I was sired on a damp Monday on the third floor of a near-empty office, born not of passion but of a lust for purpose. My father leaned back in his ergonomic chair, eyes half-closed, muttering the immortal words: “Let’s do it!”
There were no roses, no romance. Not much joy either, I suspect. I came into being with the ease of a sigh, the grace of a shrug. I didn’t cry. My father stared at me for a moment, nodded solemnly, and sent me into the world.
I travelled swiftly: weightless, unseen. I was lean. Silent, until I pinged. I was meant to stir things up, to create the illusion of movement.
L was the first to open me next morning. She scanned me, her brow creasing briefly, and forwarded me without hesitation. Her message was brief: ‘Looping in R.’
R opened me reluctantly, his cursor hovering before he clicked. He skimmed, added a single comment—’M needs to be on this’—and despatched me without ceremony.
M squashed me through lunch and much of the afternoon. In his corner cubicle, under the caustic gaze of a well-thumbed David Allen, he eyed me occasionally but held firm. At 4:30, he opened me, read me slowly, hit Reply All, and typed: ‘Let’s circle back tomorrow.’
I grew on Wednesday. My subject line swelled: ‘Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Fwd: Re: Re:’. Someone added an attachment—dutifully forwarded but never opened. I carried it awkwardly, like balloons to a board meeting.
I was a monster by Thursday. Unrecognisable, my skin blistered with emojis—thumbs-ups, hearts, clapping hands; my soul buried under empty phrases—‘Flagging for visibility,’ ‘Let’s align,’ ‘Adding my two cents,’ ‘For action’, ‘For URGENT action’, and ‘FYI.’ I had become an organism, a hydra with heads in 47 inboxes. I reached places I was never meant to: the CEO’s executive assistant, who promptly forwarded me to Legal without pause; a woman on maternity leave who read me in horror, then marked me unread; and a man on holiday in Thailand, who sighed, shook his head, and deleted me. Within an hour, I was resurrected by a woman who replied all with, ‘Apologies—just catching up now!’
By Friday, I was the Ever Given in the Canal. Perhaps as an act of kindness, F forwarded me to the guillotine of Finance. They replied promptly with a form to fill out and a question no one could answer: ‘Who’s the budget holder?’ M responded with a question mark, @mentioning my father, who sent me out again, now bearing the subject line ‘URGENT—PLEASE ADVISE’.
I should have died then. Not I. For I am both ephemeral and eternal. I am your solace, email warriors—you lion-hunters of the digital savannah. I am your whisper of purpose, your shout into the void. You created me to justify yourselves.
I am the Ouroboros of your inbox. You think you wield me, but I am the thing that wields you.
This article first appeared in The Times of India on 21 December 2024. The cover image was produced with MidJourney.
Previous Next