The next morning began like a bad punch-line.
At precisely 9:00 a.m., Bharat National Bank's internal network pushed a global memo to every employee inbox. The subject line sparkled in animated pink letters:
đ CONGRATULATIONS TO OUR NEW CROSS-DEPARTMENTAL PARTNERSHIP! đ
The body of the email contained a photo of two randomly generated stick figures shaking hands under a rainbow pie-chart. Beneath it, in bold serif font, the caption read:
"Celebrating the innovative collaboration of Mr Nacikate Rao (Compliance Alpha) and Mr Mehul Shah (Independent Beta Consultant). May their synergy strengthen our fiscal future!"
By 9:02, screenshots of the announcement had reached the marketing department WhatsApp group, three meme pages, and at least one disgruntled ex-employee's blog.
Nacikate arrived at the office wearing the expression of a man walking voluntarily into a hurricane. His tie was knotted perfectly, but his patience was unraveling at the speed of light. The receptionist greeted him with an enthusiastic, "Congratulations, sir!" before he could even swipe his ID card.
He paused mid-step. "On what."
"Your⌠um⌠partnership?" she said, her voice climbing half an octave. "HR sent cupcakes."
He closed his eyes for two seconds of silent suffering. "Of course they did."
The elevator doors opened to reveal a small table laden with pastel-colored cupcakes, each topped with edible gold dust and a tag that read #SynergyGoals. Several employees were taking selfies beside it. Someone had drawn little hearts around the printed memo taped to the wall.
When he entered the compliance floor, applause broke out.
Across the room, Mehul was already there. He was perched on the corner of a desk, sipping coffee from a mug that said World's Best Beta, grinning like a cat that had single-handedly invented chaos.
"Morning, partner!" he called, waving a cupcake. "You got vanilla or red velvet?"
Nacikate set his briefcase down with a thud. "I got a migraine."
"Same flavor as vanilla," Mehul said cheerfully. "Want to trade?"
The HR managerâa woman with too much optimism and a clipboardâswooped in before Nacikate could answer. "Mr Rao! Mr Shah! Congratulations on your formal collaboration. The executive team is thrilled. I just need you both to sign the acknowledgment of joint benefits."
"Joint what?" Nacikate asked warily.
She handed over two forms decorated with confetti borders. "Medical coverage, work-from-home coordination, shared annual-leave pool. Oh, and you'll be attending the Synergy Summit next week in Lonavala. Coupleâuhâteam tickets are already booked."
Mehul beamed. "I love mountains."
"I," Nacikate said through clenched teeth, "love peace and order, both of which appear extinct."
Every few minutes another notification appeared on their screens: invitations to joint meetings, survey links about "Partnership Satisfaction," and one cheerful message from the government GST portal titled
"Thank you for filing loveâoops, we mean form 27B."
The system was clearly sentient and possessed a terrible sense of humor.
By lunchtime, Mehul had spun an entire fan-theory for the interns. "See, he's an alpha banker, I'm a beta hackerâit's like a tax-based yin-yang. Bureaucratic destiny."
One intern whispered, "Sir, is this⌠romantic?"Mehul grinned. "Only if you find spreadsheets sexy."Nacikate, walking past, muttered, "Nobody does."
At 3 p.m., the head of HR called them into a meeting that looked more like an intervention. The conference room smelled faintly of sanitizer and corporate dread. A projection screen displayed a slide titled "Conflict Resolution in Collaborative Bonds."
The facilitator, a man in a pastel shirt who radiated PowerPoint energy, smiled too widely. "Gentlemen, congratulations on your unexpected but exciting partnership. Studies show that cross-disciplinary pairs achieve thirty-two percent higher productivity!"
Mehul leaned back, arms behind his head. "We're already hitting a hundred percent chaos."
Nacikate pinched the bridge of his nose. "Can we focus on un-registering this accident?"
"Ah," said the facilitator, flipping to another slide, "that would require filing a Mutual Dissolution Requestâform O-47âbut the portal is down during the current GST cycle."
"Of course it is," Nacikate murmured. "Why wouldn't it be."
Mehul whispered loudly, "See? Even the government ships us."
Nacikate's glare could have frozen molten lava. The facilitator, oblivious, handed them stress balls shaped like rupee symbols. "Teamwork!" he chirped.
When the meeting ended, the sky outside had turned violet. The city's lights flickered on like a million tiny witnesses to Nacikate's humiliation. He walked out into the corridor, loosened his tie, and exhaled a long, exhausted breath.
Mehul appeared beside him, juggling two leftover cupcakes. "You know, this isn't so bad. Free food, paid trip, official recognition. We could make this our brand."
"Our what?"
"Brand! Like, Hacker Ă Banker. We solve cyber-crimes and file taxes in style."
"I don't solve crimes," Nacikate said wearily. "I prevent them."
"Same thing. Yin-yang, remember?"
He started walking backward toward the elevator, still grinning. "See you tomorrow, bossman. Don't forgetâwe have our first joint budget meeting at ten. Dress code says matching colors."
The doors closed behind him with a cheerful ding.
Nacikate stood alone in the empty hallway, surrounded by the lingering scent of cupcakes and printer ink. On his phone, another notification blinked:
"Reminder: Partnership anniversaryâ1 day completed. Keep growing together!"
He stared at it for a long moment, then sighedâa deep, resigned sound that carried both fury and reluctant amusement.
Somewhere in the servers of the nation, a database believed in them.
And that, he decided grimly, was the real tragedy.