Chapter 5: The Last Straw

It felt like a bolt from the blue.

I dropped into her chair, elbows on the desk, head spinning. For a second, I just stared at the blinking cursor, wishing I could disappear under the table. All this time, I thought I was helping her—guiding her like a younger sibling.

A flashback: When Neha first joined, she’d asked, “Bhaiya, how do you manage Mumbai rent? What about home loan, PF?” I thought she genuinely needed advice—maybe her parents were thinking of her future.

I felt protective, even proud. Wah, today’s kids are so sorted, I thought.

Turns out, she was prying for info—using PF to guess my salary.

My stomach churned. She was never really my own, just playing me.

And I treated her like family.

I gave her shortcut keys, secret folders, the best contacts. She called me ‘mentor’ and I believed it.

All this while, I’ve been guiding her wholeheartedly, but behind my back, she mocked me.

Her friends must be laughing—‘Old Amit, what a bakra!’ I bet that’s my name in their group.

I was so angry, I felt nothing. My anger was a wave, then emptiness.

I opened Neha’s copy and undid a revision.

I left a glaring mistake in the headline. She wanted to learn? Let her learn the hard way.

When she returned, I sent her the document.

She plopped down, flashing her fakest smile. I kept my face unreadable and forwarded the file.

“Neha, I’ve helped you revise. Take another look yourself. Trending topic is good—submit it fast, it’ll go viral.”

My words were syrupy, the kind that makes you feel special. I wanted her to rush, to show the world her ‘talent’.

She beamed. “Really? Mentor, thank you so much!”

Her voice was sugary, eyes shining. She nearly did a dance in her chair. “You’re the best!”

Neha’s been here three months—no real results. Not one video to her name, just excuses. ‘Still learning, bhaiya! Next week, pakka viral hoga.’

She’s desperate to be like me and create a hit.

I could see the hunger in her eyes. Fame, fast. But hard work? Naah.

I smiled and said nothing.

Let her enjoy her moment. I was done teaching for free.

Then I wrote my resignation and sent it to Rajeev and Sneha.

No drama, no explanations. Just two lines: ‘I resign with immediate effect.’ CC’d both, just in case.

Next, I deleted my nearly finished proposal: “A New Strategy for Differentiating Short Video Content.”

My magnum opus—months of work. Poof, gone.

Family complained I’d stopped coming for Sunday lunch. Friends joked I’d become a ghost. All for this.

Originally, I wanted to help the company fix its creative rut.

Like a fool, I thought my work mattered. Reality? I was just another name on the attendance sheet.

Now, I was letting go. Let them figure it out.

Didn’t Rajeev say newcomers are smart?

Let’s see them handle the fire without the old watchman.

Let the fresh blood save the business. Ab maza aayega.

When I finished, I checked the time: 5:47.

I packed my bag, closed all tabs. For once, no guilt about leaving early.

Even the peon looked surprised to see me at the door, bag on my shoulder.

First time in six years I left on time.

Usually, the nightwatchman would see me out, muttering, “Amit bhai, aaj phir late?” Not today.

Aunty Radha from business, always like a second mother, was surprised. “Amit beta, sab theek? Leaving so early?”

She was stirring tea, glasses perched on her nose. Her concern was genuine, like a mother hen.

I replied softly, “Aunty Radha, I’ve resigned. I won’t be coming tomorrow.”

Her cup clattered. She looked at me like I’d announced my wedding.