Chapter 2: Rohan’s Rule and the Price of Honesty

I’d barely settled into Admin, arranging my family photo and Ganesh idol on the new desk, when the Product Manager, Meera, came to complain.

“Rohan changed all the vendors for our main product’s BOM materials.”

Actually, I already knew. These things fly faster than the Mumbai monsoon wind. A few days before, vendors had called me. Rohan demanded they drop prices by 20% and give him a 10% cut, or he wouldn’t place orders.

The vendors were nearly in tears. These are old relationships—sometimes, during festivals, they’d even send me dry fruits or a box of mithai, but never crossed the line. Now, they were desperate.

“Manager Amit, you know our costs. We export to Europe—the quality standards are sky-high. Our profit margin is maybe 10%. We can’t do it.”

I couldn’t help them; all I could do was watch Rohan cancel their orders. It was like seeing someone bulldoze your old neighbourhood.

Then he went to Rajpur and found some small workshops. The kind you find in cramped lanes behind the mandi, where workers sit cross-legged on the floor.

Sure, prices were lower. The invoices looked great on paper, and maybe the boss was thrilled, but anyone with sense knew the risk.

I told Meera, “Costs are down, our products will be more competitive. That’s a good thing, right?” I tried to sound positive, but we both knew the truth.

“But the quality’s unreliable! I went to the boss, and he just said as long as it works, it’s fine—saving 10% is what matters.”

Meera tried to smile, but her eyes darted to the boss’s cabin—like a student waiting for exam results. She tugged at her dupatta, lost in thought, the weight of her job pulling her shoulders down.

Watching her, I felt secretly relieved that Rohan’s mess hadn’t affected me. I even felt a little smug, to be honest.

But before I could enjoy that thought, Sneha at the reception popped in, peeking through the glass partition. She leaned in, lowering her voice, “Sir, yeh toh kuch bhi nahi hai. You should hear what they’re saying in the canteen!”

“Manager Amit, someone from Purchasing says Manager Rohan wants to switch the property management company back to the old one.”

I was so angry I almost spat out my chai. I had to put down my cup before it fell.

At first, Rohan had fought to take over property management selection himself. He found some strange company, and within half a year, there were incidents—security guards shoving visitors, cleaners stealing company laptops.

The boss was furious and gave property management back to Purchasing. I picked an industry leader—a reputed name, the kind that manages big commercial buildings in Pune and Bangalore.

But here’s the catch: Purchasing chooses the property company, but Admin manages it. Now that Rohan is bringing back that bizarre company, there’s no way we can manage it well. It’s like being told to supervise a circus with your hands tied.

I stood up, ready to confront Rohan, but Meera’s bitter smile flashed in my mind. In the end, what’s the use of fighting?

So I told Sneha, “Let’s do a thorough evaluation. Keep an eye on things and report anything odd to me.” I gave her a reassuring nod, though inside, my stomach churned.

It wasn’t just me. A while later, Uncle Li from Logistics quietly told me the freight forwarder had been changed, too. He whispered as if we were exchanging secret notes in school.

Ritika from HR said our headhunter and labour supply companies had also been swapped out. She rolled her eyes, “Only the office tea supplier is the same. For now.”

I had to hand it to Rohan—he’d managed to change nearly everything that could be changed in just a few weeks. He worked faster than the municipal corporation during elections.

Next up, maybe he’d swap out the boss. If only it were that easy!

At the monthly management meeting, Rohan was the star of the show. The whole room was full of forced smiles, the kind you see during family photo sessions.

The boss praised him and told everyone,

“We should all learn from Rohan. In just over a month in Purchasing, he’s re-screened all vendors. This year, we expect to save about fifty lakh.”

Everyone applauded. The sound was hollow, but the claps were real. Some people even looked at me sideways, as if I was suddenly the villain of the story.

Rohan gave a self-important speech. The gist: Many managers are lazy, only care about their own interests, and sacrifice the company’s. He even quoted some management jargon he must have picked up from a WhatsApp forward. He threw a pointed glance my way. My ears burned, and I stared at the stains on the tablecloth, wishing I could disappear.

I overheard Ritika and Uncle Li whispering:

“Fifty lakh a year—Amit must have pocketed a lot over the years.”

Uncle Li motioned for quiet, since I was right there. But the damage was done. In Indian offices, nothing spreads faster than gossip, not even viral fevers.

I pretended not to hear. I knew even if I explained, it would do no good. Once the seed of suspicion is planted, it grows into a banyan tree overnight.

Now Rohan was the boss’s favourite. When it came to vendor changes, he had the final say; the Product Manager and other department heads didn’t get a word in. The rest of us were just background dancers.

Back when I was in Purchasing, I always discussed BOM needs with Product and Tech, mostly going with their recommendations. I knew those vendors gave them plenty of perks, but at least the sources they chose were reliable.

Now, Rohan treated them like air. It was as if only his opinion mattered.

That night, the boss was in a great mood and took us all out for dinner at a fancy restaurant in Mumbai. It was one of those places where you park your own car, but the valet still gives you a ticket.

Of course, Rohan was the centre of attention. He laughed the loudest, even ordered for everyone.

Once everyone was tipsy, the boss leaned over to me.

“Amit, you’ve done well these past years.”

I knew what he meant and felt a bit sick. I replied,

“Boss, if you’ve got something to say, just say it. No need to beat around the bush.” My patience had finally snapped; maybe it was the whisky, maybe the accumulated insult.

“Come on, it’s been seven years. I never gave you a raise and you never left. Clearly, salary means nothing to you, right?”

That really set me off. I clenched my fist under the table.

“Arey boss, I’ve worked my heart out for this company, not for under-the-table paisa.”

“You expect me to believe that? Rohan’s only been here a month and already saved the company fifty lakh this year. Where did that fifty lakh go last year?”

He patted my shoulder, gave a sly grin, and walked away. The rest of the table pretended not to listen, but I could feel every pair of eyes on me.

My ears burned, and I stared at the stains on the tablecloth, wishing I could disappear. I wanted to fire back, but what’s the point? No matter what I say, it’ll just sound like I’m making excuses for taking bribes. This is India, yaar—once your name is linked to money, nobody believes your innocence.

The boss only sees this year’s fifty lakh savings. Anything else I say just looks like I’m trying to cover my tracks. I felt like screaming, but just swallowed it like a bitter pill.

So, I left before the party ended and went home alone. The streets were still busy, but I felt strangely alone—like a ghost in my own life.

That way, after I left, they could swap stories about the legend of “Amit Half-a-Crore” all they wanted.

Oh, by the way, that nickname—“Amit Half-a-Crore”—was coined by Rohan, who told everyone I took five or six lakh in kickbacks a year, so over time I’d pocketed half a crore from the company.

Since the Admin Department is the company’s “intelligence centre,” by that afternoon, Sneha at the reception had already told me about it. She even winked and said, “Sir, now you’re famous!”

I took a deep breath, the weight of the office gossip and Rohan’s smirk pressing down on me. Whatever was coming, I knew it wouldn’t be good.