The hazy cigarette smoke hung in the air, and the ashes drifted down like snowflakes. It was a familiar, gritty cocktail mixed with the city's signature scent of dust, diesel, and desperation. I was holding onto my morning coffee, a small cup of bitter warmth in the 10:30 AM stillness, when a colleague let out a sigh of desperation, which carried the weight of a thousand postponed decisions. She said, "I wish someone would just tell me what to do."
Her words didn't just land; they detonated, shaking me from within. Like the ghost from the past, an online post resurfaced in my mind with clarity: a clip from Fleabag I had shared, where a girl, broken and raw, sitting in a confession box, sobbing, said, "So just tell me what to do, Father?" And in that moment, a connection was made. In the air-conditioned office, surrounded by the hum of keyboards and my silent scream of a hundred unspoken anxieties, I finally understood. For Fleabag, it wasn't about religion; it was about surrender. It was the universal, bone-deep exhaustion of a generation like ours that is simply tired of having to choose.
This is a feeling we know all too well. We are the young adults of Bangladesh, the ones who were supposed to have it all figured out. We aced our exams, scrambled through university admissions, and carried the weight of expectation all the way to a single, shining destination: in most cases, a corporate job in a glossy building. We achieved it. We swapped lecture halls for conference rooms and the chaotic freedom of campus for the structured confinement of a nine-to-five. And yet, here we are, feeling weaker by the day, living one day at a time. It leads one to wonder: if this is the prize, why does it feel so much like a burden?
What I crave now is not an escape from responsibility, but a pause in the negotiation. I want someone to take on the steering wheel, just for a day. To hand me a box of food and say, "Here, I bought this for you." To lay out an outfit and say, "Wear this, you'll look fine." To point to a bus and command, "Get on it, it will take you where you need to go."
You see, the terror isn't always in the grand, life-altering choices. Yes, navigating office politics or managing a salary is daunting. But the true erosion of spirit is a slower, quieter process. It is the mundane, the trivial, the daily drip-drip-drip of micro-decisions that grinds you down just like the filter you have just used for your coffee.
I am tired of choosing. Profoundly, spiritually exhausted. This fatigue has a daily rhythm. Every morning, the 7:30 AM alarm is not just a wake-up call; it is the start of a machine gun for a day of tireless decision-making. The first battle is fought in the kitchen. Should I make Mangsho for lunch? Or reheat the leftover Alu Bhaji and Daal? Or simply surrender, pretending Shingara is a viable lunch option? This is not about hunger; it is a daily referendum on my competence as an independent human being.
From there, the theatre of choice simply changes stage one by one. Then comes the wardrobe, where the same few kurtas and kameez rotate in a cycle of quiet despair. In a city that swings back and forth between oppressive humidity and aggressive air conditioning, getting dressed feels less like self-expression and more like a tactical mission. I am perpetually failing almost every day. This reminds me, why don't we go for office uniforms? At least it will save time and oneself from making decisions that one might not find enjoyable.
We were sold a beautiful lie at every stage of our lives. They told us 'adulting' was about freedom. They never mentioned that this freedom would feel like being the constantly lost captain of a ship, with no map, a broken compass, and a crew of one– myself. In university, the path was somewhat linear. Now, the path is a sprawling, hazy Dhaka intersection on a winter night during load-shedding, with no traffic police in sight. Everyone is honking, moving in different directions, and I am just trying to cross the road without getting run over. The heart of the problem, perhaps, is the speed. The transition was too fast. One day, my biggest concern was securing a good spot in the classroom during midterms. Next, I am deciphering client requests, calculating rent for a box-sized room, and trying to sound intelligent in a meeting in front of my colleagues. This overwhelming feeling has a physical presence, a heavy, invisible blanket, that I carry everywhere.
We are the young adults of Bangladesh, the ones who were supposed to have it all figured out. We aced our exams, scrambled through university admissions, and carried the weight of expectation all the way to a single, shining destination: in most cases, a corporate job in a glossy building. We achieved it. We swapped lecture halls for conference rooms and the chaotic freedom of campus for the structured confinement of a nine-to-five. And yet, here we are, feeling weaker by the day, living one day at a time. It leads one to wonder: if this is the prize, why does it feel so much like a burden?
What I crave now is not an escape from responsibility, but a pause in the negotiation. I want someone to take on the steering wheel, just for a day. To hand me a box of food and say, "Here, I bought this for you." To lay out an outfit and say, "Wear this, you'll look fine." To point to a bus and command, "Get on it, it will take you where you need to go."
This is the cry of our time. It is the cry of Fleabag in a Bangladeshi context. It is the silent plea of a thousand young professionals staring at their lunch boxes, scrolling through endless options on online shops, and feeling a peculiar emptiness in a life that, by all societal metrics, is full. We are not lazy. We are overwhelmed. We are not incapable; we are choice-fatigued. So, if you see me on the office roof, sipping my coffee, looking a little lost, know this: I am not daydreaming. I am in a silent confession box of my own making, waiting for a sign, a command, a divine intervention in the mundane. I am simply, desperately waiting for someone to tell me what to do.
Nazmun Afrad Sheetol is an IR graduate and a contributor at The Daily Star. She can be reached at [email protected].
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