The Life We’ve Delegated

When the Washing Machine Stopped

It was a couple of minutes before I realized that something had happened.

I looked around. Everything seemed to be in place. Mani was still at his desk, typing furiously, as if one line refused to behave. The house help was not back from the market. The cooker had yet to whistle to announce it had done its job of cooking. But yes, something was missing. The sound in the background had stopped.

I sighed, stopped what I was doing, went into the kitchen, switched off the gas, and went to check.

The washing machine showed 5 minutes remaining. it had stopped mid-spin. I lifted the lid to find damp clothes sitting in it, waiting for further instructions. I pressed some buttons. They beeped as if trying to humour me, but with no intention of actually doing anything. I jabbed at the panels, tried again. No response.

For a minute I felt oddly betrayed.

Not because of the inconvenience, there was none, not yet, but because of the interruption. I had to stop my work midway, and with it came the sudden fear that the thought I had paused mid-sentence might never return. Had it taken the opportunity to escape permanently?

There was no chaos, but it brought a quiet awareness about how much we rely on these machines. They are neither quite objects nor companions, yet they work with a reliability we expect from both. They ask for nothing, and in return, we stop noticing them altogether, until one of them stops.

It is only then you realise what you had quietly handed over.

I have, in similar ways, delegated a part of my life to my desktop, my oven, the mixer-grinder that reminds every morning that something in the kitchen must get done, the refrigerator that we open repeatedly as if something new might have appeared inside, and the water purifier that quietly keeps working without ever entering conversation…They share the effort, take on small responsibilities and fulfil them a lot faster, far more efficiently than I can. And complain only once in a few years.

It is not just physical effort that we have handed over. We have also delegated small acts of remembering. Phone numbers, appointments, reminders, things we once held in our heads now sit quietly in devices, waiting to prompt us at the right time. It is efficient, no doubt, but it also means we rely on these systems to remember for us, rarely bothering to test our own memory unless something fails. And when it does, the gap feels larger than it should.

They are like the elevator in our building. Nobody acknowledges it. We take it for granted, just pressing buttons and expecting it to obey. Some misuse it, make it dirty too. Yet the day it stops, the whole building reveals its dependence at once. Even those who exercise regularly, find the stairs longer than usual. The body protests, time slowly down. Something invisible suddenly becomes the centre of attention.

Or in the peak of summer, when there is a power outage and even the building generator refuses to cooperate. Life does not come to a halt, but it certainly loses momentum.

Have you noticed how long the clothes take to dry without the spin cycle? Entire afternoons seem to get involved in the process.

Fortunately, this was the final round, and the clothes had been washed. Without the spin cycle, they were no longer a finished task but a lingering one with clothes -heavy, slow to dry, quietly taking back the time I thought I had saved. I took out the dripping pile into a bucket and found myself wringing them out by hand, inefficiently, aware of the muscles I had long ago handed over to a machine, before finally putting them out on the line to dry.  

What followed was a long interaction with customer care, which, like most such calls, tested patience more than it solved the problem. Eventually, the technician came the same day, and the machine was repaired within two days, with a fairly large bill, of course. Order was restored, along with a quiet sense of reassurance, as if something essential had resumed its function.

It also left behind a curious realization- that we grow attached to the appliances that make our lives easier. Most of us are possessive enough not to let anyone else operate them, as if years of reliable service might be undone by one incorrect button.

If you doubt that, try touching somebody’s car uninvited or moving a man’s motorcycle an inch out of place. The reaction is rarely proportionate.

The dependence we have built on them is not visible, not even consciously admitted. We like to believe we are in control—that these are conveniences, choices, tools we can do without, if required.  

But that may not be entirely true.

Our lives no longer merely include these machines. They are built around them—so quietly that we mistake dependence for choice.

                                                                                               — Anupama S Mani