Chapter 6: Chai and Closure

“What?”

Her voice echoed down the corridor. Heads turned.

Aunty Radha shot up, bangles jangling. “You’re joking, na beta?”

“What happened? Why so suddenly?”

I saw the worry in her eyes. We’d shared so many lunches—she always forced me to try her theplas.

“Aunty, my mind’s a mess. I’ll explain later.”

She looked ready to argue, but just nodded, lips tight. I promised to call soon.

That night, I put my phone on silent and slept deeply for the first time in ages.

No pings, no reminders. Just me, my old ceiling fan, and the rare peace of silence.

Next morning, my WhatsApp and phone were exploding.

Missed calls, unread messages—a battlefield. For once, I ignored them and made myself adrak chai before checking.

Rajeev Malhotra: “Using resignation as a threat is the lowest trick. Don’t forget, your achievements are because you’re at Prism. Don’t mistake the platform’s height for your own. You’ve played yourself; resignation approved. Don’t come tomorrow.”

Classic boss message—passive-aggressive, full of taunts. Probably copied from LinkedIn.

Great, at least it’s closure. No HR drama, no notice period. Bas, ho gaya.

Sneha Joshi: “You ‘worked’ five days this month, but during your employment you damaged a chair, two keyboards, and three money plants died at your workstation. After deducting five days’ pay, you still owe the company 8.72 rupees. Here’s the settlement, signed by boss.”

I snorted into my chai. Money plant deaths? Next they’ll blame me for the AC failing.

Unbelievable.

Even Kafka would have shaken his head.

Normal wear and tear charged to employees!

Even the panipuriwala gives a free sukha puri. Here, they count dead plants against me.

Couldn’t be bothered to argue, so I sent a ten-rupee PayTM transfer.

The payment went instantly. Sab kuch digital, except respect.

Note: ‘Keep the change.’

I added the sunglasses emoji. Dena hai toh le lo, boss.

Neha Sharma: “Mentor, you’ll always be my mentor. Can I still ask you to revise copy for me in the future? (starry eyes)”

I laughed so hard, tea nearly spilled. Some people have no shame.

Dream on.

I almost replied with a GIF, but why waste data?

Just then, Aunty Radha called.

Her number flashed, familiar ringtone. Her voice was soft, full of concern—like the evenings she’d pack an extra paratha for me.

“I had a good sleep and feel recharged.”

I tried to sound cheerful. “Aunty, pura recharge ho gaya.”

I haven’t slept so soundly in years.

My body finally relaxed—no alarms, no deadlines. I felt young again, at least for a morning.

Since joining Prism, even weekends and festivals were busy.

No Sundays, no Holi. Even Holi was spent editing videos of others playing. Irony, haan?

Every day, I went to bed later than a street dog and got up earlier than the milkman.

Sometimes I’d see the milkman at 5:30, both of us too tired to speak.

Not even thirty, but my body feels like sixty.

Back pain, neck pain, eye strain—the holy trinity.

“The boss called a meeting today, making all kinds of sarcastic remarks. ‘Don’t think seniority means you can challenge the company, and don’t think past achievements mean you can do what you want.’”

That’s his style—never names, only hints. Everyone must have looked around, wondering who’s next.

“Amit beta, why did you leave so suddenly?”

Her question was simple, the answer wasn’t.