Chapter 2: Cat and Mouse

I’d just settled at my desk when the dreaded HR email landed—a meeting invite, no subject, half an hour from now.

The aroma of filter coffee drifted by as my colleague poured herself a cup. I stared at my monitor. These HR summonses always arrived like a power cut—no warning, just sudden darkness and worry. My heart thudded like it used to before exam results.

No title, sudden timing, and from HR? My gut twisted. This never meant good news.

I clicked accept. When the time came, I walked to the meeting room, slippers making soft noises on the old linoleum.

HR was already waiting, arms folded, face set like a school principal about to scold a student. No pleasantries, no "Chai milega?" or "How are you?"—just straight to the point:

"Based on our recent performance assessment, as HR, I believe you’re not competent for your current job."

A weird relief flickered through me. I’d braced for a pink slip, but it was just another dig. Twisted comfort, but still.

Looks like I was overthinking. For a second, I’d thought I was getting laid off.

"Priya, my performance has always been the best in the department. Where exactly is this incompetence you’re talking about?"

I straightened my shirt collar, forcing calm. My mind raced through every number, every client, every night spent updating those damned Excel sheets.

"Does being number one prove you’re capable? Why are you erasing the team’s contributions? This just shows your lack of team spirit."

Classic. In Indian offices, standing out always earns you a guilt trip. I remembered school—if you topped, someone would say you didn’t share your notes enough.

"But the marketing support team is the same for everyone. My results being the best surely proves I’m more capable."

I tried to keep my voice even, but my ears burned. She kept twisting things—like arguing with an auntie about whose samosas were better at the colony function.

From her first sentence, I knew—she was here to nitpick. Maybe my real mistake was even showing up.

I was too optimistic. This kind of psychological warfare—if you want to fire me, just do it already.

The tube light flickered above. I wished for a power cut so we could end this drama.

"Good performance could be luck. If someone else took your clients, they’d bring in the same business."

"I’ve been number one for five months straight. Is that luck too?"

I gave her a half-hearted namaste, but she just raised her eyebrow, unimpressed. Typical.

"Five months at number one is nothing special. Your sales haven’t grown. You can’t live off past glory, right?"

I took a slow breath, watching a pigeon flutter on the window sill.

"It’s a down market. Maintaining these numbers is a daily battle. Most of our competitors have lost half their business."

My voice was tired but steady. Anyone in sales knows—even getting payments on time these days is a miracle.

"So you’re making excuses for not growing your sales?"

She clicked her pen, tap-tap-tap, like she was counting down until my patience snapped.

"Not excuses. I’m just pointing out that your doubts about my work ability are baseless."

My mouth was dry. I took a sip of water, hoping it would steady me.

Watching HR argue so unreasonably, my patience was hanging by a thread.

The AC whined in the background, barely cooling the stuffy room. I wondered if all HRs were trained to sound innocent and accusatory at the same time.

"Arjun, here’s your real problem. When your numbers are good, you say it’s your skill. When they’re not growing, you blame the market or company. Maybe, just maybe, the problem is with you. It can’t always be good results are your doing and bad ones are someone else’s fault, right?"

I gripped my chair, knuckles white. My father’s words echoed: never lose your temper at work. I counted to five, glancing at the flickering tube light.

"Priya, I request my manager be present for this discussion. I can’t clarify this to you alone."

I tried to keep it civil, but my voice was sharper than I wanted.

"What’s unclear? If something’s not done well, there can be many reasons. But you shouldn’t always blame the environment. Shouldn’t you reflect on yourself too?"

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and pressed my thumb and forefinger together as if doing pranayama, holding back a retort.

"Fine. I reserve my opinion on your evaluation. But if you think I’m not competent, is there any training or reassignment plan?"

I gave her my most polite smile. Indian offices love ‘upskilling’—let’s see how she spins this.

"The company doesn’t keep idle people. No resources for training. For reassignment, you’ll have to interview."

I almost laughed. The same company that can’t even manage a Diwali party budget is now talking about interviews.

"Bas, Priya. Seedha bolo na, kya chahiye?"

Someone in the corridor laughed, the sound slicing through the tension. I stared at my reflection in the glass door, wondering if tomorrow I’d still have a chair to sit on.