Chapter 6: Code, Karma, and New Beginnings

I was boiling with frustration and nowhere to vent.

As I walked back to my cubicle, the familiar hum of the office felt suddenly hostile. The distant laughter, the smell of stale samosas, the flicker of the tube light—it all seemed to mock me.

Back at my desk, my close colleagues looked at me with sympathy.

Rohit, my oldest friend in the company, caught my eye. He mouthed, “Kya hua, yaar?” Everyone else looked away, pretending to be busy, but I could see the worry in their eyes.

Rohit saw me packing up and rushed over. “Arjun, are you really taking the transfer?”

His voice was loud, the kind that drew attention. A few heads popped up from behind monitors.

I forced a smile. “It’s not a transfer, it’s resignation. I’m out today.”

My hands shook as I stuffed files into my old laptop bag. The act of packing up felt surreal, like watching someone else’s life.

Damn it.

Under my breath, I muttered, “Yeh log kabhi nahi sudhrenge, yaar.” I was full of ambition, ready to shine in the new business.

But because of my ‘lowly background,’ I got kicked out of the team.

My degree, once a source of pride, was now my undoing. The injustice of it all made me want to scream.

Who am I supposed to complain to?

In our country, there’s never anyone to listen when the system turns against you. Amma would just say, “Sab theek ho jayega, beta.” But what if it didn’t?

Rohit slapped the table. “Arjun is the only one who really understands the redundancy system architecture! What is this guy thinking?”

He muttered under his breath, “Yeh log kabhi nahi sudhrenge, yaar.” Another colleague slid a Parle-G biscuit packet towards me, a silent show of support. Someone else handed over a cup of strong chai. Small gestures, but they meant everything.

Colleagues chimed in: “At such a critical moment, losing Arjun will definitely affect the project.”

Another piped up, “Who’s going to fix the simulation bug now?” The undercurrent of panic was palpable.

“The schedule was already tight. Is this leader brain-dead?”

A nervous laugh followed, quickly stifled. Even in protest, you had to be careful—spies were everywhere.

“Keep your voices down, don’t let anyone hear.”

The warning came from the corner. In Indian offices, you never know who’s listening. One wrong word, and you’re next on the chopping block.

I sighed.

My shoulders sagged. I wanted to hug Rohit, to thank him for standing by me, but all I could do was nod.

After thinking it over, I submitted the debugged code version.

Despite everything, my sense of duty won out. I uploaded the code, double-checked my comments, and hoped that, at least, this small thing would make a difference.

Even if I’m leaving, I want to do my part to the end.

It was the way I was raised—never leave your work unfinished, even if the world turns against you.

But the moment I hit submit—

My heart skipped a beat as the screen flashed red. “Access denied.” The humiliation was complete. I stared at the screen, then at my chipped steel tumbler, wishing it was full of something stronger than chai.

A pop-up appeared: User permissions invalid.

For a second, even the chaiwala outside seemed to stop shouting. The whole world paused, waiting for my next move.

Just then, Kunal Mehra strode over.

His shoes clicked loudly on the tile, a parade of power. The whole office watched, breath held.

“Arjun, what are you doing?”

His voice was cold, sharp enough to cut.

I was stunned.

I couldn’t speak. My fingers froze above the keyboard. My throat went dry, and my hands automatically reached for the locket Amma had given me on my first day at work. I felt like a criminal, judged before the facts were known.

Before I could respond, he barked, “Company policy states that departing employees cannot modify or copy any files or code.”

His accusation echoed across the room. In India, a public accusation is as good as a conviction. My ears burned.

In an instant, every head in the office turned my way.

Even the peon paused, dustcloth in hand. I could hear the faint hum of the AC, suddenly unbearably loud.

My face burned. It felt like a slap.

I could almost hear the whispers already forming—“Arjun ko to code churate pakad liya.”

Kunal Mehra actually suspected me of trying to steal code?

I stared at him, disbelief and anger fighting for space in my chest. After ten years, this is what I got?

I was furious. “I just wanted to submit a bug fix. Not modifying, let alone copying.”

I wanted to shout, to throw my ID card at his feet. But I kept my voice even, for my own dignity.

Kunal Mehra sneered. “Yeh non-IIT logon pe bharosa karna hi bekaar hai. For the safety of company data and code, you’re not allowed to access anything on this computer. Pack up and leave.”

He didn’t just question my honesty—he questioned my very character, in front of everyone. The shame was total.