Happiness is a Delusion by Bindu Unnikrishnan

Happiness is a Delusion

( Dedicated to all business class corporate honchos running pillar to post for that corner office with a view)

I typed the words “Happiness is a delusion” on my iPhone 15 Pro Max—gold edition—while reclined in a massage chair that has more settings than my emotional spectrum. The irony hit me like a LinkedIn notification at midnight.

This wasn’t just any pad. This was the pad. A 47th-floor penthouse overlooking a city I hadn’t walked through in months. The smart mirror chirped, “You look tired. Would you like a wellness reminder?” I flipped it off.

My ankle had been sprained for a week, thanks to a Corporate Leadership Trekking Retreat that promised “team-building through Himalayan struggle.” All I got was a leech bite, a twisted ankle, and a certificate of “Most Resilient Participant” signed by the CEO—who, by the way, was airlifted after Day One.

The medicine cabinet resembled a pharmaceutical expo. I popped my third painkiller of the day, alongside vitamin gummies shaped like little dollar signs and my most faithful companion: a tiny anti-anxiety pill with the magical power to mute mental chaos and make quarterly reviews feel like warm hugs.

I call it my happiness potion. Prescribed by Dr. Kamat, who provides therapy to half my office and moonlights as a mindfulness guru in his weekend webinar: “Namaste and Revenue.”

Today, I didn’t take the pill out of anxiety. Just... loneliness. Not “nobody-loves-me” lonely. The more sophisticated kind—where your espresso machine knows your schedule better than your friends.


'Meeting in 10 minutes', my smartwatch buzzed. Just enough time to inhale corporate numbness .

I grabbed the sandwich my maid had prepared the day before—a perfect cube of boredom: mayo-slathered chicken with no discernible flavor, wrapped like a bribe. It tasted like it always did: like an HR policy.

Sleep? I could risk a five-minute nap. It was just past midnight, and Mr. Han from Seoul was scheduled to call during his lunch break. I had memorized the time zones of 14 countries... but forgot my own blood group.

As I drifted off, I fell into a dream dungeon. It looked suspiciously like the ground floor of my office post-budget cuts. Flickering fluorescent lights. Interns running in circles. And at the end—a glowing sign: “Happiness Exit.” Half-covered in smoke... or maybe it was burnout.

I ran toward it, only to realize—I had lost my laptop.The official one. The sacred black slab with all the files, passwords, spreadsheets, and shame. Panic struck.

How would I explain this to Mr. Han? The same man who once replied to my 200-slide pitch deck with a thumbs-up emoji and “Cool.” How would I discuss carve-out strategies when I couldn’t even carve out time for a proper meal?

I turned to find my iPhone in pieces. Scattered with it: my dignity and my anti-anxiety pills, like confetti. A sign from the universe? Or just the cat?

And then it hit me—like a badly written IPO pitch collapsing under jargon.

Slack pinged.
Boss (2:37 AM): “Quick call in 5?”
Me: “Sure :)”
Me, internally: SEND HELP. I’M SINKING INTO THE MATRIX.

I logged in via my backup laptop—the one that emits heat like a nuclear reactor. The camera wouldn’t turn on. Perfect. I could attend the meeting as my best self: invisible and emotionally unavailable.

The team was already knee-deep in client escalation, synergy leverage, and digital disruption. I nodded like a bobblehead and unmuted occasionally to say, “Absolutely,” or “We can align that post-iteration.”

Behind me, Alexa whispered: “Did you mean: hallucination?” Thanks, Alexa. You’re the only one who gets me.

The call ended. Nobody noticed I was mentally in the Bahamas. Or a wormhole. I wasn’t sure myself.

Flashback:
Last month in Dubai, I closed a deal that required 18 hours of flying, 14 hours of smiling, 6 hours of PowerPoint animations, and 2 hours of actual conversation. The client wanted “innovation with heritage.” I googled it. Still confused.

Once, I flew from Mumbai to Frankfurt, then to Atlanta, all in 72 hours—just to shake hands with a man who forgot my name and called me “Slide Guy.”

In business class, they serve happiness in fluted glasses. Champagne and crushed dreams. You cry into silk pillows and call it gratitude.

Vacations? None in years. But I do have “bleisure trips”—that magical hybrid where you inhale corporate stress and exhale fake gratitude in five-star suites. You attend back-to-back boardroom briefings in tropical locations, squinting at your laptop under fluorescent lights while pretending to enjoy your ocean view (which, if you're lucky, isn't obstructed by a palm tree shaped like your quarterly stress graph). Meanwhile, your spouse and kids are actually on vacation—sipping mocktails by the pool, building sandcastles, FaceTiming you to ask if you're done with your "fun presentation" yet. Spoiler: I’m not
So, is happiness real?
I don’t know.

Maybe it’s that five minutes between meetings when the Wi-Fi crashes and you pretend to be sad.
Maybe it’s when a 7 a.m. call gets canceled and you scream with joy like you won an Oscar.
Maybe it's when someone else takes the blame for your error—and you offer to “step up” anyway. (Corporate Oscar-worthy performance.)

Or maybe happiness is just a mirage—dangling on the edge of your next bonus payout.

Until then, I live one deck, one deadline, one desperate nap at a time. Laughing, smoking, spiraling, and whispering sweet nothings to my serotonin tablet.

Because someday, once I’ve filled the coffer with dollars, maybe I’ll buy that elusive exit sign.

And walk out of this gloriously air-conditioned delusion.

Bindu Unnikrishnan is an author, poet, teacher, and marathoner. Known for her lyrical depth and witty charm, she blends emotion, intellect, and humour in her writing. A pageant winner and storyteller, she crafts tales of love, resilience, and identity that touch the soul and tickle the funny bone.