Chapter 1: The Bubble Tea Debacle

The new intern, Sneha, waltzed into our office with the confidence of someone who thought she’d single-handedly fix every problem with her Gen Z magic. She cornered me, her face a mask of pure sincerity, and confessed her feelings right there in the hallway. I tried to let her down gently, but before I could breathe, she whipped out her phone—recording, of course—and announced, “Now that I’ve confessed to the boss, will he, like you all said, feel too awkward to give me work tomorrow?”

I stood there, totally speechless. The next morning, I gave her the same workload as everyone else. She exploded in front of the whole office, shouting accusations that I not only made her work during the day but also forced her to work at night—"in bed, no less!"—all for a single salary. To her, I was the modern-day Kanjoos Seth, a stingy, exploitative boss straight out of a soap serial.

She uploaded the video online and, like fire in a Diwali cracker shop, it went viral. The uproar was unreal. My wife, after seeing the video forwarded on every family WhatsApp group, clutched her mangalsutra with trembling hands and went into premature labour, bleeding heavily. Our company’s share price hit lower circuit—by lunchtime, the news ticker on Aaj Tak was flashing my name, and even the chaiwala downstairs asked, “Boss, kya ho gaya?” I was cyberbullied into oblivion.

And then—suddenly—I woke up. I was back on the very first day Sneha joined the company.

The hum of people giving their work reports buzzed around me, leaving me dazed. Voices mixed with the ceiling fan’s whirr, and outside, the familiar Mumbai traffic honked its usual chorus. Someone’s phone played an old Shah Rukh Khan ringtone, filling the office with a whiff of nostalgia. My head felt heavy, as if I’d spent hours in the mid-May sun, and I wondered, for a moment, if this was all a dream.

Hadn’t I already drowned myself in the sea?

A cold shiver ran down my spine as memories of the crashing waves and salty spray flashed in my mind—a mess of regret and despair.

“Sir, that’s our report.”

“Sir?”

The assistant’s voice yanked me out of my suffocating thoughts. I glanced around and my eyes landed on the cutting chai on the table: hot, milky, sweating in its glass, steam curling into the thick air. The aroma mixed with the faint tang of printer ink and the promise of samosas from the canteen. Suddenly, I realized—I was back on the day Sneha first joined.

I remembered how, as the secretary in the director’s office, she’d replaced our usual chai with a giant flask of bubble tea. Everyone kept rushing to the bathroom, and the meeting ended in a hurry. Some of the older staff muttered, holding their stomachs as they dashed out. Sharma-ji grumbled, “Arrey, what is this ghochu drink?” before making a dash for the loo. Mrs. Pillai from HR looked at the cup as if it contained poison. The meeting ended quicker than a monsoon burst.

Sneha was blamed, and she came to me, eyes shining with tears: “Sir, this is the most popular influencer tea right now. I just wanted the company to keep up with the times, and thought everyone would be happier at work. I’m sorry, I won’t do it again.”

Her voice was barely a whisper, eyes glistening, fingers twisting her dupatta nervously. She sniffled, dabbing at her face with a tissue, as if the world’s weight depended on my reaction.

She was the quiet, easily overlooked type—timid, always keeping her gaze low, her pen scratching quietly during meetings. She never argued or interrupted, almost invisible—until her attempt to modernize us backfired. For a moment, I almost pitied her.

Who knew letting her off once would make her so bold?

The very next day, she confessed to me—which scared the life out of me. I hurriedly rejected her. The memory was still raw—her voice trembling, the awkward silence hanging heavy. I fiddled with my shirt collar and glanced at the CCTV camera, suddenly self-conscious in the typical Indian office way. Was this some new TikTok dare? Was I being pranked?

I hadn’t gone far before I heard her whip out her phone and complain: “I’ve already confessed to the boss. Will he, like you all said, feel too awkward to assign me work tomorrow? So overall, this job is still pretty good.”

Once again, I was dumbfounded. I leaned back, staring at the ceiling fan’s wobbly blades. Arrey yaar, what do these young people think? Drama like this would’ve gotten us a danda from our fathers back in the day.

The next day, I gave her a normal workload, but who would’ve guessed that half a month later, Sneha would have a public meltdown, accusing me of an improper relationship with her? My pen nearly snapped in my hand as her voice rang through the office, high and theatrical—the kind of drama you only see in afternoon serials. Even the peon paused, pretending to dust, eyes wide.

“I’ve done enough already—at night, in bed, on the table, even in the office you wouldn’t let me go, and during the day you still make me work. I’ve had enough!”

She kept spouting nonsense and couldn’t be stopped. Her words echoed off the walls, drawing everyone out of their cubicles. Some exchanged scandalized looks, others started recording on their phones. The whole office felt like a powder keg, ready to explode.

The butterfly effect began: my wife found out through a WhatsApp forward, scrolled through the video with shaking hands, clutching her mangalsutra. She went into premature labour—both mother and child gone. The company’s share price tanked, my reputation was shredded. The news spread faster than a firecracker in a godown. My mother called, sobbing, asking what sin I’d committed. My in-laws threatened to settle scores. The newspapers ran my story, every colony WhatsApp group buzzed with my name.

Netizens mocked me: memes of me as ‘Kanjoos Seth’ and Bollywood villains circulated everywhere, with captions about ‘office romance gone wrong’. Neighbours avoided me. Even the security guard watched me with suspicion. Meanwhile, Sneha kept up her innocent act.