Lazy or Hardworking- Can the Real Me Stand Up?

The rawness of the humiliation of failing in front of all my family & the Delhi aunties due to my laziness kept me working hard but now that I care less, I’m dangerously close to doing nothing.

I’ve achieved most things I’ve set out to do. Give me a deadline and it’ll get done. It may get done two minutes before it’s due, it may be shoddier than intended but it will get done. Under pressure I bust balls and can be counted on to finish and deliver. Sans pressure I’m lazy to the core but somehow with the fear of not finishing and a little bit of luck I manage to wing it. Every time. My record is spotless. Except - there has to be an exception - this one time at my brother’s wedding reception where I was given the task of doing the table plan for a 400 plus sit-down dinner. Truth be told, the idea was mine – having attended a few British weddings and galas and sitting next to strangers whom I wouldn’t normally gravitate towards or have the opportunity to meet, I thought it’d be classy and novel to bring this western tradition to an Indian wedding. I’m talking of two decades ago, a time when Indian weddings, huge or simple, always had the buffet format. London-return me was shaking up the formula. I dissed and vetoed any help from the decorators, caterers and the solve-any-problem tent-wallah. My parents, reluctant at first relented after my sermon which went something like, “You all think I’m totally incapable of doing anything grown up just because I didn’t opt for a 9 to 5 job. But you forget I’ve been living in London on my own for years and I’ve been to a fair share of fancy sit-down dinners with more famous people than any of you’ve ever met. Still no one in this family ever takes me seriously.”

My brother said, “I don’t care who sits next to who as long as I get to sit next to my wife and not a smelly uncle.”

My father said, “She is the creative one in the family, it might be a good laugh.”

My sister rolled her eyes.

My mother warned, “Choti, we better not end up being the laughing stock of Delhi.”

It turned out to be a joke alright but not a funny one. It haunts me to date because a) it’s one of the rare times I couldn’t wing it to get the job done and b) as the only non-super-achieving family member this was the worst place to fail.

Failing wasn’t an accident, it was laziness winning. To begin with, I kept putting off the boring but kind of essential task of making a list of the expected guests. I can blame the fact that getting RSVPs to an Indian wedding is like getting Trump to stick to the truth but that was only a minor part of the problem. I hadn’t bothered to find out even basic information from the planners like table size, lay out of the venue, where the table plans would be put up, who will do the name cards, what will they look like, who’d direct guests to their tables… On the eve of the reception I still had no vision, no supplies and no desire to do the job I’d begged for. I’d partied like a beast for a week, if you’ve been to an Indian wedding, any Indian wedding, you know it’s a guilt-free, never-ending roller coaster of terrible dance moves, alcohol abuse, over-eating and all-around disregard for general wellbeing for days that become nights that become days.

On D-day I forced myself out of bed around noon. My body felt like I had slept on a bed of nails. My two loyal besties arrived with some gold and black markers and large chart papers. I printed out the latest guest list. I recognised less than half the names. Fun fact - you can’t come up with a seating arrangement if you don’t know who you're seating. With no time left for any research on who was who, we haphazardly divided up the people into tables of 8, feeling rather powerful for separating couples and making odd combinations, only to be told by the caterer that each table has been laid out for 10. Too lazy to start from scratch I scratched out a table on the chart adding the names randomly to the other tables. The plan looked like a 3rd grade school project gone wrong, which in itself may have been less of a problem if the rest of the wedding details weren’t as impeccable and elegant. I handed over the chart to the decorators, who didn’t mask their horror. “This is the final version you want us to put up?”

I scanned the gold and green jungle themed marquee that incorporated real trees and leafy palms, one-piece polished oak tables and throne like rattan dinning chairs. They had a point but I was too hungover to be ashamed of my hand-made botched job.

“Yes, please put this up at the entrance of the tent where everyone can see it.”

Then, with naked disgust, “Where are the name place-cards for the tables?”

Oops!

I ran to the no-problem-comes-without-a-solution tent-wallah. Till date I’ve no idea how he conjured up 400 name cards on pieces of wood to match the jungle décor in less than an hour. I swelled with relief at winging it again.

When the first few guests arrived with uninvited family members and/or close friends who “happened to be visiting from the states and were dying to be part of an Indian wedding”, it began to unravel into disaster. It’s too triggering to relive how wives in legacy jewels and kanjivaram saris raged at being separated from their husbands and how older relatives dragged the rattan thrones, ripping the faux-grass green carpet to sit next to preferred cousins and nieces. My mother’s eyes bored into me. I disappeared in a bottle of champagne.

For years the rawness of this humiliation ensured I never let lazy me win again, till this moment. Call it half-way point, menopause, depression, moving homes, busting my knee, summer heat, no callbacks… call it by whatever name but I can’t shake off the ennui to get anything done. My life-coach calls it being overwhelmed but I know it’s laziness. I’ve tasted it before. Can the hardworking me please come to the rescue before the family and bejewelled aunties say, “Choti, is not to be taken seriously.”

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Tell me about a time in your life when lazy won the day.