The Privilege of Routine

Every holiday season, we often find ourselves saying the same thing.

"There is nowhere new to go."

"We've seen everything already."

"What else is left to do?"

After almost fifteen years of living in Oman, I have said these words more times than I can count. Every long weekend becomes a hunt for a new destination, a new experience, a new memory.

Last Eid break, we packed our bags and headed to Jebel Shams for a family picnic. Like every other family around us, we laughed, clicked photographs, admired the mountains, and complained about the heat while enjoying our break from routine.

But it wasn't the mountain that stayed with me.

It was a man.                            

On our drive back, I noticed a construction worker sitting alone by the roadside, having his lunch. There was no tree above him. No shade from a building. No shelter from the unforgiving sun. Just a man, a meal, and the scorching afternoon.

Neither the trees nor the people seemed kind enough to offer him a place to rest.

As vehicles sped past and families returned from their holidays, he quietly opened his lunch box and ate every bite with a calmness that struck me deeply. He ate as though he were sitting in his own living room, surrounded by familiarity and comfort.

But he wasn't.

He was miles away from his family.

While the rest of us celebrated a week-long holiday, he was still working. While we worried about making memories, he was probably worried about making ends meet.

For many of us, holidays are a break from life. For him, life simply continued with his routine. I carried that image home.

Months later, during my vacation in India, we were returning from a family trip when our car crossed the highways near Thiruthani. The roads on both sides appeared unusually empty. On one side ran a railway track where trains occasionally thundered past. On the other side stood a few scattered trees at a distance.

And there, under a small umbrella battling the afternoon heat, sat an elderly woman selling guavas.

A single basket, an umbrella and an endless stretch of road.

I kept wondering what had made her wake up that morning and come there.

What had made her choose that roadside spot instead of the comfort of a shaded corner? What circumstances had brought her to sit beneath that relentless sun, waiting for strangers to stop and buy a few fruits?

I do not know her story.

I do not know whether she had children waiting at home.

I do not know if she had family around her or if she lived alone.

But one thing was evident.

She had chosen independence.

There was something profoundly dignified about her presence. She wasn't asking anyone for help. She wasn't waiting for someone to rescue her circumstances.

She was simply doing what she could, where she could, with what she had.

And perhaps all she carried with her that day was hope.

Hope that a few travelers would stop.

Hope that a few guavas would sell.

Hope that the day would pass.

Hope that tomorrow would arrive with another chance.

Back in Chennai, I continue to witness another version of the same story every day.

No matter what time I step outside 4 a.m. or 11 p.m, I see people leaving for work, returning from work, or working through the day.The city never really sleeps.

What stands out to me now is the number of women I see everywhere.

Women rushing to schools.

Women reporting to hospitals in scrubs.

Women managing counters in banks.

Women carrying office bags in one hand and family responsibilities in the other.

At traffic signals, bus stops, railway stations, and office complexes, I often notice more women than men moving purposefully through the city than it used to be decades ago.

They are not merely earning a living.They are balancing lives. Managing careers, households, children, ageing parents, expectations, and dreams, often all at once.

And perhaps the most remarkable change is not economic.It is psychological.

Even when family surrounds us, even when support exists, there is a growing desire to be self-reliant.

Not out of pride.

Not because we distrust those who love us.

But because somewhere along the way, we have started believing that every individual deserves an identity of their own.

A purpose

A place earned through effort.

An existence that commands respect.

                                                                    (Pic courtesy: Chatgpt)

As I reflect on the construction worker in Oman and the elderly woman in Thiruthani, I realize they were not symbols of hardship alone.

They were symbols of dignity and identity.

Living abroad often teaches us to appreciate opportunities.

Living in India teaches us to appreciate resilience.

Yet the truth is that people everywhere are connected by something far more powerful than geography.

Whether in Oman or India, whether under a mountain sun or beneath a roadside umbrella, whether in a quiet village or a bustling city, most of us wake up every day and return to our routines.

We often call it responsibility.Sometimes we call it survival.

But perhaps it is something deeper.

It is our way of establishing who we are.

Our routines do not diminish us.They define us.

They remind us that irrespective of where we live, we are all striving to build an identity that is uniquely our own.

And that is not a burden.

It is one of life's greatest privileges.