Where are you Today

Kal toh kal hi guzar gya, abhi aane wale kal ki fikar hai. Yesterday vanished, as it always does, into the haze of routine, and tomorrow’s weight already presses down on me. I rise not from rest but because the alarm demands it, its shrill command pulling me into another day. Brush, shower, dress, check emails—each act mechanical, a ritual so ingrained it feels like I’m watching someone else perform it. The laptop flickers to life, its screen a relentless flood of notifications: meetings, deadlines, a “quick five-minute sync” that will steal half an hour. I nod, I agree, I move forward, but I’m not sure why.

The morning slips away in a blur of tasks. Emails I don’t care about pile up, answered with hollow efficiency. Meetings drone on, my attention drifting like static. I smile at jokes that don’t land, my face a mask of polite engagement. Mera aaj mujhse pooch raha—today whispers to me, its voice soft but piercing: Saale, tu aaj mei kidhar hai? Where are you right now? I’m here, aren’t I? At my desk, typing, clicking, functioning like a well-oiled machine. But I’m not here. Not in the words I type, not in the nods I give, not in the body that carries me through these hours.

By noon, as I stare at a Google Doc, a strange stillness descends. The air feels heavy, like the world has paused to catch its breath. My phone buzzes—a work chat, urgent but ignored. My coffee sits cold, its bitterness unnoticed until now. This day is ordinary, unremarkable, and that’s what gnaws at me. Nothing’s wrong, but nothing feels alive either. Yesterday was no different, nor the day before—a cycle of sameness, each day repackaged with new tasks but the same quiet emptiness. I tell myself I’m building something: a career, stability, a future worth this grind. But it feels like I’m just sustaining a shadow of myself, a version I barely know.

Questions swirl, uninvited: What’s next? A promotion? A new field? More skills to chase, more boxes to check? Stability or meaning—which matters more? Beneath the noise, a quieter truth cuts through: You’re slipping away. Not in a grand unraveling, but in the slow erosion of moments—through rote emails, unread messages, days that dissolve into evenings with nothing to grasp. I’m good at this. I deliver. I meet deadlines. I function. But I’m not present. Mera aaj mujhse pooch raha—today keeps asking, Saale, tu kidhar hai? I don’t have an answer. And the scariest part is how little that bothers me now.