems off. Lifting my gaze upwards and tilting my head to the right, I see the train approaching the platform for the 30th time this month. 60th actually, if you fancy counting the return journeys. As I gear up to board my usual ladies’ compartment, I notice that the train stops further into the platform than usual. A little unsatisfying, but I move on.
10.05 AM: I step into the compartment and a shadow of disappointment engulfs me. I notice my usual seat by the window to the left, occupied by another passenger. Hesitantly I make myself comfortable in the seat opposite. I sigh in utter disbelief, listening to “Ms. Seat stealer’s” rhythmic snores. The idea of sleeping on the window seat seems completely bizarre to me. Apparently there’s this concept called ‘free will’. I move on.
10.15AM: I peep through the window towards the corner of the platform. As the next station approaches, the lady who usually drops her embarrassed teenaged daughter off at the station, is nowhere to be seen. I squirm uncomfortably in my seat. Convincing myself that today is just a different day, I move on.
10.30AM: I try to not think of the comforting smile of the old lady who boards this very compartment, every day, at exactly this time, to sell her homemade mango pickles, but again I can’t seem to find her today. To ward off my visible disappointment, I reach out for my old dirty grey diary and start robotically listing my commitments for the day, ticking off the ones from the day before.
10.45 AM: I try my best to hide my alarmingly apparent discomfort at this point. Holding my defences high and pretending to be at ease at all times, has always come to my rescue (Up until Now) . Fascinatingly, the myriad of consequences that follow, never seemed to bother me (Up until now).
10.48 AM: Three minutes of intense battling (with my defence mechanisms) later, I give in. I allow myself the liberty to feel uncomfortable with the lack of familiarity that the day has presented me with.
Not the first time I’ve felt this feeling though. Warding off uncertainty, listing down possibilities, planning a little too meticulously and freaking out about unassuming occurrences, has always been a constant feature growing up. There is some innate comfort that I’ve always derived from clinging to the tiniest bit of hope that situations/experiences/scenarios will tailor itself to be exactly similar to the ones I’ve experienced before. Struggling to hold on to bits and pieces of familiarity I used to make my way through waves of fear and anxiety everyday.
Having grown up in this city of uncertainty, my routine has always been my savior. Every little thing that repeats itself regularly enough, eventually finds its own little place in my routine. It has always given me a (false?) sense of control over my life.
But I have noticed that people my age, usually attach a negative connotation to routine, they are quick to dismiss the comfort that comes with regularity. I think the main culprit here is our pop culture. Movies, Tv shows, songs and just internet content in general, have successfully managed to sell us the romanticized idea of spontaneity, risks and doing uncertain things wrapped under the blanket of adventurousness and excitement.
Over the years, certain acceptances have been made by me, where I’ve realized that there is a thin (almost invisible) string separating regularity from monotony. One step here and you’re in your comfort zone, and one step there just screams frustration. So, as much as I love my fixed set of occurrences, I make it a point to break free from it once in a while, regularly though. Ironic, isn’t it?
