Chapter 3: The Humiliation Game

Someone once asked me, “How’s Amit Singh’s technical ability?”

It was over chai in the pantry—a harmless question. But in Indian offices, even small talk can be risky.

I replied, “Average. He’s better at buttering up the bosses.”

My friend laughed, but word spreads faster than monsoon floods—especially about the boss.

Word got back to Amit.

And in true desi style, no one knows how. Maybe the cleaning lady, maybe the IT guy—gossip is our national sport.

I meant nothing by it, but he took it to heart.

A bruised ego is dangerous in India, especially when it belongs to your boss.

Amit presented himself as the ‘chief engineer’ at every launch event—he couldn’t stand anyone exposing his background.

His LinkedIn headline changed every week, as if trying to rewrite history. My own profile just gathered dust.

When the economy soured, tech companies everywhere felt the pinch.

The news was full of layoffs—every day, a new story. My father called twice a week: ‘Sab theek toh hai na?’

Raahi’s stock price dropped. Layoff rumours swirled.

WhatsApp groups buzzed at midnight. ‘Did you hear who got the axe? Which department is next?’

I never imagined I’d be the first to go.

I thought the invisible ones survived longer. This time, I was wrong.

I returned to my desk to pack up, feeling completely lost.

I stared at the family photo taped to my monitor—the one Maa sent with her blessings. ‘It’ll all be fine, beta,’ I heard her voice in my head. I wished I believed it.

I heard, “Good morning, Mr. Amit,” at the door. Looking up, I saw Amit Singh, now with a paunch, striding in.

He looked like he’d spent more time at buffet tables than boardrooms. His kurta strained at the buttons, and the old gym selfies on Instagram felt like a joke.

He greeted everyone with a booming, “Morning, everyone! Good morning!”

His voice echoed, forcing everyone to reply. Even the office boy muttered, “Good morning, sir.”

He waddled to me, feigning surprise: “Oh, Engineer Kabir, why are you packing up?”

His tone was syrupy, but his eyes gleamed with satisfaction. The smirk was unmistakable.

A few people glanced my way.

Most pretended not to see. Some sent quick WhatsApps: ‘Yaar, drama ho raha hai, come fast.’

Amit suddenly ‘remembered’ something and said loudly, “Wait, is Engineer Kabir being laid off?”

He looked around like a stage actor. My cheeks burned.

His outburst froze the office—everyone stared.

You could hear the ceiling fan whirring, the tension thick in the air.

I replied, “Yes. I need to finish packing, so if you’ll excuse me.”

I kept my voice calm, picking up my tea mug, acting unfazed. Maa always said, ‘Dignity, beta. Never lose it, no matter what.’

But Amit was performing for the room.

He circled me, voice full of mock regret:

“What a shame. Engineer Kabir is one of our old hands.”

He clasped his hands behind his back, shaking his head like a daily soap hero.

“The company’s making adjustments, and they actually let Engineer Kabir go. I just don’t get it—so many tech staff, why you?”

He sounded like my saviour, but everyone saw through it.

“Did they review everyone’s KPIs?”

The word ‘KPI’ fell like a dead weight. My colleagues exchanged glances—everyone knew those metrics were pointless.

I always kept my reports short, focusing on real work.

My last quarterly report was two slides; Amit’s was twenty. I always believed, ‘kaam bolta hai’, not presentations.

KPIs were just another formality, but in corporate India, formalities trip you up.

“I’ve worked with Engineer Kabir, and I’m truly saddened.”

His voice trembled like a politician’s. I nearly rolled my eyes.

“But the company doesn’t keep nikamme log.”

That word stung—nikamma. I’d spent my youth on this project.

“If Engineer Kabir leaves and everything runs smoothly, you’ll all see who was just collecting a salary.”

He stared straight at me, lips curled in a smirk. The office tittered. People whispered, eyes darting.

The more he talked, the louder he got, shooting me a look full of schadenfreude.

The walls closed in, shame crawling up my neck. But I stood tall, jaw clenched, eyes lowered, fingers fidgeting with my shirt cuff. In India, humiliation is swallowed, not shouted. Log kya kahenge doesn’t matter when you have nothing left to lose.