Chapter 1: The Accounts Office Gauntlet

When I went to claim my travel reimbursements, the accounts department didn’t even bother to look up before tossing my bills right back at me. A wall clock ticked above Priya’s head, each second louder than the last as she stamped away at paperwork.

Their faces were set, as if dealing with just another nuisance in the day. From the corner, someone was noisily slurping chai. The air was thick with the musty scent of old files, sweat, and the spicy tang of someone’s masala tiffin. I felt more like a bhikhari than an employee.

“New company policy: In metro cities, stay is capped at ₹1,200 per day, meals at ₹200. You’ve crossed the limit.”

Priya, the accountant, didn’t bother to lower her voice or look up, her fingers moving restlessly over a stack of papers. She sounded almost bored, like I was disturbing her daily dose of Saas-Bahu drama.

“Nahi hoga, Ishaan bhai. Boss ka rule hai. Mere haath bandhe hue hain.”

“Didi, I went to Mumbai! Even a budget place like OYO costs at least ₹3,000 a night. With ₹1,200, do you expect me to sleep at CST station?”

I tried to keep my tone light, but my voice cracked at the end. The peon, wiping his hands on a faded gamcha, let out a snort. “CST station main toh kutte bhi chain se nahi so paate, Ishaan bhai.”

Priya’s nails tapped out a rhythm on the desk, unmoved. “That’s not my headache. Boss ka rule hai.”

In India, everyone loves to pass the blame upwards. I could see her mind wandering—maybe thinking about her daughter’s tuition or the samosas she’d hide for chai time. For her, I was just another form to stamp.

I stared at the pile of bills in my hand—nearly ₹50,000, half a year’s salary advanced from my own pocket. I’d only managed to survive by maxing out my credit card. If I couldn’t get reimbursed, I wouldn’t even have money left for a vada pav.

A hot flush ran up my neck. I remembered my mother’s hopeful eyes every time she asked if things were better, the landlord’s WhatsApp reminders for rent, and how my friends had stopped inviting me for chai—maybe because I always ‘forgot’ my wallet. Mumbai had chewed me up and spat me out, and this office was finishing the job.

Thinking of all I’d done for the company, I went to the boss, still clutching a sliver of hope. My fingers fidgeted with my ID card lanyard—a nervous tic I’d picked up, like every office worker in India. But he shut me down immediately:

“I’ve already said, it’s the rule. There’s no point coming to me.”

He didn’t even look up from his phone, probably scrolling through cricket scores or WhatsApp forwards. The indifference stung more than if he’d yelled.

As I left the accounts office, the city’s evening aarti echoed in my ears—a reminder that even gods must wait their turn.