Chapter 2: The Reward and the Realisation

After two months of non-stop overtime and finally landing a major client, the HR manager herself came to my cabin.

I still remember that morning: sunlight cutting through dusty blinds, the air heavy with filter coffee. My table was cluttered with reports and half-eaten Parle-Gs. Ms. Sharma, wrapped in a crisp cotton saree, surprised the whole office by stepping into my little glass cabin.

"Fortunately, we have you here. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have met our sales target this year."

Her voice sailed across the cubicles, loud enough for the office aunties to overhear. Heads popped up above partitions, eyebrows raised.

"Not at all, it was a team effort," I replied, automatically polite.

I always chose my words carefully—never one to take all the credit, wary of office politics. But in my mind, I recalled the 'team': mostly me, chasing clients, missing my sister’s birthday, Amma tsk-tsking about my long hours.

"There aren’t any urgent projects at the moment. You should take a couple of days off and get some rest."

Her words were like cool water to a parched throat. I caught myself nodding before I even realised.

I was tempted—truly. Even the neighbours in our chawl had started commenting on my dark circles. Amma would WhatsApp me every night: 'Beta, don’t work so hard. Health pe dhyan do.' I’d just send a thumbs-up emoji back.

Normally, I’m not one to go out much, but after two months of barely three-four hours’ sleep a night, my body was at its breaking point. My heart would race at odd times.

At night, sometimes my pulse would pound in my ears, while the city’s noise—horns, dogs, street vendors—bled through my window. I’d wake up with my shirt soaked in sweat, cursing the power cut that had stopped the fan.

So when she told me to take a break, I was genuinely grateful.

I wanted to touch Ms. Sharma’s feet in gratitude, but managed a respectful nod instead. My body ached for rest the way it did after college cricket matches.

Taking advantage of May Day, I planned a hospital checkup and some proper rest at home. Not bad at all.

In my mind, I saw Amma’s relieved face, maybe even a home-cooked meal. I made a mental note to call her, then remembered the doctor’s appointment I’d postponed for weeks.

I quickly filled out the leave request and handed it to Ms. Sharma.

I double-checked the dates, attached my medical reports, and even WhatsApped her for confirmation. She replied with a 'thumbs-up' and a 'take care' sticker.

She signed it immediately, her neat, bold signature feeling like a ticket to freedom. I texted Amma at once: "Coming home for a bit, don’t tell Papa I’m skipping work!"

So, under the envious gazes of colleagues burning the midnight oil, I swaggered out of the office.

Sumeet from accounts gave me a mock salute. “Bhai, bring us some samosas when you come back!” someone called. For the first time in months, I felt lighter as I walked out, Mumbai’s evening lights twinkling like Diwali diyas.

I went straight to the hospital for a full checkup. With all that stress, I needed to be sure.

The doctor, a kindly uncle with salt-and-pepper hair, clucked at my test results. “Beta, kaam sab kuch nahi hai. Dekho, BP! Take care, haan?” I promised I would, half-smiling as I left.

The auto ride home was a blur—the meter’s rattle, humid air, the driver’s radio playing old Lata. When I reached, Amma was waiting with steaming poha and nimbu pani. I ate, mumbled a 'good night', and collapsed on my bed, the fan’s breeze a blessing.

When I woke up, it was already afternoon.

Sunlight streamed in through the curtains. For a moment, panic hit—had I missed a meeting? Then I remembered: no work today. I stretched, savouring the rare feeling of waking up naturally.

My phone was buzzing with missed calls and WhatsApp pings—even a missed video call from a client. My heart skipped a beat.

Still groggy, I dialed back.

My voice was croaky. I cleared my throat, trying to sound professional.

"Hello, I saw your missed call. May I know what it’s about?"

The other end crackled, office noise in the background.

"Hello, I’m from the procurement department at Malhotra Group. I’d like to know more about your company’s products."

Instantly, I sat up, sleep forgotten. Malhotra Group—the name meant something in every Mumbai business circle. Even Amma knew them from TV ads.

A jolt of adrenaline shot through me. I almost dropped my phone, scrambling for my laptop.

Cracking Malhotra was my manager’s dream for years. I’d tried and failed so many times.

I never expected them to reach out first.

It was like being handed a winning lottery ticket at a bus stop. I did a quick mental namaste to Ganpati Bappa.

I jumped out of bed, shirt wrinkled, hair wild—not caring a bit.

"I’ll send you our product overview right away. If you need more details, let me know and I’ll follow up."

I could hear my own confidence growing, switching to my best 'presentation' voice. I fumbled for my laptop, shoving aside Amma’s tiffin box.

After confirmation, I rushed to freshen up, grabbed some bread, stuffed it in my mouth as I put on my shoes. Amma shouted, 'Don’t forget your umbrella!' but I was already out the door.

Just as I reached the office entrance, I bumped into Ankit, our department’s intern.

The lift doors opened with a groan, and there was Ankit, clutching a stack of files, face flushed. I nearly crashed into him.

"Hey, Ankit, what a coincidence!"

I gave him a friendly thump on the back. He almost dropped his files. I grinned, ready to rope him in for help.

I was about to ask him to help with the product materials.

I remembered how meticulous Ankit was with presentations—his PPTs had saved my skin more than once.

But Ankit looked at me strangely, as if he wanted to say something but held back.

He shifted his weight, eyes darting everywhere but at me. Something made me pause.

I put a hand on his shoulder, silently urging him to speak.

"Sir, you already know, right? Sigh."

His voice was quiet, almost a whisper.

I was confused. "Know what?"

My brows knit. I checked if my shirt was buttoned wrong.

Ankit sighed, "Anyway, I’ll always support you."

He gave a quick, apologetic smile and darted away, slippers slapping the floor. I blinked, puzzled.

He didn’t wait for a reply—just vanished into the cubicles. The lift dinged, someone’s laughter drifted from the pantry.

No time to dwell, I walked in, mind replaying Ankit’s words. The usual office sounds felt far away.

But as soon as I entered, almost every colleague was staring at me.

They pretended to type, flip through files, sip tea—but their eyes followed me, some with pity, others with poorly-hidden amusement. A few avoided my gaze.

Their expressions matched Ankit’s.

I felt suddenly exposed, as if I was standing in my underwear in Dadar market.

What on earth had happened?

A chill crept up my spine, colder than the office AC. Something was terribly wrong, and I was the only one not in on the joke.