How my corporate lifestyle nearly cost my life
When I was little, my folks thought I'd grow up to be an astronomer because I stared at the skies often. Later, I badly wanted to be a doctor but failed every known medical entrance test and ended up with a BA in literature. In the next few years, I wrote fiction, some of which were published in some newspapers.
But I needed a real job ("Writing is a hobby, now do some work!"), so I joined an advertising agency as copywriter. Fiction gave way to headlines and copy. Five springs went past. I moved to bigger and bigger agencies, thinking the pressure and the politics there was part of the job. I ate and slept at odd hours. I popped pills whenever I had a headache.
When there were important campaigns and I had a headache or a stomach upset, I would pop a pill, but before it could act I would pop another. I made jokes about the warning labels on medicines. I made friends with medical store guys. Several of my colleagues said I was a mobile medical store. My backpack was full of remedies for everything, from a headache to stomach upset to muscle spasm, emesis, heartburns, insomnia, fever... Nothing must come in the way of work, so.
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| I realised I had always wished to write. |
Meanwhile, my office doled out the share of woes specific to advertising. Creative directors wouldn't permit the growing confidence of their subordinates, so they incessantly put the juniors down. Branch heads and client service executives would give false deadlines to ease their own pressure. Clients would destroy creative work as they fancied. All this led to more headache and more tablets. I often took two 650mg paracetamol tablets in the space of an hour.
And that was how, in the winter of 2009, I fell ill. At first they said it was viral fever. I was admitted to a big multispecialty hospital in Bangalore, where they said my liver and kidneys had failed. I had dengue along with hepatitis A and E. My liver was weak from years of abuse.
They put me in the ICU and told my folks I had about six hours to live. I went in and out of delirium, dreaming up stuff about which I would write someday. After the first day they said I might survive, but I would need a liver transplant. Then a kidney transplant. Then dialysis for life. But my system just picked up, and I needed none of those things. The doctors pointed heavenward and many of them used the word "rebirth".
Twenty-five days at the hospital changed my world. I remember looking at the pigeons that came and sat at my window and then flew and sat at another window far away. They convinced me that life was far too beautiful, too meaningful, to be snubbed out by the corporate world. Discharged from hospital, I went back home, my body emaciated, my spirit renewed.
I realised I had always wished to write. I wrote short fiction with no intention of being published. My joy simply lay in writing. Everyone and every simple thing interested me greatly. Every anecdote, every casual reference gave me ideas. I had changed subtly; I was kinder, I loved animals and plants, and I began to donate for poor cancer patients.
In spite of receiving a hero's welcome back in office, I quit. I had made up my mind to leave on the dialysis table, so I went ahead and did it, though most friends insisted that my career would take off spectacularly if I hung on. I knew I couldn't hang on. So, I hung up.
I started my own ad agency and chose my own clients. I also began sending my stories to friends, some of whom happened to know publishers. A couple of stories appeared in a widely-read magazine, and were appreciated.
I realised this was the same me, minus those headache pills, minus the stress and chaos that come with the disease I had named "corporatitis". So here I am, writing this and enjoying it. I thank the stars that had decided I needed a harsh illness to learn to leave. And write.
(Manu Bhattathiri’s first book, Savithri’s Special Room and Other Stories, is out from HarperCollins Publishers India this month.)