If corporate hell had a mascot, it would be my manager—Mr. Shanmugasundaram, standing at 5 feet 5 inches of concentrated rage and unrealistic deadlines, with a thick mustache that twitched every time he saw my face.
"Rudhran!" His voice thundered across the fourth floor of our IT office like a temple loudspeaker during Pongal festival announcements—loud, unavoidable, and a little bit terrifying.
I lifted my head slowly from my desk, my expression blank, voice flat. "Yes, sir. How can I ruin your day today?"
Around me, the usual office noise faded into a tense silence. Even Arjun from HR, who was busy munching on his vada, paused mid-bite, eyes darting nervously towards Shanmugasundaram's warpath.
He stormed over like an angry bull in an overstarched shirt, waving a report printout that looked like it had been dragged through a cyclone. "This is what you call code? It looks like you copy-pasted half of it from Stack Overflow!"
I raised an eyebrow, the corners of my mouth twitching. "Well, sir," I said, flashing my best deadpan smile, "what better way to unite developers worldwide than by reusing bad ideas globally? Consider it international collaboration."
His nostrils flared like the exhaust of a bus stuck in Chennai traffic. "Don't test me, Rudhran. This function fails basic logic."
I paused, glancing down at my keyboard as if seeking divine intervention. Then, with the perfect deadpan delivery, I said, "So does my life, but you don't see me shouting at it every morning."
The entire floor went quiet. Even Murugan, the office prankster, who was trying to stealthily replace someone's mouse with a remote-controlled one, almost choked on his breath. A few interns snickered behind their laptops, clearly enjoying the show like it was free entertainment. Shanmugasundaram's left eye twitched like a dying Wi-Fi signal.
"Correct it. Now."
I tapped my keyboard dramatically. "Already done, sir. I restructured it in the last ten minutes while being verbally enlightened by you."
He blinked, confused. "...Then why didn't you say so?"
"Because silence is the only weapon I have in a world that keeps yelling. Like my mother during my school exams."
At that, a nearby colleague, Anitha, whispered to her friend, "Aiyo, if only he had that silence during the meetings."
Shanmugasundaram muttered something so fast it sounded like a tongue twister mixed with swear words. I nodded internally, deciding to pretend I didn't understand because this was one of those moments best left unheard.
He stalked away, leaving a trail of mustache twitches and frustrated grumbles behind him.
I leaned back in my chair and exhaled deeply, the office slowly returning to its usual hum of typing and distant gossip about who was dating whom and the latest WhatsApp meme circulating the team.
Introducing myself.
I'm Rudhran. Twenty-six. Software engineer at PisyaVita Tech in Chennai. My life is mostly about debugging code, dodging traffic on Anna Salai, and navigating office politics thicker than filter coffee.
Love? I think it's like trying to find a free parking spot in T Nagar—rare, stressful, and usually ending in heartbreak.
I turned back to my screen. Outside the tinted glass windows, the setting sun painted the city in fiery orange and pink. The air smelled faintly of jasmine garlands and idli steam from nearby street stalls.
Chennai evenings have a rhythm—the honking autos, the distant chants from temples, and the occasional roar of the Marina waves miles away.
As I typed lines of JavaScript nobody cared for, a tap on my shoulder broke the trance.
"Oi, Rudhraa." It was Prakash, sounding like a substitute teacher calling attendance without any will to live.
"Don't ignore us, da," came Rajiv's voice—mock-hurt, like a serial hero whose love letter just got torn by the heroine's father.
I turned around, spinning in my chair like a villain in a cheap soap ad. And there they were—the two clowns. My brothers from other mothers, unofficial therapists, co-addicts in late-night masala dosa, and enablers of all my worst decisions.
Prakash was lean, spectacled, and always looked like someone had installed insomnia as a permanent software update in his system. If Google ever needed a mascot for burnout, his photo would be on the banner.
Rajiv, on the other hand, looked like he was preparing for "Baahubali: The IT Edition." Muscles flexing unnecessarily even while sipping chai. Man trains like he's auditioning to fight aliens, but loses every time to midnight biryani from Anjappar.
"What's up, drama kings?" I asked, pushing my chair back. My chair squeaked in protest. Honestly, same.
"You free tonight or committed to the holy scriptures of Stack Overflow?" Rajiv asked, wiggling his eyebrows like he was about to sell me Herbalife.
"Tonight's Friday," Prakash added. "And tomorrow's Saturday, which in software engineer language means 'no Zoom meetings, only Zomato orders.'"
"Wait, wait, let me guess." I raised an eyebrow, adjusting my imaginary villain sunglasses. "You guys want to do something stupid and need me to play the responsible adult who bails you out?"
"No!" they said in unison. Way too quickly.
I narrowed my eyes. Suspicion activated.
"Okay… maybe a little stupid," Prakash mumbled.
"But fun stupid," Rajiv corrected, his grin so wide I could see yesterday's chicken tikka stuck in his molar.
I should say no. I have work. I have Jira tickets. I have responsibilities. I have... zero social life. Wait. Is that a good thing? Or the root of my slow mental decay?
"What's the plan?" I finally asked, against my better judgment. Which, let's face it, had already retired and moved to Pondicherry.
They exchanged a look like they were about to pitch a startup on Shark Tank.
"Rooftop barbecue." Prakash smirked.
Rajiv leaned in like he was whispering state secrets. "One of my gym friends has a cousin whose fiancé is throwing a surprise party. Open invite. Food. Drinks. Music. Sea breeze. Maybe even romance."
"Romance?" I blinked. "You mean like meeting someone, falling in love, and pretending we aren't emotionally damaged?"
"Exactly!" Prakash grinned. "With just the right lighting and background music, your depression might look poetic."
"The pain behind my smile is mostly acid reflux," I deadpanned.
They laughed, loud enough for the HR aunty two cubicles away to look up and shake her head like a disappointed principal.
Rajiv gave me a light punch on the shoulder. "Come on, da. When's the last time we did anything spontaneous?"
I thought. "That time we went to Mahabalipuram and you got food poisoning?"
"Exactly!" Prakash clapped. "Great trip. Memorable. Historic. You puked near an 8th-century temple. That's culture."
BBehind us, someone dropped a coffee cup and let out a string of expletives that would've made my auto anna proud.
I sighed and turned back toward my screen.
Five Jira tickets blinked at me like those marriage horoscope emails my mother forwarded. Unsolved. Ominous. Haunting.
Shanmugasundaram's cabin door was closed now, curtains drawn. Probably watching cricket highlights or editing my resignation letter just for fun.
I exhaled dramatically—Oscar-worthy—and turned back to the two buffoons.
"Alright. I'm in."
They whooped so loudly even the water filter paused in shock.
"But—" I held up a finger. "One condition."
They leaned in like school kids waiting to cheat from my paper.
"I pick the music for the ride."
Both of them groaned like I'd just announced a family trip to Tiruvannamalai with no Wi-Fi.
"Bro, not your moody Malayalam indie rock again!" Rajiv cried. "My heart still hasn't recovered from that one song about rain and existential dread."
"Have you ever tried understanding those lyrics?" I asked, wounded. "They express the kind of emotional constipation we men suppress since puberty. That's art, da."
"You need therapy." Prakash deadpanned.
"Music is therapy." I shot back.
Just then, Slack pinged—a passive-aggressive "Gentle reminder" from Shanmugasundaram.
Gentle, my foot. That man has the emotional subtlety of a granite slab.
I groaned louder than my salary hike and started typing again, mechanically, as if by muscle memory.
Behind me, someone was arguing over AWS billing like it was a dowry negotiation.
Just one more day.
One more sprint review.
One more boss battle.
Then tonight—grilled chicken under the stars, cheap jokes by the beach, friends who made fun of my trauma with love, and maybe—just maybe—a memory that didn't taste like burnt coffee and unpaid EMIs.
I didn't know it then. But that night…
would change everything.
Even the part of me that still believed nothing ever does.