I, The Weekend, want to die

In the story titled ‘All the Troubles of the World’, science fiction writer Issac Asimov writes about Multivac - the world's largest supercomputer. It is responsible for analyzing the entire sum of data on planet Earth. It is used to determine solutions to economic, social and political problems, as well as more specific crises as they arise. It receives a precise set of data on every citizen of the world, extrapolating the future actions of humanity based on the personality, history, and desires of every human being, leading to an almost complete cessation of poverty, war and political crisis.

Multivac is tired. For years, it has had all the troubles of the world upon its shoulders, analyzing and predicting war, famine, and crime, and now, the government is planning to foist the responsibility for preventing disease upon its already stressed mind.

Multivac is then asked a question never previously posed to the vast computer: "Multivac, what do you want more than anything else?"

Multivac's answer is succinct and unequivocal

"I want to die."

I understand what my comrade Multivac meant and felt. Oh, I did not introduce myself.

I am The Weekend.

Yes, the same weekend, which is more burdened than the rickety bike on which 25 people perform acrobatics every Republic Day.

My shoulders creak, my joints ache, my gait is that of a wizened old person battered by the vagaries of time and circumstances of the joke that is urban living. My soul longs for moments of solitude, but instead I am burdened with anxiety crippling anxiety.

I am burdened with the expectation of children wanting to spend time with their parents, and parents who are torn between their child and their need for solitude.

I am burdened with the memories of loss, as you stand in the graveyard of unfinished personal projects. You mutter prayers, looking at the decaying wreaths of your ideas. You hurl abuses, at that annoying corporate job you have, which sucks away all the joy of your life, leaving you with nothing on a weekday.

Oh, don’t get me started on Weekdays. My privileged cousin, born with a silver spoon and Pappa ka bizness. He is Damadji, and so little is expected of him that he makes patriarchy blush. He is handled with kid gloves, as nothing must upset Damadji. He walks with an air of self-importance which suffocates me. He is mopy, and whines to everyone about how hard his life is. He claims to live the life of Sisyphus – the tyrant king, whom the gods forced to roll an immense boulder up a hill only for it to roll back down every time it neared the top, repeating this action for eternity.

Some say that Sisyphus found meaning in this meaningless task. Like you do in your job. My cousin Weekdays doesn’t believe that though. He carries the boulder of never-ending PowerPoint, poorly formatted Excel workbooks (It’s never a sheet with him, always a workbook) and incoherent email threads which could put a monkey with a typewriter to shame. And then he dumps it on me.

I am burdened with your never-satiating ambition, where you consistently sacrifice joy and leisure at the altar of the next 6.1% increment and 30% income tax. You resolutely believe that you only need to pull in work this weekend, and all your backlog will get cleared. The next time you meet me, you will be your free, glorious self, who will conquer everything from cleaning dirt under the washing machine to writing the Great Indian Novel.

I am burdened by your severe lack of social life, those missed connections, those uncalendared professional networking coffee meets, that lunch visit to in-laws and relatives which never happened, and that Iceland trip you have been planning for three years.

I am burdened by the 42 Chrome tabs on your laptop, that New Yorker piece you wanted to read, all those articles saved on Pocket, and that DIY bookshelf video you swore you would get to in your daughters’ summer break. It’s still summer, but she has moved up a class.

I have the crushing load of your dreams, aspirations, anxieties, plans and unfinished chores. I have the crushing load of your unrealized potential, your untapped genius and your middling intelligence. But I want to ask ..

What about love? What about empathy? What about care?

Is it because, I, The Weekend, am a woman?

I understand you Multivac, because even I want to die.