Chapter 3: The Policy Maze

I went back to my desk, revised the reimbursement amount, and brought the form to accounts again.

My fingers trembled as I wrote out the new claim. Each number felt like a small defeat. The ceiling fan’s hum was the only thing that made the place feel alive.

“Accountant Priya, how about this—just reimburse me according to ₹1,200 a night for accommodation and ₹200 a day for meals.”

I tried to sound extra polite, almost apologetic. The chai-wala outside peeped in, waiting for the next episode of this office drama.

Priya glanced at my form, then tossed it back without blinking.

She didn’t even flinch—like a cricket umpire who’s seen too many LBWs. “Nahi hoga, Ishaan bhai. Bill aur claim amount match nahi kar rahe.”

Her voice had the finality of an SBI loan rejection.

“I’m already agreeing to the company’s rules. Why not?”

I was careful to keep my tone even—one wrong word and she’d delay it for weeks.

“The bill amount doesn’t match the reimbursement amount.”

Again, the same line. As if I was asking her to commit a crime.

“It’s fine. The bills are higher than the reimbursement. Just process it according to company policy. Income Tax rules allow it.”

I tried to sound like one of those CA cousins with a rulebook always in hand.

“The government may allow it, but the boss doesn’t. He wants the amounts to match exactly.”

My patience was snapping. My hand clenched the desk’s edge.

I lost my temper.

“Priya ji, I haven’t been reimbursed in almost a year. I’ve advanced over ₹50,000 for the company, and now I’m only asking for ₹40,000, according to these absurd rules. Can’t you just process it?”

My voice rose. Someone in the next cubicle peeked over. I could feel the department’s eyes on me, waiting for the next twist.

“Manager Ishaan, boss ki requirement hai. Aap sign le aao, main turant process kar dungi.”

She said it with a tight smile, but I caught a flicker in her eyes—a quick glance at my tired face before she snapped back to official mode.

Seeing her stubborn face, I had no choice but to go back to the boss.

My shoes squeaked on the old tiles as I walked back, holding the form like a surrender letter.

“Boss, accounts says the bill amount is too high. They need your signature to process it.”

He saw the form was over ₹10,000 less than before and smiled. "Kat le gaya dus hazaar, boss ne. Jaise auto-wala meter badha deta hai bina bole."

He smiled like a landlord collecting rent after a big hike. I could see the calculation behind his eyes.

“Ishaan, you know, a big company can’t run on personal favours—it needs rules. Think of this as a lesson you’ve paid for. Normally, the company wouldn’t allow this, but I’ll make an exception for you, just this once.”

His tone was that of a benevolent uncle giving a five-rupee coin to a street kid. My fists curled in my pockets.

He signed the form, more than happy to take a chunk out of my claim.

I watched the ink dry, feeling a part of my dignity evaporate.

With his signature, I dashed back to accounts.

My feet barely touched the floor. Maybe this time I’d finally get a break.

The accountant tossed the form back again. The peon, wiping his hands on a faded gamcha, let out a snort.

“Can’t reimburse.”

She didn’t even blink. I wanted to bang my head on her desk.

I could feel my blood pressure rising. My ears burned, the world blurred at the edges. Somewhere in the corridor, someone’s phone started blaring a Govinda song. I wanted to scream.

“What’s the problem this time?”

I tried not to shout, but my voice shook.

“Boss ka rule: monthly reimbursement limit is ₹5,000. You’ll have to split this up over nine months. Go redo the forms.”

She said it with the patience of a doctor explaining medicine to a stubborn patient. I stared at her, mouth open.

I struggled to keep my cool, taking a deep breath. My heart pounded. I counted to ten, like my Dadi taught me as a kid.

“Priya ji, can’t you just tell me all the issues at once?”

She barely moved her lips. "Sab likha hai notice board pe."

She pointed to a yellowed notice, half-covered by a Ganpati sticker and a curling photo of last year’s Holi party. The print was tiny, sandwiched between a god’s sticker and last year’s Diwali greetings.

I looked up—sure enough, there was a notice. But who comes to the accounts office just to read the wall?

I squinted at the tiny print. In this office, every new rule was born from a badly-photocopied notice.

My hands shook. "Yaar, enough is enough," I thought, but I forced myself to breathe.

“This reimbursement is money I advanced for the company. It’s money the company owes me, not a bonus or salary. I spent nearly ₹50,000—why do I have to get it back over nine months? Are you going to pay me interest?”

My voice was desperate. The office suddenly felt too small, too hot, the fan above just pushing stale air.

She just repeated, “That’s the boss’s rule. As long as he signs, I’ll reimburse you anytime.” This time, she sighed, almost as if even she was tired of saying it.

Priya’s face was a mask. In another life, she would have made a perfect railway ticket checker—no emotion, only rules.

The boss again. Why does every small thing in this company run on his signature? What’s the point of a policy if everything is up to his mood?

I realised arguing was pointless, so I went to the boss once more.

At the water cooler, I paused. Splashing water on my face, I looked at my reflection in the steel tap—eyes red, hair stuck to my forehead. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for another round in this hostile office.

I shuffled out, defeated, the claim form getting thinner each time, my hope shrinking with it.

“Boss, accounts says there’s a new rule—reimbursements capped at ₹5,000 per month?”

I tried to keep my tone neutral, but my eyes must have looked wild.

“That’s right. That’s the rule.”

His words were as crisp as the shirt he wore, ironed so sharp you could cut your finger.

“I’m on business trips every month, no time to come back and claim. I’ve accumulated over half a year’s worth, even at company rates it’s over ₹40,000.”

My voice dropped to a whisper. I felt like a child caught stealing from the kitchen jar.

He didn’t even look up. “Then split it up and claim a bit each month.”

He barely moved his lips. I wondered if he was even listening or just playing ludo on his phone.

“But I’m on business trips every month, and each trip costs almost ₹5,000. According to company policy, I’ll never get back all ₹40,000! This is money I advanced for the company!”

I was pleading now. There was no pride left.

Finally, he looked up slowly. “Ishaan, no rules, no standards. A big company needs systems. If you didn’t claim on time, that’s on you. Besides, I already told you—I’ll make an exception this once. Why are you here again?”

He spoke as if I was asking for a kidney, not my own hard-earned money.

“Boss, every month I have to be at the client site for project meetings at the end of the month. I really can’t come back. How can I claim reimbursement?”

I felt my hands shaking. I tried not to sound desperate, but the words tumbled out.

“See, Ishaan, you’re always so absolute. Did you even try to find a way? If you haven’t tried, how do you know it’s impossible?”

Every Indian parent’s favourite line. I could almost hear my father say the same thing.

“The client requires me to be at the meeting. I really can’t come back.”

I thought of those client faces—stern, unsmiling, their voices echoing in huge conference rooms.

“You can fill out the forms and courier them.”

Courier! As if I had nothing better to do. Last time I couriered, the parcel got delayed, and Priya said it was my fault.

Seriously? How was I supposed to know the company would come up with so many ridiculous new rules?

I rubbed my forehead. My mother always said, “Beta, this is India. Rules change faster than the weather.”

And I had couriered them before, but the accountant said my bills weren’t stapled properly, so they just sat in the office for months. If I brought that up, he’d just say, “Why can’t you staple them properly?”

No matter what, there was always a reason, always an excuse. My stomach churned with frustration.

There’s always a reason.

I slumped back to my desk, the pile of bills heavier than ever, wondering what new hurdle would appear next.

As I left the boss’s cabin, the city’s evening aarti echoed faintly, a reminder that even gods must wait their turn.