The fluorescent lights of Selena Group's 7th-floor accounts and operations department buzzed like trapped insects, a constant reminder that time dragged slower here than anywhere else in Kolkata. It was 6:47 p.m. on a Thursday. The official clock-out time had passed forty-seven minutes ago.
Most desks stood empty.
Abhirup Chakraborty's did not.
He sat hunched over three Excel sheets at once, cursor blinking patiently while he cross-verified the vendor advance reconciliation that Rohit-da from procurement had dropped on his desk at 5:55 p.m. with the familiar line:
"Abhi, just one small favour yaar… you know how these formats are… you're the only one who can do it quickly without mistakes."
Behind him, the coffee machine gurgled for the last straggler—Poulami, the new joiner in marketing everyone already called "Polo di" because her smile belonged in a toothpaste advertisement. She glanced over her monitor, saw Abhirup still typing, and gave a small sympathetic head-tilt before slinging her tote bag.
Poulami (softly, almost to herself as she passed his desk):
"Still here, Abhirup-da? You'll get acidity again."
Abhirup (without looking up, voice quiet and even):
"Just five more minutes. Almost done."
Poulami (pausing, hesitant):
"You always say five more minutes… and then it becomes two hours. At least drink some water."
She placed a half-full bottle of Bisleri on the edge of his desk—the same one she'd been drinking since lunch—and left before he could protest.
The department fell silent except for the tapping of keys and the distant honking from Camac Street below.
Abhirup finally leaned back, neck cracking softly. He rubbed the inner corner of his right eye where the headache always began. The screen showed 98% complete. He saved the file exactly as requested: *Vendor_Advance_Rec_Aug_final_corrected_v2.xlsx*
Then the email:
To: Rohit Sen
Cc: [email protected]
Subject: Vendor Advance Rec – Completed
Body:
Completed and cross-checked with July ledger.
Please review.
Regards,
Abhirup Chakraborty
Sent at 7:04 p.m.
As the email whooshed away, his phone lit up.
Group: Accounts Warriors(WhatsApp)
Rohit (7:05 pm):
"Legend! Thanks brother 🔥🔥 Will check tomorrow morning first thing. You're a lifesaver yaar."
Three laughing emojis. One folded-hands.
Abhirup stared at the message, expression unreadable.
He switched off his monitor, picked up the half-drunk Bisleri bottle, and stood.
The office was now a ghost town of glowing power buttons and abandoned coffee cups.
He walked toward the lift lobby.
Just as the doors were about to close, a sharp voice cut through.
"Abhirup!"
He turned.
Anindita Mukherjee—senior manager, operations. Mid-thirties, always perfectly draped in expensive sarees, always moving like she was five minutes late for a board meeting even when she wasn't.
She held a thick blue file in one hand, phone in the other.
Anindita (walking fast toward him):
"Listen, I know it's late, but the Singapore client has asked for the revised cost-sheet and supporting breakup by tomorrow 9 a.m. IST. The data is all over the place—can you please…?"
She trailed off meaningfully.
Abhirup looked at her.
Then at the file already being extended.
A long, quiet beat.
He took it.
Abhirup (voice very soft, almost gentle):
"I'll do it tonight."
Anindita (relieved smile):
"Knew I could count on you. You're the only reliable person left in this team."
The lift doors slid shut between them.
Inside the empty lift, Abhirup stared at his blurred reflection in the stainless steel.
Twenty-six years old.
Three years in this company.
No parents. No siblings. No uncles who still remembered his gotra.
A small rented room in Baag Bazar where the damp smell never left the walls.
A commerce degree his father had died believing would "take him somewhere."
A job that paid exactly enough to keep him breathing, but never enough to let him live.
And every single day, the same quiet realization:
Kindness was the only currency he still possessed.
And everyone around him was rich in everything except conscience.
The lift dinged at the ground floor.
Abhirup stepped out into the humid Kolkata evening.
A light drizzle had started.
He pulled the hood of his faded black windcheater over his head, tucked the blue file inside his bag to protect it, and started walking toward the metro.
Somewhere behind him, the Selena Group building glowed like a giant glass-and-steel monster that never slept.
And somewhere inside him, a very small, very tired voice whispered the same question it asked every night:
"How long will you keep saying yes, Abhirup?"