Picture this: Sara, a 29-year-old chartered accountant in Dhaka, walking into her office on a Monday morning. She's carrying a laptop bag, a cup of overpriced coffee, and the crushing weight of societal expectations. But don't worry — it's all just a hobby. At least, that's what everyone around her believes.

From the moment Sara got her first job, the narrative was set: her work was not real work. It was a side gig, an accessory to her main roles as a future wife, mother, and unpaid family therapist.

"What's the big deal?" her aunt had said during her graduation party. "You'll leave this job after marriage anyway. But good practice for managing your husband's business accounts!"

Fast forward to today, Sara is battling workplace sexism with the finesse of a seasoned gladiator.

Take her boss, Amin, a man who believes his "progressive" attitude deserves a standing ovation. Just last week, during a team meeting, he told her, "Sara, you're very talented for someone who doesn't have to work."

When she asked what he meant, he smiled patronisingly and said, "You know, since your father is well-off. You don't really need this job, right? It's nice to see you here as a passion project."

Ah, the "financial affluence" card — a staple in every Bangladeshi woman's corporate experience! If you are well-off, you are accused of treating your career like a hobby. If you are not, your financial need is turned into an insult.

"Taka banatei hobe? Ken shaami kaaj kore na?" one particularly nosy co-worker once asked Sara, as if the only valid reason for her presence at work was a non-existent husband's unemployment.

But the real fun begins when office dress codes come into play. Sara's workplace is not exactly strict but it's full of unsolicited fashion critics.

And let's not forget the workplace well-wishers who specialise in character assassination. If Sara spends too much on a new bag, she's "showing off." If she does not, she's "stingy."

If she stays late to finish a project, she's "too ambitious" — a code word for "probably not getting married anytime soon." And if she goes home early, it's, "Dekhecho? Ar nijeke career woman bole!"

Then there's the pièce de résistance: workplace harassment, always served with a side of denial. Sara has mastered the art of dodging overly familiar "bhaiya-type" colleagues who somehow think leaning too close at the printer is normal behaviour.

When she once complained about a male co-worker's inappropriate jokes, the HR manager — a man with the moral compass of a broken GPS — asked, "Are you sure you're not overreacting? Boys are just doing ektu dushtami."

However, perhaps the best part of Sara's career is the unshakable belief that her job is not serious. Once, during a heated family discussion about her cousin's wedding, Sara reminded everyone she could not take the day off. Her mother waved it off with, "shomossha ki! Tor job-e chhuti nibi, bas!"  Sara wanted to respond, "Yes, Ma, because clients love it when you cancel to attend your cousin's gaye holud."

For Sara, every day is a balancing act between proving her worth and laughing at the absurdity of it all. She dreams of a world where her career is taken as seriously as her male counterparts, where she is not asked to "tone it down," "cover up," or "let it go." Until then, she will keep working, not as a hobby, but as an act of quiet rebellion.

As for the "work isn't that serious" crowd? Sara has a suggestion: try juggling deadlines, sexism, and unsolicited advice while pretending to enjoy your coffee. If that's a hobby, sign her up for the Olympics.