I got down from the train at Karmali station today. The platform was quiet, almost indifferent to the emotional storm within me. Monty was already there, waiting patiently. I called him onto the platform to help with my luggage. Without a word, he hoisted the bags into the car and we began our drive home – 420, Gera Astoria, Caranzalem. As I looked out of the window, palm trees swaying gently under the Goan sky, I couldn’t help but wonder – how did I land up here again?
I was so sure, so mentally prepared, that I would be transferred back to Mumbai or perhaps get some faceless posting that would allow me to finally work from Kharghar. That was the plan – or at least the hope. A quiet transition, a gentle exit, maybe even a subtle way of quitting Goa without announcing it. Instead, here I am, back to the same demanding HQ posting under the PCIT, and now poised to move to the Investigation Wing – an entirely new chapter.
The work here is relentless, a 24x7 affair. It keeps me engaged, and truthfully, I find satisfaction in being of service and knowing my work makes a difference. Yet, the cost is heavy – on both body and mind. And still, I carry on.
But I didn’t begin writing this because I dislike work, or because I can’t manage. That’s not it. It’s the weight of a thought that has stayed with me for nearly three decades: that I would quit this job someday. A thought seeded when Jahnavi was born, watered with years of intention, yet never fulfilled. Now, I’ve begun to believe that one cannot leave a job merely because one wants to. A job must let you go. It must release you.
I remember when I was about to be engaged, my would-be mother-in-law had gently warned me: “You must be prepared to quit your job anytime. My son’s career will take him places.” And I was ready. After all, I had a modest government job, earning Rs. 1900 per month, while Krishnan earned four times as much. I imagined a life where I stayed home, raised children, and did not leave them to the care of others as I had once done for my nieces and nephews.
But life had other plans.
Post marriage, we moved to a small flat in CBD Belapur – a name unfamiliar to me then. I had been a western suburban girl, used to fast trains and the hum of Mumbai. The slow trains from Belapur and the long, exhausting two-hour commute to South Mumbai came as a shock. Still, I adapted. We bought a home in Kharghar, and my journey stretched by one more station.
Through all this, I held onto my job. Friends on the train, especially the senior women, were my voice of reason. One said, “Bacche bade ho jayenge, lekin government naukri chodogi to phir se nahi milega.” I heeded their words. Work continued, life continued. And then came the Child Care Leave – a blessing I hadn’t anticipated. Just when I was considering quitting again, the system threw me a lifeline.
Jahnavi and Rahul grew up. Responsibilities changed shape. Parents aged. In-laws passed. Krishnan’s job took him to Nagothane, and mine to deeper corners of Mumbai. I juggled everything – work, family, and health – with a kind of strength I didn’t know I had.
Somewhere along the line, loneliness crept in. When I shifted to Ghatkopar to reduce travel, I realised my childhood home didn’t feel like home anymore. The innocence of memory clashed with the present’s harsh reality. Government quarters were dilapidated, and I missed the cleaner, more peaceful life in Navi Mumbai. Still, I hoped. I hoped Jahnavi would return for her M Pharm. I hoped we’d buy a flat in Chembur. But none of that happened.
When Rahul came home in 2017 and Krishnan secured the Wadala flat for us, I thought – this is it. This is home. I was happy. Healthier. Even more optimistic about a future together under one roof. But life, once again, had different plans. Krishnan needed to quit his job. Rahul moved in new directions. Jahnavi settled in the US. The Wadala chapter closed.
By the grace of the system, I got a quarter at Napean Sea Road. It saved us. Financially, emotionally. That year, I too had thought of quitting but one of my colleagues told me to be a little more patient. He said the bosses will be transferred out sooner or later, but once you quit a government job, you won’t get it back. So, I waited. And continued.
December 2019 brought Rahul back home. He left his job to join a startup and brought Danny along. With Ram, our trusted house help, I hoped we’d finally live together in a central location – all of us under one roof, reducing travel and sharing life. But the dream remained a dream. Rahul had other plans, and Krishnan didn’t share my urgency or vision to buy a flat within city limits.
In September 2023, fate brought me a full circle. My office shifted to Vashi, and I got the chance to live in Kharghar again. I was close to home, close to Rahul. But quitting again didn’t seem practical – Krishnan had retired, and Rahul’s business hadn’t yet taken off. I was the only regular income.
Then, in December 2023, came the promotion – Assistant Commissioner of Income Tax. In February 2024, I was moved to Goa. And within days, the thought to quit returned. But this time, a real estate broker, of all people, stopped me in my tracks. “Madam, be here for a week and you’ll want to settle down. Don’t quit. Yours is a government job. If you leave now, you won’t get it back. What will you do at home, now that the children are grown up?”
His words echoed a truth I knew too well.
2024 brought travel, adventure, and unexpected joy – a seven-week IRS training, a tour through Bangalore, Andamans, Mysore – an experience of a lifetime. But even then, when I discussed retirement with colleagues, they advised me to wait for our promotions to be regularised. Otherwise, pensions would be fixed at lower grades. So I waited. And on 01.01.2025, our batch was regularised. A relief.
I decided to resign on 30.04.2025, retire by 31.07.2025. But once again, a colleague advised patience. “Madam, just wait till January 2026. The 8th Pay Commission is declared. If you’re in service on 1.1.2026, your pension will increase significantly. Just a few more months.”
So now, I wait again. I wait for March 2026, wondering if I’ll finally gather the courage to quit. Or will I convince myself to stay one more year, until AGT 2026, hoping to be posted back to Mumbai, and then take VRS?
It’s been nearly three decades of wanting to quit and never really doing it. At this point, I don’t know whether I’m incredibly patient or simply caught in a loop of duty and hope.
But I do know this – I’ve lived a full life in the margins of decisions not taken. I’ve found strength in staying, and sometimes, quiet grief in not leaving. Sometimes, I think I’ve stayed too long. Sometimes, I feel I’ve stayed just right.
And still, I’m here. Working. Waiting. Wondering.
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