Chapter 4: Humiliation and Defiance

This director’s mind is narrower than a needle’s eye.

If stubbornness was an Olympic sport, this man would bring home gold for India. It was obvious: in his world, you agree or you’re the enemy.

Just because I raised a question in the meeting, that’s enough to get me kicked out?

Same old story—don’t ask questions, just nod along. But I couldn’t keep quiet. My father always said, “Agar zameer saaf hai, kabhi sir mat jhukana.”

I said sincerely, “Director Kunal, I’m not trying to go against you. I just think six months is way too tight.”

My voice shook, but I met his gaze. No malice, just honesty.

Kunal Mehra curled his lip.

The sneer made my blood boil. I wished for words to cut him down to size.

“I looked at your resume. Turns out you’re from a second-tier university. For someone with your background, saying something so unprofessional isn’t surprising.”

He spat out the words, as if my degree was a stain he couldn’t scrub away. Old poison—elitism dressed up as meritocracy.

My mouth twitched.

I wanted to laugh. This obsession with degrees—everywhere. In rishta meetings, family WhatsApp groups, even at the tea stall. But skills? Who cares?

What’s wrong with second-tier universities? Did a grad from there steal your lunch or what?

In my mind, I listed all the things I’d built, all the sleepless nights, all the cold cups of chai. But none of it mattered to him.

All these years, my contributions to the company are no less than anyone from IIT or BITS.

I remembered nights troubleshooting code, weekends sacrificed, festivals spent in the office. My worth, I knew, was more than a piece of paper.

I’ve worked on autonomous driving for a decade, hoping to see my research become reality.

That dream, of seeing an Indian company compete with the world, kept me going. Now, it slipped further away with each word he spoke.

Now, just as the opportunity arrives, I’m tossed aside.

Like a used-up battery, thrown away when no longer needed. The bitterness was hard to swallow.

How am I supposed to accept that?

Even the ceiling fan seemed to slow, as if time itself paused for my humiliation.

I tried to fight for it one last time.

I took a deep breath and spoke, voice soft but firm. “Director Kunal, I’ve been with the company for ten years. Even if I haven’t achieved much, I’ve worked hard. If you suddenly remove me from the team, others will definitely start to wonder.”

He clicked his tongue. “Didn’t I promote you? Otherwise, would someone like you even still be at Suryatech?”

The way he said ‘someone like you’ made my skin crawl. My place here was always conditional—at the mercy of people like him.

My anger flared.

I clenched my fists so hard my nails dug into my palms. In my head, I was already packing my things, planning my exit.

What do you mean, ‘someone like me’? Did I kill someone or burn your house down?

I wanted to shout, but bit my tongue. Sometimes, silence is all the dignity you have.

I forced myself to stay calm. “Anyway, I don’t accept this job transfer.”

My voice was steady, but my heart raced. I refused to let him see my fear.

Kunal Mehra ignored me and picked up the phone.

He dialed with the air of a man swatting a fly. I stood my ground, refusing to be shamed.

“Priya, come to my cabin. Now.”

His tone was clipped, impatient—loud enough for the whole floor to hear.

Five minutes later, HR showed up with a document.

Priya entered, adjusting her bindi nervously, eyes darting to the CCTV camera in the corner. She gave me a sympathetic glance before placing the papers on the table. The smell of fresh printouts and the sound of rustling paper—it felt like a death sentence.

“Here’s your job transfer confirmation. Please sign it.”

Her voice was soft, but her eyes said sorry. In that moment, I realised even HR was powerless in front of people like Kunal.