Chapter 1: The Salary Slip Shock

For a moment, my breath caught in my throat. In this office, salary slips are more secret than a politician’s Swiss bank account—something you don’t even discuss in the lift. But there it was, sitting shamelessly in my inbox, that accidental WhatsApp forward from HR. Typical, na?

Every month, she takes home eighteen thousand rupees—exactly ten thousand more than me, the so-called senior who’s been slogging for six years.

It felt like a slap out of nowhere. Six years of late-night chai, of fixing lights and scripts and eating cold poha, and still—this? My throat went dry thinking of the scooter repairs I’d been putting off again.

And she’s only been here three months.

Fresh out of college, straight into the AC comfort of Prism Media’s new office. Three months! Sometimes I wondered if she even knew how to print on both sides of an A4 sheet.

She can’t do anything, can’t learn anything, and for every little thing, she depends on me, her so-called mentor.

Accha, toh yeh hai system? Every typo, every silly question, she runs to me, the old-timer. Sometimes she’d shout across the cubicles, “Bhaiya, one minute, please!” as if my time was free ka maal.

Fine, fine, fine.

What can I say? Bas, ho gaya. Kya hi bolun. This world isn’t made for those who believe in honest mehnat.

Salary inversion: old employees aren’t even worth as much as street dogs.

Itna toh gali ka kutta bhi kama lega—at least someone feeds him a samosa sometimes. We, on the other hand, just get extra work and empty promises.