Boiler Room

“Hello, cock?”

DM’s phone rang via WhatsApp, taking him out of the moment. He had been ready to pounce, but on looking down, knew he had a choice to make.

He stepped out of the meeting room that was encased in glass, and was about to accept the call.

“DM,” his boss, Annie, peeked out as the door had not fully swung closed, “I need you in here for this.”

“Be right there,” DM said as he nodded and walked a bit away from the door.

Annie hated the idea of having to potentially fire anyone, let alone starting the path towards doing it. DM had to be in there to push the hard questions.

“This much cock”

“So, we did our boiler room meeting with Sameer,” Kayo said as soon as the hellos were done.

He’d picked up the term from DM, who had explained it to him as meetings where people ask for numbers and pipelines. The former had since that day, been using it quite a bit. It was a bit annoying, but something both men had a perchance for. The trait was perhaps something that had brought them together over the years.

“Oh, Arun fired him?” Sameer said, knowing that Arun, like Annie, had issues bringing down the hammer.

“Arun and I discussed that we would need to put down the terms, but in the end I was the one that told Sameer. I guess with Sameer taking so many blows, Arun felt kind of bad bringing the hammer down. But I didn’t. So I told him that we’ll look at the numbers in the April monthly meeting and go from there.”

“So many blows,” DM repeated, looking out of the bay window at downtown Dubai. “What was this, a gale windstorm?”

“I mean, I had to mention to him that he hadn’t done the work needed in August to October, so it would be hard for him to get the numbers now.”

“Yeah, well he did choose to lie on his side then, and then apparently had two months of rain impeding him that I never felt in the same city.”

“Maybe it was Ras Al Khaimah rain.”

“Maybe my cock.”

“Anyway, he said he thought he was supposed to start in Oct. So I opened his contract and I was wrong – he was actually to start in July. And June is coming so contract ends then.”

“Hoo, 3 months.”

“And Arun said we can always lay him off with one month notice.”

“Man he must have been sweating suddenly.”

“Actually, yeah. I don’t know why he kept him video on, but Arun had it on too. So I turned mine on and we did the whole thing that way.”

“So did you see his sweat?”

“I don’t think we’re at that level of HD on Google Duo yet. But he was squirming.”

“Like a fat hog.”

“Yeah. So we did all that, and then Arun hit him with the finale.”

“Well, he didn’t fire him.”

“No, but he asked him how many agents he’d developed per week. Sameer said 4 to 5. So Arun said, that should be 100 total now so send the Excel report. I told Arun later there’s no 100 agents.”

“Of course, the bastard is on Google right now getting the contact numbers. Actually, you’ll probably call them and find out they’re all massage parlour and restaurant numbers. ‘Hello, hanh. Wohi order hain na? Paanch bhoti kebab aur dus naan?'”

“I can imagine. But anyway, I told him I don’t want to bother with even weekly calls. He’s too busy, then let’s see what he does.”

“Yeah, next month then. I gotta go do this – boiler room meeting,” DM hesitated to call what he was about to do that.

“Oh? Rosenberg?”

“Yeah.”

“Has he realized he’s gay yet?”

“No, not yet.”

“Okay, let me know after.”

“Get some cock over there”

DM put his phone on silent and walked into the meeting room. Annie had not said much, he could tell. She’d probably just talked about the weather while he was out.

“Rosenberg,” DM said, feeling odd that he was using a white Jewish name while addressing a Philippino man, “We need to go over your pipeline.”

“I love pipes,” Rosenberg said, putting his chin on his hand on the red wood meeting room table.

He was dressed in a tight white shirt and tie, as well as the usual tight pants of some dark colour – black or maybe grey.

“I mean, what are the leads coming down and how have you developed them?” DM asked.

He knew the answer already – there had been no development.

“Hmm,” Rosenberg said.

This sort of thing annoyed DM no end.

“If it’s a matter of leads not closing, I can always just close them for you.”

Again, he knew no leads had been nurtured.

“Hmm.”

DM felt his blood boiling. He had to change track.

“Sometimes a bottle is just a bottle; but sometimes…”

“You know Rosenberg, we all have to think about what we do for our monthly salary,” DM said, trying to think about what a great guy the man was as a friend.

“Hmm,” Rosenberg changed arms.

“So-“

“Wait,” Rosenberg suddenly sat up and took his elbows off the table. “That’s the problem right there – salary.”

“You think you’re being paid too little?” Annie asked from the corner of the room. Everyone around the table knew that Rosenberg made 3,000Dhs more at this job.

“No, the salary,” Rosenberg pouted. “I don’t want money. I want cock.”

DM sat down in shock.

“What?” Annie said in a small voice.

“I don’t want a salary,” Rosenberg wailed as he dramatically thrashed his arms and legs. “I want lots and lots of cock.”

I guess he did realize he’s gay finally, DM thought.

The Curious Case of the Australian Penis

DM was once again cursing himself for being at his brother Donald’s house. The two kids were screaming upstairs about wanting ice cream before lunch. His brother was ignoring the ear-splitting sounds and instead laying the table for lunch.

Sharon, Donald’s wife, was somehow sleeping upstairs where the screaming was coming from, perhaps with gun-range-quality noise-canceling headphones on.

Donald would no doubt soon hit up DM for a loan since the banks were not giving any more money to them.

“It’s an ambitious project, but nice,” Donald had said, showing DM the blueprints of the sub-division the family was building.

“What’s the blue dot?” DM had asked.

“Oh,” Donald blushed. “That’s me. Pretty big project, huh?”

Donald was, having gotten a hint of a no from DM, trying to now convince cousin Nicky to fork over some cash. He did work for SpaceX and had built his own giant house in Sydney, much to the chagrin of Sharon who had said that he was depressed and would not amount to much more than perhaps a busboy.

DM’s phone dinged. He opened WhatsApp and saw a graph showing penis sizes by country.

“See, the proof is in the statistics,” Kayo messaged right after the graph.

“What am I looking at?” DM texted back.

“Those are the smaller penises in the world. As you can see, top is Southeast Asia, East Asia, South Asia.”

“That’s good info for some future jokes-“

DM was going to type more but a new graph popped into the screen.

“Now look at this graph about big houses,” Kayo texted.

“It’s the same.”

“It’s the same, and jinx,” Kayo typed back. “I told you, big house, means small cock.”

“I don’t know if that’s always the case.”

“Listen, where don’t you see big houses?”

“Africa?”

“Exactly, Africa. And Peshawar. Cos when you have a huge cock, you can’t be dragging it around a big house. It’s exhausting.”

“What about those Black guys in hip hop with their MTV Cribs?”

“I’m so glad you brought that up. Remember, when those guys popped up is when people in the west began building these big houses. You have Black guys throwing around money, buying cars with rims and big houses. Of course white guys and everyone else had to build big houses. And man can you imagine being Chinese or Indian in US or Australia? You’re basically being teased by these monsters of cock while all you can do is build a big house.”

“I still don’t believe it.”

“I’m telling you DM, Nicky built that big house because he has a tiny cock. He’s trying to say, ‘Please look at my house and not by pants.'”

“He’s not that kind of guy. I only found out about the house because his dad kept saying.”

“See? Cock comes from the father’s side of the family.”

“I really don’t think that’s how it works.”

“DM, there’s only one way.”

“One way for what?”

“You’re gonna have to pull down his shorts and see.”

“Fuck off.”

“Is he wearing loose shorts today?”

“No, but that doesn’t matter.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to know about other men’s cock sizes, and I especially don’t want to know about my cousin’s cock.”

“I thought you were a man of science. This is literally for science.”

The conversation was interrupted as Donald bellowed that lunch was ready. DM put down the phone and walked into the dining room, knowing that the incoming messages would be far too distracting. Nicky was already sitting at the table, clearly a bit flustered from fending off Donald’s loan requests. With his close-cropped black hair and black glasses, he definitely looked like a Musk employee.

“Let’s begin since Sharon is heading down in a bit,” Donald said, sitting at the head of the table. He resembled and had the pace of a large sloth, if a sloth was ever the victim of unpaid loans.

The three men began putting food on their plates and eating, ignoring as they usually had to the screaming coming from above.

“They won’t eat,” Donald said about his daughters through a mouthful of creamed potatoes. “They want ice cream, so looks like a McD’s run after lunch.”

The three could hear the very slow descending footsteps of Sharon as she came down from above. In a testament to how couples sometimes look alike, she also somewhat resembled a large sloth, though one with a hairdo that no sloth would ever have in nature.

Sharon ambled to the table and sat down, eyeing Nicky as she did so. Before her bottom could properly place itself in the chair, Nicky half rose and pointed his finger at her.

“You have a small dick!” Nicky yelled.

He stayed half-risen, clearly being a man with good quads, his finger slowly coming down to the table.

Sharon, after about 30 seconds of starting at Nicky, shot a look at Donald.

“Donald, why can’t you get a job at SpaceX?”

DM was shocked. He was not expecting this round-the-table accusation game for lunch.

Donald stared at the baked salmon. Sharon continued to look at him. Nicky’s quads finally giving out, he was beginning to sink back into his chair.

DM cleared his throat.

“Er Nicky, since you’re done, how about we go for a walk outside?”

“Sure,” Nicky was also now staring at the salmon.

“Do you want to change into some loose shorts before we go?”

The Adventures of Loose Suit Man: the Finale

The nice coolness of Dubai during January and Feb was melting into the old familiar heat radiating from the asphalt. This kind of temperature affected the mind as well as everything else – skin, bones, sleep. Since air conditioners had hummed back to life, the ice cold interiors of homes made the outside even more unbearable. People were also getting used to the novel and short-lived practice of running their air conditioners on low rather than high, since the latter created an environment too cold (for March).

It was into this low cool temperature that Sameer wished he were walking when he got home. Instead, since he had a window AC instead of central air, he had to walk into a rather warm flat that had been storing and multiplying the afternoon heat. He immediately began sweating under his jowl and in his armpits. In response, he took off his suit jacket and pulled up his polo shirt to let some air onto his back.

Sameer sighed and opened up his computer. He saw a message on his WhatsApp that said “Sameer are we meeting on Google Chat?”

“Oh we are, my friend,” Sameer said out aloud with a huff as he opened up both Google Chat and WhatsApp on the laptop. He generated a link, copied it and sent it in the WhatsApp group. “Hope you click on it,” he said through clenched teeth as he shook his loose trouser legs to dissipate some of the sweat.

The air con was starting to do its job of cooling things down as he saw both Kayo and the CEO both were waiting in the lobby of the chat room.

A part of him wanted to click Deny for Kayo, and then enjoy the feeling of gatekeeping his manager. How luxurious that would feel. But no, the bullet he had in his bandook was far better than any denial click.

“It’s another kind of click,” Sameer chuckled as he looked at a folder on his desktop. He wished at that moment that there was someone in the two bedroom flat to ask him questions about his comment, only for him to be coy about the statement. Unfortunately, he was alone – his kids being in school and his wife at work.

Kayo was first into the room, as always.

“You’ll probably be on time for your own funeral too,” Sameer said under his breath.

“Sameer I can’t hear you, speak up,” Kayo was saying.

“Oh I was just saying hi,” Sameer said.

“Hi Sameer kya haal hain,” the CEO said as he came in.

“Haal to acha hein. Things are good,” Sameer replied. And they will be getting even better, he though to himself as he put on a smug grin.

“So Sameer, I’ll get right to it,” Kayo said. “It’s been six months and there have been no paid applications. This is unfair. We hired Anna just a month ago and she has a paid application already. You’ve not gotten a single one. What-“

“Wait, wait, wait,” Sameer said. He felt a sensation ripping through his body, electric.

“Yes?” Kayo said.

“Uh,” Sameer was not expecting this.

“Sameer can you hear us?” the CEO asked.

“Yes, yes,” Sameer was not used to calls where people did not talk over themselves. “Ah, yes, I’ve caught you now!”

“Caught who?” the CEO asked, perplexed, remembered how Kayo had mentioned that all kinds of drugs were available in Dubai these days.

“Wait, let me start this properly,” Sameer said, regaining his composure. “This Kayo has been saying that I have been sitting around not doing anything. Well, I have caught him!”

Sameer let the words hit. This would have been more impactful in person since there was just an ominous silence on the call.

“Ah-“

“I caught him,” Sameer said, not knowing who he was interrupting. “I can tell you this Kayo, who has said I don’t do anything, has in fact just been riding around south India while wearing a lungi!”

Again there was silence, which was hard to decipher.

“I have the proof,” Sameer said. “Can you see my shared screen?” He had opened the untitled folder on his desktop, opened the first photo and hit share.

“Yes-” the CEO began.

“Aha! Then keep looking,” Sameer said, now in a frenzy and happy that since the photos were taking up the full screen that no one could see the small froth coming out of one side of his mouth. “Look at these photos. Instead of getting agents, our Director is instead wearing a lungi and motorcycling around different parts of Kerala.” He looked at his notes. “Pathanamthitta, Kayamkulam, Ambalaphuzha,” he stammered out, even though he had spent hours over the week trying to memorize the names.

Sameer was panting slightly now that he was done, the main effort having gone into pronouncing the place names. Fucking south India.

“Sameer, how did you get these?” the CEO asked.

A mere technicality, Sameer knew.

“I hired a private investigator to follow him,” Sameer retorted.

“Okay,” the CEO was sighing.

Victory!

“Sameer I don’t know how to say this, but I got photos of the same rides from Kayo,” the CEO said.

“What?” Suddenly the electric feeling was leaving his body.

“I’ve not seen such high res versions, but I’ve gotten selfies from Kayo from these rides,” the CEO explained.

“I don’t understand,” Sameer said.

“Kayo is still hitting and exceeding the targets. I don’t care what he does on his motorcycle. Well actually,” the CEO cleared his throat, “I’ll be going to Kerala to join him. I want to experience the house boats there.”

Sameer could not believe what he was hearing.

“But he doesn’t work 8 hours a day.”

“Ah, I was hired because I’m a lazy git,” Kayo chimed in, burning the puzzle Sameer had created to the ground. “I work six hours a day, but Sameer I get students. That’s why I now manage so many advisors.”

Sameer knew he had to play his trump card. He opened the final photo. “Look!”

“Okay I did not want to see that,” the CEO said, looking at the zoomed in photo of Kayo’s thigh as he got off the motorcycle, exposing a bit of skin in the process.

“Listen we all know that I didn’t grow up in Kerala,” Kayo was saying. “I’m still getting used to riding while wearing a mundu.”

What the fuck is a mundu, Sameer thought.

“Sameer can you take down the photos?” the CEO asked. “This is all immaterial, and highly unprofessional.”

“Yes! It is very unprofessional!”

“No, I mean it is unprofessional of you.”

“What?”

“You hired a private investigator to follow Kayo.”

“To expose him.”

“Yes we saw a lot of that exposing.”

“Exactly.”

“I mean that I’m pretty sure you’ve violated his right to privacy.”

“This doesn’t exist in Dubai.”

“I don’t live in Dubai,” Kayo reminded him.

“Shit.”

“This is a big issue, Sameer,” the CEO said.

Sameer felt that things were at a loss. He knew that he had to make one final save. Something within him burst forward before his rational mind could intervene.

“Arey ye sariye duniya paagal hein kya? Is the whole world crazy?” he suddenly yelled.

“Sameer-“

“Aap bolraha hein ki mein – Ras Al Khamaih ka Sameer – galat hoon, aur ye Malbari sahi hein? You’re saying that I – Sameer of Ras Al Khaaimah – am wrong and this Malbari is right?”

“See man, remember how you wanted us to hire you for a role in Canada?” Kayo was saying. “You don’t know how to manage deliverables and you wanted to be in Vancouver doing this bullshit. It doesn’t even work here and it definitely would not work there.”

“Is that your gang name?” the CEO asked.

The Adventures of the Loose Suit Man: Remittance

There were so many interpretations of what happened after the fact. Sameer reported everything in a matter-of-fact way to the college CEO and his manager over the group WhatsApp (the very same group that the manager later would tell Sameer to stop using for student applications since those were to be done via email – who does student applications over a WhatsApp group?): that he had walked in with his arms swinging to the remittance centre and had given all the info about the wire, only to be asked by the manager of the centre to take off his clothes.

That is correct (according to the WhatsApp allegations) – a remittance centre somewhere in the UAE (perhaps a less civilized part of the country where men wearing kanduras panted while looking at female store mannequins) had demanded that a customer take off his clothes to receive the wire.

The CEO and Kayo, who was the manager that asked Sameer to not conduct student applications over the WhatsApp group, talked about this revelation later.

“Is this a Dubai thing?” the CEO asked.

“I can see it being a Sharjah thing,” Kayo responded.

“Maybe it was an Arab manager,” an acquaintance of Kayo’s later remarked. “You know these Egyptians love seeing Pakistani cock.”

“That seems highly specific and unusual,” Kayo said.

Speaking with DM later, as he often did with incredulousness after one of Sameer’s unusual exhibitions (pun intended), Kayo also floated his own theory.

“Maybe on his ID it says that he has some kind of identifying mark on…”

“On where?” DM asked, already knowing where this was going.

“His back?”

“Yuck!” DM said. “So he made him take off his loose suit and show his back fat.”

No matter what theory was put forward, it always seemed a bit incomplete. DM finally offered his own thoughts.

Sameet had walked into the remittance centre with his milky white skin bulging through his loose suit chest (he was just wearing a half sleeve vest under the suit jacket). The Arab manager who had been sitting at his desk bored all day heard a knock as his aroused penis hit the bottom of his desk-top.

“I have a wire that came in,” Sameer stated.

Watching the lips move, the Arab man’s cock began to push the desk upwards so that it began to tilt.

This is where Kayo’s theory came in and the Arab man, though having a clear photo ID, asked Sameer to prove that he was the man in the ID by showing the hidden birthmark, which may have been on his back or maybe even his inside thigh.

By the time Sameer removed his final piece of exterior clothing, it was too much. The manager’s dick knocked over the desk as he groaned.

At the end of all this, Sameer didn’t even get the wire money. It had to be sent to him another way.

The Adventures of the Loose Suit Man: A Dune Too Far

“Ting,” the WhatsApp notification went off, bringing Sameer back to reality from his semi-doze, semi-unconsciousness.

It was stiflingly hot in his car with no AC on. Like most people in the UAE, especially fat people, he was used to having AC in the car, flat, bathroom and anywhere else he had to spend more than two minutes. The lack of this convenience was causing him to feel faintish.

As was the habit of those in this 21st century work and life, despite his current situation, he looked at the WhatsApp message notification.

“Aren’t we calling now?” It was his manager from work.

“My car broke down. Can we call later?” he quickly typed back, wiping sweat out of his eyes.

“Oh okay, concentrate on that. We can call another day,” Kayo typed.

Sameer sighed and put the the phone down. One less problem. Kayo was the one who, when he had proposed that the college buy him a car, had countered that instead he could live in Dubai and that the college would buy him a metro pass.

For a moment he imagined having to squeeze onto the metro with all of his flyers and materials, jammed in between some Nigerians eating fufu, though doing so was illegal.

They would likely steal his flyers.

And he would melt in there; not that the current situation was much better.

Sameet had gone to the school to do the fair. Unlike previously when he’d sent an underling, his current job and lack of sales made it so that he had to himself go. He had talked to students thronging his booth for college plus toys – huskys – and answered questions. He even had photos taken and sent to the team so everyone could see he was doing something.

The photos would, unbeknownst to Sameer, be the hot topic of debate hinging on why he wore such loose suits. His suit was so loose that he could put his thumb fully into the sleeve at ninety degrees from the wrist. Some accused that he wore only salwaars and had borrowed the suit from a taller, fatter friend. Nothing could be further from the truth – Sameer often wore suits. He had just become steadily fatter and had hence had to push his tailor to loosen the material so it did not stick to his body like a swimsuit.

Today the looseness of the suit did not help. Sameer was drenched in sweat, with his suit causing it to stick to his back, underarms and sides.

All this because, coming back from Bur Dubai where the school was, after sitting in traffic for nearly two hours, Sameer had thought why not and tried to go on the dunes on his way back home in Ras Al Khaimah.

He flopped the sleeves of his suit, trying to use them to circulate some air. However, it did little to help.

Behind him he could see a vehicle coming, and he thanked god that the dune patrol had been sent. He now just had to get home to listen to his wife’s telling-off because for once he had decided to have a few minutes of fun.

Prequel: Complaints and Consternations

This story is the prequel to a series of RK posts about the Man in the Loose Suit

The five men at the Lahori buffet restaurant each sat back in satisfaction, having had their fill of tender bhoti kebab, creamy-thick chicken korma and Peshawari naan that held pools of oil.

Such a sumptuous meal made the men within seconds go from sitting back to lying back in a repose perhaps not unlike Romans in ancient times.

A boy in his early twenties walked into the private room the five had taken, and served them piping hot suleimani tea with extra sugar as requested.

Sameer, happy to be rid of the suits and work pants he wore for a simple beige baggy salwar kameez that allowed him to breathe more naturally and fully, sighed as he took his first sip.

“Arey Sameer bhai kya hal hein? Hey Sameer brother, what’s the news?” one of the others, a man who perhaps should have been wearing a salwar kameez since his blue and red striped polo shirt could not hide his protruding belly full of naan and korma, asked.

“Hai, bhoth muskil hein. Aye, it’s very tough,” Sameer replied, sighing again.

This was of course an invitation, particularly with the sigh.

“Aur sunao, kya mushkil hein? Tell us more, what’s wrong?” four voices asked.

“Mushkil to bahut hein. Difficulties are many.”

For the next five minutes there were a sort of back-and-forth qawwali between Sameer and his four friends, the latter of whom kept inquiring about the issue, and the former of whom kept alluding to their severity without mentioning their nature.

As the what-how reached a crescendo, Sameer finally relented and gave in to confess, noting several times that though he didn’t want to, that he would and should since his concerned friends had asked with such fervour.

“Kaam hein mushkil yaaro; bahut mushkil hein. Work is hard friends; it’s very hard.”

“Par aap to us Canadian unwersity mein director ji hein na? But you’re the director of a Canadian University, no?” his friend clad in a snow-white salwar with just a small yellow korma stain on the lapel asked.

“Hein to, par utna asaan to nahin hein. I am, but it’s not that easy,” Sameer replied, looking at his tea like it were the fountain of wisdom.

“Ji, par aapka dusra naukrion to aacha nahin ta na? But your other jobs, they were not good, right?” a third friend, who was perhaps symbolically or knowing the effect of korma on salwars, dressed in an obsidian-black one.

To elaborate, the man in black, who may or may not have gotten the idea for his colour choice from hearing about Johnny Cash, went on to list briefly how Sameer had been with a university in Ajman where he had gotten bullied out of work, only to end up working with a friend who started a college but would not hire staff to help Sameer, making the man have to head back to Pakistan after he closed his side business – a pure vegetarian restaurant in Sharjah (ironic given what the group had just eaten). The man in the shiny black salwar went on to detail how Sameer had then made his way to Saudi as his family had longed for the east-west quality of the Gulf, only to find no jobs and end up back in the UAE where college owners had asked him to join and then discuss renumeration after a few days on the job.

Sameer responded that indeed where he was now was a step up from those days, but still with issues.

“Par pareshaan to bolo. But tell us the issue,” his friends asked.

“Kithar se shuru karonge. Aaj ka weekly report mein beja. Aur manager to bola ki aur detail chahieh. Where shall I begin. I sent my weekly report today. And the manager said I need to include more details.”

“Par aap to detail-auriented aadhmi hein,” the main in white said.

“Mein bola ki student fair to aacha ta. Aur kya boloon? Manager poocha ki mujko batana hein kitne candidates, school ka feedback, vaghera. I told them the fair was good. What more can one say? The manager asked that I include how many candidates came, school feedback, etc.”

Everyone drew a breath at once. Such requests were unheard of in south Asian businesses in the UAE. The point was to stroke the manager’s ego and continue on to afternoon tea.

“Ye to zaroor koi Canada special baat hein. This is for sure some special Canadian thing,” the man in black said.

“Canada,” Sameer huffed. “Manager to Malbari hein-“

Before he could continue the room erupted with shouts of “Malbari? Kya?”

“Haan, haan, Malbari hein. Wo to Kerala mein rehta hein. Yes, yes, he’s a Malbari. He lives in Kerala.”

“Kerala mein?” the main in the polo shirt was incredulous. “Par Sameer bhai, kyun?“

Minds were being boggled.

“Mujko kya maloom? Uska saat Canada ka passport hein par udhar Kochi mein fish molli khakar bhet rahanhoo. Why would I know? He has a Canadian passpor but he’s sitting in Kochi eating fish molli.”

All five men winced at the thought of eating fish. These coastal South Indians were a species unto themselves. They all sipped their teas to calm their stomachs, which had begun to turn at the idea.

“Aur CEO bas bolta hein results chahein – student recruitment. Par wo mera recommendation nahin suna ki do marketers ko hire karo, aur ek chaiwallo ko. And the CEO just wants results. But he didn’t take my recommendation to hire 2 marketers and a chaiwallah.”

The final man – a tall chap who was wearing a grey salwar as well and had kept mum till now – cleared his throat, sat up and spoke.

“Sameer, aap aapa khud chai banata hein? Sameer, you make your own tea?”

Sameer blushed, and looked at the floor. There was pin-drop silence.

“Ye to aacha nahin hein Sameer bhai. Chai, aur hud? This is not good Sameer bro. Chai, and made by yourself?” the tall man in grey mused.

“Maalum hein, par in logon ko mujme truste-e nahin hein. I know, but these people have no trust in me.” As he said the trust part, Sameer emphasised the word by moving his head in a sing-song way and also his right hand in a dipping motion.

“Aise life hein to kesse. If life is like this, then how,” the tall man in grey summarized.

It was just turning 4pm on a Wednesday.