Let’s preface this with a story I am making up as I write. This is partly inspired by the opening of A Mathematician’s Lament by Paul Lockhart, aka my favourite read for February.

A scientist startles awake one fine morning. He isn’t sure why; his routine is normally highly efficient and ensures maximum productivity since it is categorized into bite-sized chunks adding up to twenty-four hours.

The sun is rising, filling his small bedroom with pale morning light. He turns his head up and—

There’s a drone hovering near the ceiling fan.

Now, the scientist is a cool, rational man. Sure, he has his quirks. He loves his plants a little too much. He’s labelled all the petri dishes in his lab after his favourite characters from Tolkien’s works. He likes grading his scholars’ reports and proposals only in black ink (and ensures his feedback is as apt as his own proposals. Standards are of utmost importance). But that merely illustrates his humanity. It does not detract from the scientific bend of his mind that is currently working to unravel the mystery.

He does not have to wonder long for the drone descends until it is humming atop his drawn-up knee. A screen unfolds from the middle. Blinking red letters spell out a single line: TIME TO LOG IN YOUR HOURS.

The scientist lifts a brow. Hours for what? He knows the work he does, and he is not at a desk job under a manager to give this circus performance. Clearing his throat, he speaks. “Thank you, but I know what I have to do.”

The drone remains still. The message is erased. A new one blinks at him.

MANDATORY ORDINANCE #7548: A CITIZEN WHO HAS NOT LOGGED HIS HOURS CANNOT BE ALLOWED TO ENGAGE IN HIS OWN PURSUITS*

*exceptions: defence personnel, CEOs, their stakeholders and advisory boards, serving members of the government and others.

NOTE: students have to log studying hours at class and at home.

Confusion whirs through the scientist’s mind. There is no fear yet, but a vague, diffuse sense of anxiety has started to creep up his chest. He can feel his throat closing. Some instinct urges him to inquire further rather than argue with an automated machine. Which he does.

“Alright. Where exactly am I logging in my hours? What do I have to do?”

The drone gives a soft, chiming noise. It is a happy sound, as if he has given a response that the machine finally approves. It lights something inside him, an age-old adage drilled into him during schooling. His mind cannot recall the words, but his body has responded automatically to the validation, to the satisfaction of being correct.

There’s another message waiting for him. Mandatory workday begins now. Citizen 1085839210 is stationed at Central University to grade papers. The government hopes you will log in your breaks in this device and fill your day with work, after which you are free to pursue additional hobbies. Labor ipse voluptas.

The screen goes dark.

The scientist rises, hurries through his morning routine, and throws on another variation of his university attire, all the while wondering if this means he will forgo a day of research only to fulfil the requirements of a drone. He keeps the thoughts to himself but they pop into his head like soft drink bubbles: endless, fizzing, inducing a headache. He goes to heat breakfast but the drone makes a disapproving noise, a sort of two-toned, bass sound associated with cartoons, so the scientist hastily swallows a piece of bread and heads out.

It feels like he has travelled several years into the future. The university is within walking distance, allowing him the opportunity to gaze about in wonder. Buildings are impersonal, towering glass giants, thin enough to take up only a few square feet of space. People are madly tapping away on their phones. Information flashes through their automatic watches at dizzying speeds. The sky is dark with a million buzzing drones, each following its separate citizen, flashing numbers at regular intervals.

13 hours logged today! +4 than yesterday.

8 hours logged. —5 than yesterday.

0 hours logged; critical emergency.

The scientist enters the campus with a thousand other people. Anxiety is palpable in the air. The campus has been entirely washed out. Rectangular hedges have replaced flower sculptures dotting the indoor parks, each holding a separate species. Marigolds, roses, periwinkle… Graffiti that had simultaneously awed and irritated him has been completely washed away, leaving the walls a plain sable brown. Even the architecture of the university feels… off. He frowns. He is not used to labelling his emotions as just “off” or “on”. But something about the university feels as impersonal as the glass buildings outside. On catching a glimpse of ongoing classes, he sees a single drone monitoring the scene from the door. His colleague, Dr. Chakrvarti, keeps darting glances toward it as she teaches the introductory class on molecular biology. She is swaying on her feet, her voice ragged. He deciphers the message with an uneasy jolt. 2 hours of teaching logged. —6 than yesterday. +4 hours of studying for students.

…students who looked exhausted to the bone.

More numbers greet him on the way to his office. Pluses and minuses of work done compared to yesterday, day before, a month ago. He shuts the door with a gigantic slam, after letting in his own drone. Outside, the conversation drones on:

“Oh yes. You see, I have decided to dedicate most of my hours to work. The extra credit keeps my family fed. The vaccine research can wait.”

“The campus is so much better now. We’re seeing record enrollment! Students are studying harder. Class average has already risen by two per cent! I’m behind on drafting my paper by a month but I’m sure my drone can assign a day to it.”

“Do you think my parents will be okay with it? I mean… it is two less hours than my weekly average.”

“I logged in three hours early. That way I can get at least ten hours done by tonight and then enjoy the rest of the day off. Ow! Yes, I know, drone, I’m getting back to it now.”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to submit any artwork this month. My drone says I’m fifty hours behind compared to the global average stats. It’s recommended I resign painting club until my numbers are steadier.”

“Dude, this poetry thing won’t give you any money. Just log in your hours like the rest of us.”

The scientist hears his harsh breathing in the small, quiet room. But his research is not poetry. His research is an important milestone in sustainable development. A breakthrough could ensure that millions do not perish under the wrath of climate change. It is important. Grading and teaching cannot become his entire work.

Right?

His papers have already been stacked into neat piles. They are nonetheless the size of the water tumbler positioned on the desk’s left. A hard nudge sends him stumbling into the chair. It’s the drone; its buzzing resembles a swarm of angry bees. It must be his imagination but he sees a flash of a camera lens that sinks into its metallic body again. He picks up the pen, glances at the first sheet. Frowns.

Didn’t I grade half of these tests yesterday?

But no. The pages are blank—well, of his scrupulous black ink. He starts marking the sheets, heedless of the sun arcing across the sky. Every time he reaches for water, the drone makes the same disapproving noise. Every time he mutters an answer to himself the drone pings with an answer that is either objectively correct or wrong. To ensure maximum efficiency. The dialogue accompanies every query.

He is on the last sheet of the first pile when he notices the numbers he has racked up. Six and a half hours. His joints feel stiff, his throat parched. But the numbers blinking on the screen fill his head with a staticky noise and his heart with a sense of… relief? He is exhausted, hungry, and confused out of his mind. He has forgone a day of his research—the reason he had joined the university—and he has not seen or talked to a person throughout the workday. His hand smarts from the continuous scribbling. The relief, he realizes, only stems because the drone is no longer making angry noises. It is encouraging him to take a break, in fact.

“Excuse me, drone?” It is ridiculous, so utterly ridiculous! He’s talking to a machine! Also taking orders from it. But he heard his colleague outside talking about how drones could be requested to assign a day to other pursuits. “Could you assign me to the lab tomorrow? Perhaps I could work on my research.”

The angry buzzing restarts. Another message flashes across the screen, and his stomach sinks.

Request denied. Insufficient hours logged. Please return next month and we will see to your application with attached proof.

I hope that got the point across. If not, don’t worry. I’ll be linking this story to my own experiences.

I’m not sure if there is a clear demarcation between artists, writers, and scientists. Yeah, okay. Most view the last category as an entirely separate thing. I don’t. Science has been intertwined with the rise and fall of history since time immemorial. I think most forget that. I’ll give an example. Famous astronomer Galileo Galilei was attacked by the church for his scientific discoveries, condemned for “vehement suspicion of heresy.” Art and writing, similarly, have been subject to attack all over the world under various governments and monarchs. Ban the plays! Ban the books! Ban the theory of evolution! Ban circulation of this artwork! It’s all heretic/debasing/awful. It makes us uncomfortable. It terrifies us.

Anyway, censorship is a topic for another day. I’m talking about actual creatives today. They’re all linked, not just by impassioned attacks on their works, but by a sense of ingenuity cultivated by years of practice. For me, writing is as essential as breathing. I find that I am noticeably more irascible when I have gone weeks without returning to my writing. Of course, it wasn’t like this when I started. And I’m not saying you have to be as attached as I am to what you like (though I highly recommend it; makes the work much more enjoyable). Over the past year, however, I could hardly work on my longer projects. I resorted to writing short stories that would at least keep me in touch with my characters.

Thanks to extremely irresponsible management by my university, I had to dedicate a huge chunk of my day for catching up on readings and studying for classes and exams. There was a point in May when I was wracking up 10+ study hours per day (as logged into my phone’s stopwatch). A huge number. I was so proud. Here’s proof that I am working hard! Here’s proof for my parents to be happy! Here’s proof that I am actually intelligent!

But this is only one aspect of my life. Studying for uni does not comprise my twenty-two years of existence. My brain is fascinated by other aspects too: cat videos, a good turn of phrase, an excellent video essay, an engaging sitcom, a sci-fi video, piano music. How, then, am I reduced to my obligations rather than my passions? How am I proud of never taking breaks, of never enjoying a day out with friends, of taking every mistake as a monumental failure that supposedly indicates that what I love is a frivolous pursuit that will not get me anywhere in life?

Part of it can be attributed towards the burgeoning hustle culture dominating the internet. India especially, given its population, has a problem with turning everything into a competition. It’s understandable but exhausting. But mostly the blame rests on me. For all I talk about critical thinking, I never stopped to consider the kind of messages I had unconsciously absorbed as a child. I never stopped to consider the damaging beliefs that I should have broken out of.

The reason why I could not continue the newsletters was due to my own beliefs—“I cannot indulge in what I love. I cannot waste time until I finish my actual work.”

I know what to call it (for myself or anyone in my position): self-punishment. My ‘actual’ work and my creativity have equal value—both influence each other. My writing is better for it. I could not have been prouder of my ability. But these beliefs are so ingrained that when a YouTube video casually questioned me, “What do you want?” I blanked.

And this… was not the person I wanted to be. Little me who created epic storylines out of four Barbie dolls would be sad that I consider this a waste of time.

Artists have had to fight to find a place of equal honour besides politicians, businesspersons, plus every single person out there who tells you that your hobby needs to be lucrative for you to indulge in it. Our postcapitalist world dictates that you have to spend every single minute climbing a bar of linear progress. I do not believe that anymore. I am actually angry at how we have created and pushed this culture on children. It reminds me of this satirical reply to a parent asking on Quora when his child (10) should be sent to IIT.

So if you are like me and feel guilty for, I don’t know, not being a robot, follow these simple steps:

1. Read the story I began with

2. Read it again

3. Drink some water

4. Take a deep breath

5. Ask yourself what would bring you joy this week, if not this moment.

6. Please go ahead and do it anyway.

Don’t let those drones become a reality :)

And look forward to some more musings from this corner of the internet<3

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