17 Kicking the Corporate Ladder
Kicking the Corporate Ladder
M onday came and went , but I stayed in my bed.
The idea of stepping into the shower, getting dressed for work and hitching a forty-minute ride with my dad to the office seemed like too much effort if all I had to look forward to was hiding behind my desk all day.
I couldn’t even get myself to switch my phone on.
It’s not that I was scared of what might be waiting for me when I did – angry messages from Vrinda, some fuck-yous from Madhav, maybe another insincere apology from Aadar.
No, I was petrified of finding an empty inbox.
‘I told you not to exert so much.’ Her reproach was familiar and comforting, the way only a mother’s could ever be.
I grumbled and turned on my side, pulling the covers over my head.
‘You just rest, Anu,’ she said and squeezed my shoulder, promising to bring me a hot cup of tea in a bit.
I spent the entire day dozing in and out of sleep, trying hard to induce an illness out of the blue. In my worst moments, I found myself fantasising about conversations with my family physician.
‘I’m afraid I’ve got bad news for you, Ananya,’ he would say, his moustache dancing on his top lip.
‘What is it?’ my mother would ask, clutching my hand.
‘She’s got a rare type of cancer.’
I know, I know. It’s a terrible thing to fantasise about.
And yet, I couldn’t help but wonder how so many of my problems would immediately be resolved if I were to magically develop a deadly disease.
The people who hated me would have no choice but to give me the benefit of the doubt, those who were mad at me would have to forgive me and the ones who had wronged me would be overcome with guilt.
Morning turned into night and I stayed confined to my bed, only stepping out to pee every few hours.
At some point on Tuesday morning, I briefly thought about writing an email to my boss to inform her I was sick.
But I’d chucked my phone under the bed last night, and I didn’t want to get up to retrieve my laptop from the study table.
So I put on my sleeping mask and began counting to one hundred.
Wednesday morning arrived and my mom rushed into my room, holding the landline in her hand.
‘It’s your boss,’ she said, holding out the phone for me. ‘You didn’t tell her you were ill?’
I blinked, making an effort to swallow the sour taste in my mouth. ‘I can’t.’
My mother had had enough of me. She tilted her head to one side and pointed to the phone in her hand with her eyes.
I sighed and took it from her. ‘Hello?’
My voice was groggy and ailing, and I hoped it sounded pitiable enough for Pooja to not want to scream at me.
‘Get your ass to the office. NOW.’ It clearly hadn’t worked.
‘But I’m sick—’
‘I don’t care if you’re in the ICU. Be here in an hour or say goodbye to your promotion,’ she barked and hung up.
Quite honestly, I didn’t care about the promotion anymore.
Right now, it was hard to care about anything at all.
But ignoring Pooja’s call would’ve meant dismissing my own hard work of three years, and I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to live with that a week from now.
So I summoned all the energy I didn’t possess and dragged myself all the way to my office building.
The receptionist didn’t let me punch in. ‘Pooja ma’am is expecting you in her office,’ she simply said.
The door to her glass cabin was open, and she motioned for me to shut it behind me.
She was wearing a nude jumpsuit with a belt to cinch her waist. The front of her open-toed suede sandals was tapping against her desk, in perfect synchronisation with her fingertips on the tabletop. She’d been waiting for me.
‘Care to explain where you’ve been?’ She crossed her legs and leaned back in her chair.
She was studying my appearance. In my black Beatles hoodie and loose jeans, I looked every bit the part I was trying to play.
‘I’ve not been keeping well.’ I felt light-headed even as I stood there, and I was reminded of the lack of food in my system.
‘You couldn’t have dropped me a text or an email?’ She crossed her arms to mimic her legs.
‘Wasn’t well enough to do either,’ I said, placing my hand on her wooden desk for support.
‘Sit down,’ she said, the coldness in her voice subsiding as she decided I wasn’t telling complete lies. ‘You need to see something.’
As I took my place across from her, she turned her laptop to face me.
‘While you’ve been conveniently AWOL the last few days, a very pressing email has been waiting for you in your inbox,’ she said, pointing to the screen.
My heart skipped a beat as I read the sender’s name. Michael Evans, the global editorial director of TMJ.
Pooja’s expression hardened again. ‘He had invited you to a virtual meeting. To discuss the future of Best Man – and I’m assuming yours too. The meeting was yesterday, Ananya. You missed it. And you didn’t even bother to respond.’
I swallowed hard, realising the gravity of my actions. ‘I … I didn’t see this,’ I stammered.
‘Do you know how many people have access to him? Hell, even I’ve never spoken to him directly,’ she said, shaking her head.
I looked down at my hands, feeling the weight of my irresponsibility crashing down on me.
‘Am I … getting fired?’
‘Fired?’ Pooja creased her forehead and said, ‘Of course not. We owe you a promotion.’
‘Um … I don’t …’ I said, squinting my eyes in confusion.
‘No one expects you to be perfect, Ananya,’ she said, tracing her finger along the mouth of her coffee mug. ‘But you can’t just disappear into thin air without a warning.’
I mumbled an apology, unable to meet her eye. She exhaled loudly.
‘It’s going to be fine. I’ve already done some damage control. Now all we need to do is get you on a call with Michael, and then we can finalise your promotion.’
‘So …’ I was still trying to connect the dots as I asked, ‘I’m getting a promotion?’
She let out a short laugh. ‘Yes, genius. After you fix this, though,’ she said.
The air conditioner was blowing directly over my head, and I had to pull at the sleeves of my hoodie to cover as much of my hands as possible.
‘It’s not a regular promotion,’ she said when I didn’t ask her further questions. ‘If you’d come in to work after the wedding, you would’ve known how big a success Best Man has been.’
‘That’s great,’ I said, forcing some pride into my voice.
‘International has decided to convert the event into an editorial property,’ she said. ‘And they want you to head it.’
Her voice was loud and clear, but I was having difficulty registering what she was saying, or rather, what it meant for me.
‘Your own team … six to seven weddings every year … sponsors and clientele … collaboration with celebrities …’
‘W-w-wait. Hold on,’ I stammered. ‘You want me to do this full time?’
She looked a little bit surprised by my lack of enthusiasm.
‘Yes! You’re absolutely brilliant at it.’ She was smiling at me.
‘Pooja …’ I closed my eyes for a second, trying to steady myself by holding on to the armrest. ‘I hated working on this project.’
She was taken aback by my reaction. ‘But … it was your idea in the first place!’
‘I know,’ I said, breathing loudly. ‘I was trying to give you something you’d like. Something that would get me this promotion.’
‘And it worked …’ She was now looking at me with concern, as if she was scared I had a screw loose somewhere.
I thought about what she was saying for a tiny minute.
If Best Man became an editorial property, I’d be organising sponsored weddings all year round.
That would mean months of planning, finding sponsors, catering to their wishes, getting influencers on board, accommodating their demands and so on.
I wouldn’t have any time for myself, ever.
And all of this for what? So I could give undeserving couples a ton of content for their soon-to-fail marriages?
‘Pooja, I know I should’ve said something sooner, but I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I can’t accept this offer.’
There was silence.
‘Why?’
‘Because I woke up one day and realised I don’t like my job.’ I couldn’t deny it any longer. ‘This isn’t the right place for me anymore.’
‘You need to think about what you’re saying,’ she said, her voice stern. ‘Decisions like these are not taken on an impulse.’
I stood up from my seat and offered her a heartfelt smile. ‘I hope you’re wrong,’ I said, ‘because I quit.’
I got stuck in traffic on my way back home.
Hundreds of cars were lined up behind each other as a result of an accident on the Sarai Kale Khan flyover.
As I sat in the backseat of my cab, unmoving and silent, the ball of anxiety in my stomach began to get bigger and louder.
I fiddled with my phone, trying to tell myself it was in my best interest to keep it switched off.
I didn’t want to lose hope of the possibility that people were trying to get in touch with me.
I didn’t want to find out that nobody cared about me at all.
The unending honking from the car on my left attracted my attention.
I immediately recognised the person behind the wheel – it was Saurav.
My first instinct was to duck, assuming that Vrinda was in the car with him.
But on second glance, I noticed that the woman in the passenger seat was not my friend.
She had a light fringe that covered her forehead and a square, unsmiling jaw.
She spotted me looking at her and said something to Saurav, pointing in my direction.
He turned to look at me and nodded briefly in recognition.
I was rolling down my window to talk to him when the car in front of him moved, and he sped up without a goodbye.
I could still see his black Jeep Compass, but it was too far away for me to observe or make any attempts at conversation.
Dissatisfied with the interaction, I slid to the other side of the seat and looked out of the window. I was hoping this chance encounter with V’s boyfriend would give me some insight into how she was doing … and if she wanted to talk to me. But the Universe, as always, was not on my side.
If we don’t move an inch for the next thirty seconds, I’ll switch my phone on, I struck a deal with myself.
I proceeded to maintain a mental count as my driver honked loudly to verbalise my impatience.
Finally, after waiting longer than I’d planned, I held down the power button.
The screen lit up as a series of animations danced in front of my eyes.
The wallpaper, a selfie of V and I sticking our tongues out at the camera, seemed to mock me.
I waited for the notifications to hit me.
Nothing.
Apart from a few messages from Pooja, Ryan and a school WhatsApp group I never participated in, there was no word from anyone. A sinking feeling gripped me and I had to hug my chest tightly to keep myself from falling apart.
I’d quit my job on a whim. My best friend wanted nothing to do with me.
I’d lost a bet I’d gambled my friendship, love life and even my career on, and I couldn’t get the guy I’d lost to out of my head.
Every time I let my guard down, I found myself getting transported to that night in the parking lot.
If being with him had been such a terrible, stinking mistake, why couldn’t I get myself to regret it?
The peculiar ache I felt in my gut was not an entirely new feeling. I knew I’d felt it before. I opened Instagram and began typing out my ex’s name.
And there he was. He smiled back at me, flashing his flawless teeth. He had his arm around a girl – @juliette298. This was what I’d been shielding myself from ever since I’d had my heart broken in Bangalore, when I’d discovered that the man in the photo had been cheating on me.
I stared at the photo, waiting for the familiar pain I felt every time I thought about him and what could’ve been.
A few moments passed, and nothing shifted.
I pinched the screen to zoom into his face.
Still nothing – no stinging sensation, no nausea, absolutely nothing.
It was almost like I was staring at a stranger’s face.
I looked up from the screen, bewildered.
He was the only man I’d ever loved. Even though I was over him, he had always held a part of my heart captive.
It didn’t matter if I no longer envisioned a life with him.
I had long accepted that seeing him with someone else would forever be a painful sight.
So then why was my brain so indifferent and my heart so unbothered?
A giggle bubbled out of me, followed by a whimper. The cab driver glanced at me curiously from the rear-view mirror.
The realisation hit me like a ton of bricks.
I was in love with someone else. And he was getting married. To someone else.