The building didn't look busy, but it was never truly empty.
Sunday afternoon in Bengaluru felt different—lighter traffic, but notifications still chimed. In the lobby, the information screens were still on. Security recognized the faces arriving today. Not many. But important enough.
I walked in with Armaan.
Armaan's steps were measured. Shoulders squared, stride length consistent—the pattern of someone trained to read a room before the room reads him. He didn't turn his head, yet every shift in my rhythm registered instantly.
He was twenty-four. By habit, like an older brother. By structure, always one level ahead.
"Your lanyard is crooked," he said softly without breaking stride.
"And don't stand directly behind people.
Thirty-degree angle. If someone steps back suddenly, you have space."
I straightened my ID card.
"Yes, Brother."
He glanced once—enough to confirm I heard, not to watch me.
"We're in the office, not the field," he added.
"But good habits stay good habits."
Near reception, two IT staff greeted him. Their tone was casual, but their bodies still leaned slightly forward—an unforced reflex.
"Still coming in, Man?"
"Coming," Armaan answered.
"Just for a bit."
"Does this still count as work?"
"If the system runs, yes."
They chuckled. Not a joke. An agreement.
Armaan paused in front of the schedule board—more habit than need. I already knew what it said. We had discussed it at home.
"Meeting Room Three," he said quietly.
"Standard setup. Water, black coffee, one printed copy of the documents. No more."
"Okay," I replied. No notes needed.
I'd done this often—every time I came home from public school. Sometimes it was just arranging chairs, sometimes making sure the screen was on. Small tasks that kept the flow moving.
Inside the meeting room, the AC had just been turned on. I adjusted the chair spacing, placed the folder where it always went—an empty folder, no logo, no name. My hands moved on their own.
Two people entered almost at the same time.
The first was Raghav, Regional Head of Operations—quick steps, jaw set as if holding a sentence back.
The second was Meera, Corporate Communications Director—phone in hand, her thumb stopping a millimeter before locking the screen.
They didn't lower their voices. They didn't raise them either. The tone of people who knew time was expensive.
"The numbers aren't miscalculated," Raghav said, pulling out a chair.
He didn't sit.
"This is timing—released too early."
Meera let out a short breath.
"Because the lower team panicked. They pushed the update before the context was ready."
Raghav looked toward the dead screen on the wall.
"And now we have to explain to him how that got through."
The name wasn't said. It didn't need to be. Meera pocketed her phone.
"He hates defensive decisions the most," she said.
"Especially the kind born from fear."
Raghav nodded once.
"Then we tidy our breathing first.
Don't look ghabrana (nervous).
And don't get overly honest to the point of sounding guilty."
I placed the last bottle on the side table. My hand paused for a fraction—just long enough to ensure it wouldn't obstruct anything. From this angle, I saw Raghav's shoulders drop slightly, then reset.
Not fear. Preparation.
"He's coming on a Sunday," Meera continued, voice lower now.
"That means we've run out of excuses."
Raghav's mouth curved—no relief in it.
"And it also means if we get through today, Monday is safe."
They stood almost simultaneously. Raghav straightened his cuff—one small motion sealing tension inside. Meera slid her phone into her blazer pocket, then scanned the table once more to make sure nothing was left behind. She glanced at me. Only now noticing I was in the room.
"You," she said briskly—professional, no padding,
"please check if the meeting room is ready. Water, notepad, screen connection."
I nodded quickly.
"Yes, Ma'am."
"And if Boss arrives," Raghav added as he headed for the door,
"tell him we're inside. Don't enter unless called."
Not a warning. Not a threat.
Standard instruction—applied to anyone without a last name.
They left.
I checked again that no cable lay across the floor.
Small work. Quiet. No one asked whose son I was.
And that was exactly where I learned:
in places like this,
you're counted not by your origin,
but by whether you make someone else's work lighter—
or not.
***
Through the glass of the meeting room, I saw them already inside:
Raghav and Meera facing each other, tablet lit, files open.
One chair on the right remained empty.
The door opened without unnecessary sound. Pitaa entered with Kavya Rao, his senior secretary—a woman with a slim leather folder in her left hand and a stylus in her right. No long greetings. No small talk.
The air changed.
Not tense. Arranged.
Raghav stopped mid-sentence. Meera's spine straightened a fraction faster than normal reflex. Kavya pulled out the chair for Pitaa, then sat half a step behind him—the position of someone who records not words, but decisions.
The wall clock showed 13:00.
The mineral water bottles had been aligned since earlier.
The black coffee carafe was covered.
Everything matched the checklist.
"Print the last page," Meera said shortly, without looking back.
"Slide seven."
I stepped in, went to the small printer in the corner.
The file was already open. Just press.
I pressed twice—reflex.
The printer paused for a fraction, then continued.
The sound was small.
But in a silent room, it was loud enough. My body tightened. Pitaa glanced over—
not at the printer. At my finger.
"Once," he said flatly.
His tone was like a low vibration under the floor.
Not anger. Correction.
"Sorry, Sir," I said quickly.
He nodded once. Done.
Lesson recorded.
My mistake wasn't printing twice. It was producing noise that wasn't necessary.
I stepped back half a pace, staying in the room. Kavya glanced at me, then at Pitaa. She didn't speak. But she didn't tell me to leave either. That was permission.
Pitaa started without a preface.
"Waqt kam hai," he said.
(Time is short.)
Calm, not urgent—exactly why the room tightened.
Raghav didn't speak immediately. He opened his tablet and displayed a single screen with no dramatic charts—just a timeline.
"The problem isn't the numbers," he said at last.
"Pipeline is valid. Audit is clean."
He slid one point on the timeline.
"The problem is here. The update appeared earlier than the narrative we prepared."
Meera didn't deny it. She leaned forward slightly, index finger tapping the table once—code for stop rambling.
"Field response was too reflexive," she said.
"The moment they smelled a potential leak, they chose speed over control."
She looked straight at Pitaa.
"In communications, it was the 'safe' move. Strategically—fragile."
Pitaa nodded once.
Not agreement. Recognition.
He didn't answer quickly—leaving a pause that forced everyone to sync their breathing.
"And now?" he asked.
Meera didn't respond with a solution. She responded with risk.
"If we talk too much, we look panicked."
"If we talk too little, others will speak for us."
Pitaa slid his tablet to the center of the table.
Slow. Measured.
The same graph appeared—slight dip, then flat.
"This isn't a crisis," he said.
"But it's enough to damage the habit of trust."
Raghav drew in a careful breath.
"If we delay to Monday—"
"—we lose control," Pitaa cut in, looking straight at him now.
"Not because of the market. Because of narrative."
Kavya stepped in, fast and precise.
"Regulators start moving at nine tomorrow.
If we release today, we'll be read as a note.
Not a case."
Silence.
Not fear. Recalculating the map.
"Pull back one step," Pitaa said.
"Not retreat. Tempo control."
He interlaced his fingers, then released them again. Meera lifted an eyebrow.
"Competitors will fill the gap."
"Let them," Pitaa replied.
"Better they look aggressive than we look nervous."
He turned to Raghav.
"Short statement. Facts only. Not heroic. Not defensive."
Raghav was already writing.
"Thirty minutes."
"Kavya," Pitaa continued,
"internal Q&A. Every division uses one tone. No improvisation."
"Noted," Kavya answered, stylus moving without hesitation.
Pitaa glanced at the clock. 13:55.
"Dhruv."
I stood straighter.
"Yes, Sir?"
"You've done enough here."
Protective, not dismissive. He didn't look at me long—just enough to make sure the message landed without needing repetition.
I nodded.
"Yes, Sir."
I left. The door closed. The meeting's sound softened, like a curtain pulled shut. In the corridor, Armaan was already waiting.
His posture was relaxed—too relaxed for someone who always calculates distance and angles. A car key spun slowly around his finger. The old habit of someone who's ready before asked.
He nodded toward the parking lot. No command needed.
I followed—our rhythm memorized over years, like two people from the same house who both know when silence is the correct language. Inside the car, Armaan started the engine. He didn't turn the AC on immediately—he rolled the window down first. Bengaluru's afternoon air slid in, warm with a thin layer of dust.
"Straight home," he said, shifting into gear.
Procedure, not order.
"Yeah."
The car moved. Sunday afternoon roads weren't crowded, but never truly empty. A distant honk, a tea seller on the corner, the sound of a city that doesn't care who you are. I pulled out my phone.
"Beta," I said as the line connected.
"I'm OTW."
On the other end, her voice immediately dropped into a fast whisper—too fast.
"Bhaiya, listen. Don't be loud."
I held back a smile.
"Why?"
"Maata went back to the kitchen," she said.
"And you know… it's dangerous."
"What menu?"
"This afternoon Maa found an idea," she answered quietly.
"Masala pasta mixed with paneer… and somehow she added tamarind chutney."
I went still.
"You tasted it?" I asked softly.
"I was forced," she said bitterly.
"One bite. That wasn't food. That was an experiment."
I covered my mouth so I wouldn't laugh.
"Strategy?"
"You've already eaten," she said firmly.
"Repeat. Already. Ate."
"Did Pa get told?"
Tara exhaled.
"Useless. When it comes to Maata, Pa's logic goes on leave."
I raised an eyebrow.
"That's not love. That's survival."
"Exactly," she shot back.
"So don't add victims."
I laughed quietly.
"Copy. Already ate. Very full."
She ended the call.
Armaan lowered the radio volume a little.
"We need to stop and buy chaat?" he asked—practical, like an older brother who thinks ahead while still calculating the route.
I shook my head.
"Nahi, Armaan-ji. We'll just take Maata's food."
Armaan glanced at me quickly.
"You sure, Beta?"
"Yes," I said.
"Devi will help fix the taste. She always knows the safe limit."
He smiled—small. Not because it was funny, but because he understood.
In our house, affection rarely arrived as prohibition. More often it came as a small jugaad—an improvised solution so everyone could still eat in peace.
Outside, Bengaluru kept moving: pani puri stalls filling up, short honks answering each other, storefront lights blinking on one by one. The city prepared for night, like we did. Armaan let out a quiet breath.
"You tired?" he asked—this time not about the body.
"No," I answered honestly.
"Just… full."
A red light. A small child approached, selling jasmine garlands at the intersection. Armaan took out coins without being asked and passed them through the half-open window.
"Thank you, bhaiya," the child said—quick and bright.
The car moved again.
Armaan nodded once, one hand steady on the wheel.
"If you're full, say so. A big brother's job isn't just to drive—
it's to make sure you don't bring home burdens that aren't yours."
I turned my head slightly, then looked back at the road.
"Okay. Thank you."
The car rolled on.
Not fast. Not slow.
I leaned back, watching the street darken.
A normal Sunday afternoon—our simple home waiting, the kitchen alive with unpredictable experiments, and small domestic drama that, somehow, always felt more real than all the glass rooms I'd left a few hours ago.
—To be Continued—