Chapter 19 Raghav
Raghav
When I get to the office, it’s already busier than usual.
People have read the mail and they’re getting used to it.
From where I sit, I can see the coffee machine has a line.
People milling about, waiting for their turn.
So much for productivity. The seniors can’t digest that work can be done in a torn Under Armour T-shirt, boxers, with laptops balanced on bellies.
Or maybe people like coming to office. Not everyone’s house is a shrine.
I open my laptop and the project file. A familiar thought creeps up.
What’s the point of what I’m doing? How the fuck am I contributing to the world?
Is anyone contributing to the world? But what’s the point of thinking in terms of contributions?
Then only farmers and doctors and scientists will have value in the world.
Maybe that’s how it should be. But what will I do if not this?
We can’t sit around doing nothing. We need purpose in our lives.
We need to invent it. That’s why I envy Aditi.
Her grief was purely paralysing. Yeah, true, she did help everyone with the paperwork that came after the crash, but even that was grief manifesting itself.
With every person who died, she could relive Aman’s death again.
She’s the perfect widow. Sad, paralysed, eating around bread infested with fungus, wearing T-shirts with gaping holes in them, railing madly at her family. While I’m working on data sheets.
But is this my purpose?
I look at everyone and think of them as inferior beings. Do they know pain? No? Then, of course, they think an Excel sheet is the be-all and end-all of everything.
Richa from Product is saying, ‘We need to make it more snackable. Like five-minute knowledge shots.’
Vikas from Design says, ‘Maybe every lesson ends with a badge or sticker. Kids love that dopamine hit.’
They all say this like it hasn’t been said before.
I am quiet for a while. Then I say, without raising my voice, ‘Then, we’re not teaching. We’re tricking them into thinking they’re learning.’
Silence.
Of course, I’m not supposed to say this.
I’m the data guy. I’m supposed to give them insights.
They are the ones who have to decide what to do with them.
Someone coughs. Richa nods—too many times.
Vikas starts typing furiously. My manager, Rehaan, does what he always does, playing the peacemaker, ‘He’s just asking us to think deeper.
That’s good. We have to look at the value we are adding, right? ’
He moves on. Everyone moves on. I stay exactly where I am.
At 3.15, there’s a ping on Slack.
Karan (HR): Hey you around? can we chat for 10?
Karan is already waiting in one of the small meeting rooms with too much glass and not enough privacy. There’s too much glass in every office that you go to. All it would take is one deaf person who’s adept at lip reading and he could sell company secrets by the buckets.
Karan is in a navy-blue shirt and brown pants. His LinkedIn bio says: ‘People-first HR leader building culture at scale.’ But despite that, he’s a good guy.
‘Bro,’ he says the moment I sit down. He looks at me and knows there’s no reason for small talk. He continues, ‘You’ve been back for a while. Right?’
I nod.
‘And man . . . you’ve been professional. I mean that. But the vibe . . .’
I look at him and raise my eyebrow.
He continues, ‘It’s off.’
‘My vibe is off?’ I ask. ‘Are you sure that’s allowed in HR circles? Also, how old are you? Sixteen?’
He ignores it. ‘You’re still . . . carrying it. In meetings. At your desk. People feel it.’
‘People feel what?’
‘They feel . . .’
‘Sad? Irritated? Like I smell of death? What exactly did they say?’ I ask.
I don’t mean to make him feel uncomfortable, but he does. In all probability, they didn’t say anything of this sort. They would have wrapped it in corporate speak.
‘C’mon,’ he says. ‘Can you pretend better?’
I laugh.
‘Please do this for me?’ he says. ‘We all pretend. You just need to pretend a bit harder. I know it’s too much to ask for. But you will be coming to office every day, and I don’t want to do this. You’re a friend . . .’
‘Are you sure HR is allowed to say that?’
‘C’mon, Raghav.’
I say, ‘Anything else?’
He hesitates. Then, ‘Five days in office next week.’
Of course.
I nod. ‘There are only five days in a week.’
‘Seven,’ he corrects me.
‘Die.’
I trudge through the rest of the day. I don’t take the lift lest I make someone uncomfortable through the eighteen-floor elevator ride. I take the stairs. My knees hurt by the time I reach the ground floor.
On the way home, I drive absentmindedly and stop at the supermarket.
I don’t need anything urgently, not that I can remember.
Maybe Tide. Or a scrubber. I don’t even know why I walked in.
Of course, I know why I walked in. I just don’t want to accept it.
I enter through the vegetable section and walk slowly past watermelons and kiwis.
And that’s when I see them. Where I knew I would see them.
My parents. And Shilpi.
They’re doing what they—and once we—used to do.
Maa is reading the backs of two almost identical rice packs, lips moving as she reads the price labels.
Papa is standing near the cart, looking at the grocery accumulated, pissed off at how much stuff needs to be bought to stay alive.
And Shilpi . . . she’s standing next to the impulse-buy rack.
Quiet. Holding a phone cover. Blue and glittery.
She keeps it in her hand as they move from aisle to aisle.
Never puts it in the cart. Just holds it, turning it over in her palm, pressing it slightly.
They make their way to the checkout. Papa argues briefly about a coupon code not applying.
Maa says something about getting toothpaste next time.
Shilpi stays quiet. Right before the scanner, she walks up and quietly places the cover aside on the edge of the counter.
Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look at it again.
I watch all of it happen from behind a display of chips.
Just as it’s about to get scanned, Maa picks it up.
The conversation happens in a matter of looks.
Shilpi pleads. Maa says she bought one a couple of months ago.
More pleading. And then, Maa rejecting the pleas.
I watch on as she goes and puts it back on the rack.
I make a couple of purchases and leave. I look for their car.
The colour used to be easy to spot. A near green, fluorescent-tinted Honda City.
But today, I can’t see it anywhere. Did they come by taxi?
But Papa hates taking cabs. Did I miss it?
Did I forget what our car looks like? And then I spot it.
The parking sticker. ‘Block C – 118’ on the top-left corner of the windshield of a Hyundai Creta.
A new fucking car. It ticks me off. They went ahead and bought a car?
It looks not new. At least six months old.
So that’s what they have been doing! Just living their lives. Vulgar.
Shilpi in all her messages asking, ‘You okay?’ didn’t mention it too.
I turn back and stare at the sticker again. Block C. 118.
I crouch down next to it. Press the valve on the front left tyre. Watch the air hiss out slowly. Then do the same to the rear one. Then I place the phone cover I bought for her on the windshield, stride towards my car and leave for my apartment.