Chapter 4: Final Humiliation

I left the boss’s cabin fuming. I had no choice but to try to get ₹5,000 reimbursed first. I still had to pay off my credit card and eat. My entire salary had gone to travel expenses—I was flat broke.

On the way back to my cubicle, I passed the HR desk. They were discussing the upcoming Holi office party—packets of bright gulal sat on the desk, the smell of synthetic colour mixing with the tang of instant coffee. I could only think of how many packets of Maggi I could buy with ₹5,000.

Finally, on my fourth attempt, the accounts department accepted my claim. Accountant Priya, still expressionless, said, “Manager Ishaan, this reimbursement form is finally correct. Lagta hai ab financial rules samajh aa gaye?”

Her words stung, but I forced a smile. "Yes, Priya ji, learning from the best," I replied, but only in my head.

If I hadn’t been desperate, I might have lost my cool. I gripped the edge of her table, forcing my voice to stay even, even as my insides screamed.

“Thank you, Accountant Priya. When will the reimbursement be paid?”

I added a little extra sweetness to my tone, the way my mother always did when asking the neighbour for extra milk.

“If things move quickly, it’ll be paid with next month’s salary.”

Priya’s voice was flat, as if she was talking about the weather. I could hear a sudden hiss from the pressure cooker in the pantry, as if mocking me.

But it was already the end of the month. Next month’s salary wouldn’t be paid until mid-month, so I’d have to wait nearly two months to get my money. I was stunned. I was counting on this reimbursement just to eat. Last month’s salary had gone straight to paying off my credit card—I was really penniless.

I did a quick calculation in my head. Rent, groceries, loan EMI. My chest tightened. At this rate, I’d have to ask my mother to send money from her pension.

“Accountant Priya, is there any way to get it sooner? I really have no money left.”

My voice was almost a whisper. I looked at her, pleading, hoping she’d see the human side.

“Manager Ishaan, that’s the reimbursement process. We have to verify the bills and do the accounting. It can’t be done any faster.”

She spoke as if reading from a government notice. In her eyes, rules came before hunger.

Process, process, process. What’s the point of all these steps—just to make life hard for people like us?

A fly buzzed around the office. The clock ticked. Outside, the city roared on, but inside, time had stopped.

I tried to compromise. “Accountant Priya, can I get an advance on this month’s salary? I honestly don’t have money for food.”

As expected, the same answer: “As long as the boss signs, I can do it.”

She might as well have been a talking photocopy machine. I wondered if she’d notice if I vanished for good.

“Accountant Priya, can’t you see things from my side? I’ve been paying out of pocket for work for over half a year. My salary and savings are all gone to travel expenses.”

My voice cracked. I couldn’t help it. There was a silence, heavy as Mumbai humidity in June.

She kept her poker face, repeating, “If you have the boss’s signature, I can advance it immediately.” This time, she smirked, maybe out of habit, maybe out of pity.

I started to wonder if Accountant Priya was a robot. Every time, it was the same: as long as the boss signs, I’ll do it.

I looked at her, half-expecting her to blink and say, "Processing request." But nothing. Just silence.

With no choice, I went to the boss again.

I dragged my feet, the form clutched like a lifeline. My throat felt dry. Even the peon at the water cooler looked at me with pity.

This time, he didn’t refuse. “Ishaan, you should understand that advancing salary has a financial cost. If I left the money in the bank, it would earn interest. Since you’re broke and need an advance just to eat, I can’t stand by and watch you starve. But even among family, accounts must be clear. You’ll have to cover the interest loss. I’ll approve ₹5,000 for you, at 5% interest. So you’ll actually get ₹4,750—the ₹250 is the interest.”

He spoke with the wisdom of an uncle explaining FD returns at a wedding. For a moment, I wondered if he’d charge GST as well. My head spun with the absurdity of it all.

So this guy knows all about capital costs, but never thought about paying me extra for holding my reimbursement for so long?

I bit my tongue. No point arguing. In India, you learn to swallow small insults with your chai.

Today, I’ve really seen it all. From start to finish, I’ve been played like a fool. I’m literally paying to work. Thinking about how I was about to run out of money for food, I had to swallow my pride and say, “Thank you, boss.”

My words stuck in my throat, tasting bitter.

“No need to thank me. Work hard and repay the company with your actions.”

He smiled, as if he’d done me the world’s biggest favour. The office wall clock ticked on, uncaring.

Repay? Just wait. I’ll pay you back double, you can count on it.

As I walked out, the city’s evening horns drifted in through the window, mixing with the distant chant of an aarti from the roadside temple. I promised myself: someday, I’ll get out. Until then, I’ll keep my head down—and my bills stapled tight.

At the door, I tightened the straps of my battered backpack—the weight of my bills and my resolve pressing down. My mother’s old saying echoed in my mind: “Adjust kar lo, beta. Isi mein jeena hai.” It’s become my survival mantra now.