Once upon a time, weekends were for life. For discovering a new park to host a make-believe badminton tournament, cinema halls that smelt faintly of caramel and for that one friend who could make you laugh until your stomach ached.

Now, we count down to the duvet cocoon, phone balanced on chest, snacks within reach and the comforting illusion of rest we like to call bed rotting. It's hard to pinpoint the exact time my weekends started looking like a fan whirring above the soft static of Instagram Reels and the faint sound of pressure cooker whistles from someone else’s Sunday lunch. It’s a tableau of modern rest that leaves you more foggy than free. When the week feels like too much, this feels like control. But by Sunday night, I feel oddly hollow instead of refreshed; that’s the catch.

“When stress and anxiety rise, our tolerance for stimulation drops,” says Renuka Gandhi, clinical psychologist and counsellor. “We start choosing isolation, even when what we really need is interaction. It’s a protective reflex that can sneakily make us lonelier.”

The reality is that bed rotting has become synonymous with self-preservation, especially for young Indians constantly toggling between 10-hour workdays and family obligations that don’t recognise weekends. The city doesn’t slow down. You can still hear the honks, the neighbours fighting over parking and the never-ending construction. So we retreat to the one space we can control: our bed.

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