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Reflections on Writing and Working
Sadhika Pant
 March 11 2025 at 12:13 pm
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This new year, a friend managed to wring a resolution out of me, which is something of a miracle. I don’t usually do resolutions. It isn’t that I think resolutions are futile—rather, if I want to do new things, I like to throw myself into them without the burden of a plan weighing me down. But I made one anyway. “Crawl out of your creative hole this year,” my friend said. I promised I would. It meant, in other words, that I’d finally send in some of my writing for publication, put my work out there on more platforms. But like most resolutions, this one will likely gather dust, sitting unkept in some quiet corner of my mind. When people ask how long I’ve been writing, I never know what to say. It wasn’t something I started doing so much as something I found myself doing, like stepping outside one day and realising you’d been walking for miles without noticing. If I had to put a number on it, I suppose I started taking writing seriously about five years ago. I do not write for a living. I write for sheer pleasure. But bills must be paid, and so I have a job. I never gave much thought to why I have a job until recently. Whoever asks such questions? I work for a company that helps students prepare for competitive exams. In India, exams are an industry of their own. We have them for everything—government and administrative posts, banking, insurance, railways, police, the army, engineering, management. Every other young person is studying for one, chasing that elusive thing called stability. A stable job earns you the admiration of your neighbours, the pride of your family, and better prospects in the arranged marriage market. But the catch, besides the cutthroat competition in a country bursting at the seams, is that English proficiency accounts for a quarter or a third of the marks in nearly every exam. And in a place where English is not a native language, this creates an uneasy dependence. I won’t go too deep into the old debate about English in India, about whether it is a colonial relic or a necessary standardisation tool in a country where every state has its own language, but I will say this: there is a deep, lived anxiety surrounding the language in the minds of ordinary people. In the U.S., they talk about “math anxiety,” but in India, it is English that grips people by the throat. The further one moves from the cities, the more palpable the fear becomes. Many of the aspirants of these competitive exams never studied in a school where English was the medium of instruction. Most grew up with English as something distant, something foreign, something that belonged to other people. And yet, the world tells them they need it to succeed. And because English has become a shorthand for social status—education, refinement, exposure to international media—their fear is not just about failing an exam. It is about being seen as lesser. Which brings me back to my question: why do I have a job? The answer is simple. I know English. Not just well enough to read and write it, but well enough to teach it to those whose futures depend on mastering it. And here lies my unease. Is it right to make a living off of people's anxieties? Off their fears of inadequacy? Even off their ambitions? They want what anyone wants—to move forward, to build a life, to provide for their families, to take care of their parents in old age, to pay off debts, to stand on their own two feet. These are noble aspirations, and yet here I stand, a middleman profiting off the gap between them and their goals. Do I have a job because the British made their language inescapable? Because my parents sent me to an English-medium school built by those same British? Because my parents filled the house with books? Because my childhood love of reading granted me fluency as a byproduct? Because the school education system failed its students so thoroughly that they must now come to me? Because so many lacked the means to access English-medium schools that may have done a better job? Because India reveres government jobs above all else? I could go on. But the real question is: how do I put these qualms to rest? There are ways. I have worked long enough in the private sector to understand the way the market functions. Why does a programmer earn more than a labourer? Because salaries go up when a skill is scarce AND wanted. So I can always invoke the let-the-market-handle-it dictum. Or I can tell myself that it is not just my grasp of English that makes me employable, but my understanding of these exams. English is a deceptive thing; for every rule, there are ten exceptions. Those who come from the logic of structured, Sanskrit-derived Indic languages find themselves bewildered by it. Teaching English for an exam requires precision—knowing what to teach and what can be left out. And in the end, knowing English may get a person a job, but keeping that job depends on discipline, experience, reliability, success rate, market feedback and a thousand other things. I have yet to rise above the accident of my birth and education, having followed in my parents’ footsteps in more ways than one. Like my mother, I earn my keep in education. Like my father, I sit with words in the quiet hours, shaping them, letting them shape me. And like both of them, I have learned the trick of splitting myself in two—one half working, the other dreaming. I am only as devoted to writing as a full stomach allows, and only as faithful to my profession as it grants me time enough to wander in my thoughts. I have carved out a place for myself. And each morning, I wake knowing that my work matters just enough to someone. How do I know this? Because they are willing to pay me their hard-earned money for it. Of course, working the way I do, where I do, has its perks. I get to work from home. I get to read scholarly articles (to mine them for teaching material, but still). And I get the comfort of seeing people change the course of their life, and being a small part of it. But then there are the frustrations—deadlines, team conflicts, disappointed customers and occasional unpleasant debates over politically correct grammar. I think of all this, and then I think of Firoz bhai. He is my tailor. Not a blood relative, but I call him bhai (brother) out of respect. Every few months, I go to him with fabric in hand, asking him to stitch a sari blouse or a salwar suit. Here, most people still prefer tailored Indian clothes over store-bought ones. The fit is better. The craftsmanship shows. And Firoz bhai is a master of his craft. I hardly have to give instructions anymore. I show him a picture from Pinterest, leave him the fabric, and in a couple of weeks, he hands me something perfect. Firoz bhai does not lose sleep over the necessity of his work. He does not sit hunched at his sewing machine, squinting at the fabric, and wonder whether the world still needs tailors. He does not pause with a half-cut sleeve in hand and agonize over whether he is complicit in an economy that prizes appearance over essence. He measures, he cuts, he stitches. The cloth comes together where it must, and when he is done, there is proof of his labour — a garment where before there was only fabric. A customer leaves satisfied, and the world has one more well-made thing in it than it did before. I do not have that pleasure. My work is not something you can fold and pack away, nor can it be draped over a body to see how well it fits. I do not see the moment when a student’s tongue stops tripping over English, when they no longer grope for words but find them waiting, ready to be used. I like to think it happens, but I have no proof. There are no straight seams, just a slow and invisible accumulation—of language, of competence, of confidence. Perhaps that is the fate of those of us whose work is not tangible, whose efforts do not leave behind something to touch or admire. We are doomed to wonder whether the work we do has any value at all, to second-guess the money we earn. And maybe that is why we envy people like Firoz bhai, who can hold their craft in their hands and say, ‘Here. Here is what I have done.’ Firoz bhai works at his own pace. More than once, I’ve gone to pick up my clothes only for him to ask for another day because he wanted to perfect the detailing. That’s how it is with men who take pride in their work. There’s no use showing up unannounced at his shop. He comes in when he pleases, and some days, he prefers to work from home, where the light is better and the distractions fewer. Once, I waited nearly an hour for him. “The evening azaan has started,” he explained over the phone. “Prayer cannot be rushed, you know,” he said matter of factly. There was no apology in his voice, no excuse, just the quiet certainty of a man whose time is his own. I didn’t mind the wait. But I did wonder what my boss might say if I ever missed a meeting and, when asked, replied with the same quiet finality—Prayer cannot be rushed. In a corporate job, punctuality is a virtue, and professionalism is currency. In a trade, all that matters is the work itself, and the reputation of the man who does it. When he finally turned up, he handed me my finished garments with a wide grin. I marveled, as I always did, at the magic in his hands. And for a moment, I envied him—the slow pace of his days, the hum of his sewing machine, the freedom to close up shop to attend the evening prayer, the satisfaction of creating something tangible and beautiful. But if I told him about my job, about my ability to work from home, about the books I get to read, the security of a paycheck that arrived on time no matter how fast or slow I worked, perhaps he would find the grass on my turf greener. Indeed, one must imagine Sisyphus happy.
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