Chapter 5: The Handover

Near the end of the day, HR’s email arrived—hand over all your work to Sneha from your department.

The tone was icy, like a school teacher handing out extra homework. Sneha, the new joinee, sat across from me, eyes wide, clearly uncomfortable.

I was fuming. I picked up the phone and called HR:

"Priya, what’s this? Isn’t this enough?"

I could hear her typing as she replied, probably not even giving me her full attention.

"Nothing special. The email is clear. You need to hand over your current work to Sneha."

Her voice was almost sweet. That made it worse.

"Then what am I supposed to do?"

"Wait for your supervisor to assign you something, or consult them yourself. Don’t ask me. But you can use this time to improve your work ability—and your attitude."

I squeezed my phone so hard I thought it might crack. Improve my attitude, she says, after all this!

"You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?"

"What do you mean, on purpose? Don’t you love quoting labour law? Check if your contract says you must obey company work arrangements."

She was enjoying this. I could picture her leaning back, satisfied.

"But your arrangements have to be reasonable."

"What’s reasonable? Don’t you love going to court? If you’re not convinced, go to court."

She hung up.

I stared at the phone, the dial tone echoing. The office lights flickered as the generator kicked in. Even the building seemed to share my frustration.

I thought it through. HR’s tricks are simple but deadly.

If they lay me off, by law I get N+1 compensation. My base salary is 30,000, but with commission I make over 2 lakh a month. With the year-end bonus, my average is over 3 lakh.

Eight years here. If laid off, I get nine months’ average—27 lakh. But if they drag it out, I’ll only get base salary, and even if N+1 is ten, that’s just 3 lakh. And for a year, I’ll get only 30,000 a month. I can’t live on that.

A vicious move.

Now they want me to hand over my work to cancel my commission.

I went to Kunal.

His chair squeaked as he leaned back. His look said, "Bhai, main majboor hoon."

"Kunal, what’s going on? Why is HR doing this?"

"I’ve fought for you, but there’s nothing I can do. HR promised the boss she’d make you leave, no matter what. Honestly, Arjun, you shouldn’t fight anymore. In the end, both sides lose. Instead of dragging it out, better to find a new job. With your skills, you’ll be valued anywhere."

The words stung. I could hear the resignation in his voice. Maybe he meant well, or maybe he just didn’t want trouble.

As expected, I was right. Kunal might say he fought for me, but he’s still on the company’s side.

No one can be relied on. Only myself.

"Remember to cooperate with the handover," he called as I walked out.

I thought it through. If I hand over my work, they have a reason to stop my commission. As long as I refuse, they have no grounds. If they do stop paying, I can go to court while still on payroll. Now things are out in the open, I don’t have much left to lose.

That afternoon, when Sneha came for the handover, I didn’t say a word.

She stood there, awkward, then left. I noticed the sadness in her eyes—a silent apology she couldn’t give. In Indian offices, juniors rarely question orders. I didn’t blame her.

Later, Kunal and Sneha came together.

"Arjun, what’s this?"

"Nothing. Don’t play dumb. If you’re not assigning me new work, why should I hand anything over? After the handover, will you keep paying my commission?"

Now I understood—Kunal and HR were in this together. Forcing me out was decided before they told the boss.

Kunal’s moustache twitched. He looked away, unable to meet my gaze.

"That’s enough. What’s the point of dragging this out? I’ve already emailed your clients. Sneha will handle everything now. You’re no longer involved."

Shameless. Over the years, I’ve drunk myself sick at client dinners, gone to shady bars in the night, wracked my brain for Diwali gifts, and slowly poached clients from rivals. Now that it’s all stable, they want to throw me away.

I remembered the taste of cheap whiskey at those late-night meetings, the awkward jokes, the weight of gift boxes on my scooter during festival season. All those sacrifices—now dismissed as if they meant nothing.

As soon as Kunal left, clients started calling to ask what happened. I explained briefly, and the client fell silent. After a moment, he said:

"Arjun bhaiya, your company’s internal affairs—I can’t get involved. If you need, I can help recommend you elsewhere."

His voice was kind, but distant. In business, relationships are always transactional.

I thanked him and hung up. For clients, as long as they get what they want, it doesn’t matter if it’s Arjun or Sneha.

That’s how the world works. Whether it’s hard work or drinking together, when interests are at stake, no one will fight for you.

Kunal won’t help, clients won’t either.

They only care if their own interests are threatened.

Now it’s done. Kunal has started the forced handover. Looks like I have no choice.

Am I really going to be kicked out so pathetically?

The business I built up with my own hands has been snatched away—what an irony.

I sat at my desk, staring at my battered tiffin box. The world outside buzzed—vendors shouting, autos honking, the faint aroma of frying pakoras wafting up from the street. Inside, everything I’d built was slipping away, and all that remained was the bitterness in my mouth. Today, even Amma’s aloo sabzi couldn’t cut through it.