Chapter 5: The Bitter Cup

As soon as I reached the boss’s cabin, I saw he’d already brewed chai and was waiting for me.

The smell of strong Assam tea filled the air, mixing with the sweet scent of Marie biscuits. Mr. Patel sat in his oversized chair, reading glasses low on his nose, peering at me over the rim. I recognised the set-up: chai only meant a 'special' conversation.

He gestured to the chair across from him, a faint smile on his face, then slid the cup forward with practiced hospitality. My hand hovered above the cup, hesitating—torn between courtesy and the urge to refuse. Finally, I picked it up, my mind in turmoil.

"Rohan, I’ve heard about your situation. I admit the company was a bit hasty in this matter."

The admission was like balm on my wounded pride. For a fleeting second, I hoped he’d fix things.

"I’ve been with the company for years, my performance always top. This time, I worked day and night to land this big deal. Just because I took two days of approved leave, I’m replaced by an intern? Isn’t that unfair?"

My voice trembled, pleading and angry. I thought of every late night, every missed family event, every sacrifice.

The boss’s smile froze for a moment, then he said slowly:

"Dekho Rohan, overtime ka paisa mila na? Aur kya chahiye? Sabko adjust karna padta hai. You got several thousand rupees for those two months. Not only are you ungrateful, but you want to use your achievements to demand more? That really disappoints me."

The words stung. The extra thousands barely covered cabs and medical bills. I stared at my chai, suddenly nauseous.

I couldn’t believe it. Fifty, sixty days of sleepless overtime for just a few thousand, and the boss thought he was being generous?

I thought of my friend who’d moved to Dubai—he’d laugh at these numbers. Maybe I should have left years ago.

Maybe my face showed too much. The boss tried to sound gentle, like an elder scolding a stubborn nephew.

"Of course, your years of dedication haven’t gone unnoticed, but the company’s situation isn’t good. Everyone is working overtime, and you went on vacation, which set a bad example. If I don’t deal with you, how can I explain to the others?"

He made it sound like the whole company’s morale rested on my head. What was the point of arguing?

A bitter laugh escaped me. Even the boss seemed surprised.

"So, Sir, you mean this personnel change is reasonable? The employee with the best performance is punished for two days of approved leave?"

I met his eyes, daring him to deny it. For a second, I almost pitied him—trapped by his own self-interest.

"Rohan, don’t get upset. You’ve been here so long—we have a bond."

He leaned forward, gold ring glinting. I remembered his hand on my back after my first deal, years ago.

The boss sipped his chai, closed his eyes to savour it, and continued, as if granting a boon.

"But you made a mistake. If I don’t deal with it, it’s hard to convince the others. And frequent changes unsettle people. So, if you can sign three—no, five—deals as big as your last one, I’ll let you be supervisor again. Theek hai?"

The challenge hung in the air. Was this a sales target or a punishment?

Seeing I didn’t speak, he smiled and gestured again, pushing the cup closer. "Chalo, have some chai. Don’t take tension. Assam ki chai hai—special. Only for you."

He always used tea as a peace offering, as if a few sips could erase years of neglect. The cup was warm in my hand, but the gesture felt hollow.

I remembered buying sweets for the team after my last big deal—how proud I’d felt, everyone crowding my desk, laughter in the air. That memory stung now, in the face of this humiliation.

The boss was good at these tricks, but I wasn’t buying it anymore. I’d heard these lines for years: 'Only for you,' 'Let’s have a heart-to-heart,' 'After so many years, you’re like a brother.' All just ways to win loyalty, to keep me slogging for someone else’s dream.

But today, I saw his true colours—no different from the most heartless corporates.

What relationship, what brotherhood? All lies.

Seeing my silence, the boss raised his eyebrows, impatience seeping in.

"How about this: I’ll pay five hundred rupees out of my own pocket to make up for it. Let’s let this go, and work hard in the future. The company won’t treat you badly."

He pulled out his wallet, counted out five crisp bills, and set them on the desk. The gesture was so absurd I almost laughed—five hundred rupees, for months of my life?

I stared at the notes, the fan stirring the air above. My hands curled into fists again, the taste of Assam chai suddenly bitter in my mouth.

For the first time in years, I wondered if I’d ever belonged here at all—or if I’d just been a name on someone else’s payroll.