Chapter 2: Reality Bites

Even though HR withdrew the message within seconds, I’d already seen it.

It’s like trying to unsee your neighbour fighting at midnight—impossible. The notification flashed, and before Sneha Joshi could recall it, my eyes had caught everything.

Neha Sharma, last month’s actual pay: 18,116 rupees.

I stared at the number, my hand frozen on the mouse, heartbeat pounding in my ears. Even the ceiling fan seemed to pause, as if stunned on my behalf.

My mind blanked out.

I couldn’t process anything—just that stupid number floating before my eyes. Did I read it wrong? I rubbed my eyes and checked again.

As the company’s most senior employee, my monthly take-home, even with full attendance bonus, is just above eight thousand.

Mummy keeps saying, “Beta, kuch toh bacha kar rakho.” How do I explain it’s barely enough for rent, groceries, and one dinner outside?

But a newcomer, who’s only been here three months and still needs my guidance, gets ten thousand more than me.

It felt like running endless laps at Shivaji Park, only to see someone join the race late and already stand on the podium. Hila diya, yaar.

A full ten thousand.

Yeh koi choti baat nahi hai. Ten thousand, bhai! It’s more than my whole loan EMI.

Is there any justice left?

Justice, my foot. Here, it’s all jugaad, sifarish, and kismat. Or maybe just a cruel joke.

Six years ago, when I joined Prism Media, we were just a handful.

Those days, we were a small cricket team—fielding, batting, bowling—sab kuch. No fancy designations; just work.

The office was in a rundown Kaveripur colony house.

Peeling paint, monsoon leaks, but a certain warmth. The smell of Shabbir’s biryani, the neighbour’s pressure cooker whistling.

I did everything: copy, shoots, editing—sometimes even starred in the ads myself.

One day, scripting for a beauty brand; the next, holding reflectors for Jignesh bhai’s samosa reel. Once, I even played the ‘young techie’ in an ad. Friends still tease me about that YouTube video.

Endless nights spent writing scripts, chasing footage all over town, then seven or eight hours editing on poha and chai.

I remember that wobbly chair, my aching back, itchy eyes, still searching for the perfect background track. Poha from the tapri, chai in a cracked cup, and the screen’s glow—my nightlife.

Hard work pays off. That’s what they say. At least back then, it felt like we were building something.

A few viral videos later, Prism soared in the short video world.

First script to hit a million views—samosas and Thums Up all around. Even my relatives started asking what I did.

Now, we have ten million followers on Insta Reels.

The group buzzed—congrats, cake in the pantry, and the founders posting gym selfies.

The company kept growing.

And with it came HR, glass doors, swipe cards, motivational quotes on the noticeboard.

Now we’re in a posh glass building in Mumbai.

No more leaky roofs. AC on full, shiny tiles, chai from a machine that tastes like detergent. Still, rickshaw horns blare below and sometimes vada pav smell wafts in from the canteen.

The old team slowly left—bigger companies, new startups, some just vanished. WhatsApp group is dead—only wedding invites remain.

Only I stayed.

Mummy calls it loyalty. Papa shakes his head, “Beta, don’t let them take you for granted.” Sometimes I wonder—hope or habit?

I thought my place was solid. Not irreplaceable, but at least a pillar.

Somewhere, I felt: If I leave, who will remember the stories behind our first viral videos? Who’ll hold the place together?

But today, reality gave me a tight slap.

Not the filmi kind, the stinging kind. As if all those years meant nothing.

With mixed feelings, I glanced at Neha Sharma across the desk.

AirPods in, latest phone buzzing with messages. She typed fast, nails clicking, the smell of her cold coffee lingering.

Sipping cold coffee, tapping at her keyboard, giggling at her phone. She kept adjusting her hair, checking her reflection in the laptop camera.

Clearly, she was slacking—WhatsApp screen blinking with green ticks. Sneaking glances whenever she thought no one saw.

Meanwhile, I set aside my own work to fix her messy copy.

My scripts, half-written, sat ignored. Her file was open, red lines everywhere, grammar in shambles. Still, I sat and fixed every comma and full stop—‘mentor duty’, apparently.

The more I thought about it, the angrier I got.

Inside, my blood boiled. Fists tight, but on the outside, I just kept correcting. Jaw clenched till it hurt.

The more I thought, the more wronged I felt.

Like the world’s biggest idiot. Six years, and this is what it comes down to? Not izzat, not respect, just babysitting someone with a fancier payslip.

Suddenly, I stood up, swallowed my anger, and walked straight to the boss’s cabin.

The chair scraped loudly—heads turned. I barely noticed. I only saw the boss’s door, the faint FM radio sound inside.

“Boss, why is Neha Sharma, a newcomer, getting paid more than double my salary as a supervisor?”

My voice trembled, but I made it firm. I could see the boss’s face shift, his pen pausing mid-signature.

Boss Rajeev Malhotra was stunned at first, then frowned.

His thick brows knitted, he looked over his glasses. For a second, he seemed genuinely surprised—like someone caught with their hand in the mithai box.

“Amit, company ki policy hai—salary confidential. How can you just ask about someone else’s pay?”

He leaned back, tapping his pen. His tone switched to classic ‘boss mode’: dodge, dodge, dodge.