Chapter 3: Exit Interview and WhatsApp Condolences

Rajiv Sharma told me, "Sort out whatever you need to hand over, just give it to me before you leave today."

He didn’t even look me in the eye, just tapped his phone and strolled into his glass cabin as if he was Amitabh Bachchan.

Then he disappeared into his cabin.

The door clicked shut with a finality that made me want to throw my ID card at it.

My work logs, development notes, and deployment docs were all submitted ages ago, and I hadn’t started any new tasks. There really wasn’t anything to hand over.

It was almost funny—usually, people are chased for handover. Here, I was so proactive, I’d left them with nothing to complain about.

That’s probably why the company felt safe firing me out of the blue.

They must’ve thought, “Arrey, sab file toh drive par hai, what can go wrong?”

A few teammates sent me WhatsApp messages—just the usual condolences.

All the usual: "Sorry, bro," "Didn’t see this coming," "Keep in touch, yaar." I replied to each one with a smiling emoji, even though my throat felt tight.

Outside, a scooter horn blared, and somewhere, a street vendor was shouting about fresh pav.

Sneha, our tester, was born after 2000 and was the one I got along with best.

She always called me "bhaiya" and brought me home-made theplas when she visited from Surat. With her, I could complain without filter.

She was especially pissed.

I could picture her, hair tied up in a messy bun, glaring at her phone and muttering curses under her breath.

"I saw Old Rajiv whispering with HR a couple days ago, but I didn’t know what it was about—turns out it was you! You did the most for the project. How can the company do this? Are they mad or what?"

Her outrage made me smile. In every office, there’s always one who says what everyone else is thinking.

I replied, "Yeah, they’re mad for sure."

Added a rolling-eyes emoji for effect. Honestly, it felt good to have someone on my side.

They just figured, with the project done, there was no need to keep me. Worst case, they’d hire someone cheaper to maintain it.

Like replacing a chef with someone who only knows how to make Maggi. Typical penny-pinching logic.

I wrote a summary doc and sent it to Rajiv Sharma.

The doc was so thorough that even a monkey could have followed it—if anyone bothered to read it.

"Manager Sharma, anything else you need?"

I tried to keep my tone polite, though my jaw was clenched so hard it ached.

Rajiv replied instantly: "No, that’s fine."

I could imagine him grinning, already planning how he’d take the credit for my work in the next meeting.

The old man didn’t even look at it.

He probably forwarded it straight to the new recruit, no questions asked.

When I went to get his signature, he acted all sentimental about losing a comrade-in-arms, but he was grinning like he’d just won a bumper lottery.

He held out a faded Mango Bite, the kind everyone avoids till the jar’s almost empty.

"Rohan, let me give you some advice before you go: don’t think you’re hot stuff just because you’re good at tech. For a company, people who can work are a dime a dozen. If you don’t change that attitude, you won’t last anywhere."

He wagged his finger at me, looking so self-important, I wanted to laugh. All I could think was: "Bas karo, uncle."

I shot back, "You’re right, I’m definitely not the company’s backbone—at best, I’m a sphincter. Speaking of sphincters, maybe do some yoga, or you might spring a leak one day."

It slipped out before I could stop myself. Sometimes, the tongue is quicker than the mind.

Rajiv thought I was just venting and sneered, putting on that patronising look adults give when kids act up.

He shook his head, muttering, "Youngsters these days," as if I’d just scribbled on his precious car with chalk.

I didn’t bother saying more and left.

I picked up my bag, gave one last look at my desk—half-empty bottle of Bisleri, sticker-covered laptop—and walked out. Not a single backward glance.