At nine seventeen on Monday morning, Samyukt had thirty-eight thousand, four hundred and twelve rupees in the business account and three people asking him for money.
The first was his raw-material supplier.
“No, Sharma ji, I understand,” Samyukt said, pressing the phone between his ear and shoulder while he searched through the papers covering his desk. “I’m not asking you to send the entire order on credit. Release half of it. I’ll transfer the balance as soon as the hotel payment comes.”
Across the shop, sunlight fell through a dusty glass door and turned the suspended chemical mist pale gold. Blue drums stood against one wall, beside stacks of white cans waiting for labels. The sharp smell of disinfectant mixed with the artificial lemon fragrance from a leaking sample bottle. A ceiling fan pushed both smells around without improving either.
“You said the same thing on Friday,” Sharma replied.
“Because they said the same thing to me on Thursday.”
“My company wants advance payment.”
“And my customer wants thirty days after delivery, which becomes sixty days after delivery, which becomes ‘Sir is in a meeting.’ We are all trapped in the same beautiful system.”
Sharma did not laugh. He usually did.
Samyukt found the supplier’s quotation under an unopened electricity bill. Sodium hypochlorite, surfactant, fragrance and empty five-litre cans. The total at the bottom was ₹1,16,840.
“Transfer eighty thousand today,” Sharma said. “Then I’ll see what I can do.”
Samyukt looked at the banking app open on his computer.
“I can do fifty.”
“Seventy-five.”
“Fifty-five, and you send the cans with the first load. I can’t supply liquid in my hands.”
There was a pause.
“Sixty-five.”
“Sixty, Sharma ji. Right now. Before you change your mind and before I remember that another supplier exists.”
This time Sharma gave a reluctant snort. “Sixty. But if the balance is not cleared this week, don’t call me with another story.”
“It’s never a story. It’s a tragedy.”
The call ended. Samyukt let the phone fall onto the desk and rubbed his face with both hands.
He could transfer sixty thousand only by pushing the account into its overdraft and hoping the hotel released its payment before the next round of debits arrived. That was not business planning. That was throwing two stones into the air and hoping they struck each other instead of his head.
His phone rang again.
The screen showed Maa.
He answered at once. “Haan, Maa?”
“You left without breakfast.”
“I ate.”
“Tea is not breakfast.”
“There were two biscuits.”
“Samyukt.”
He smiled despite himself. “I’ll eat something.”
“Properly.”
“Properly.”
“And call the landlord. He asked whether you had seen his message.”
The second person asking for money had found him through his mother.
The smile disappeared. “I saw it.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Everything is fine. Payment is coming today.”
The lie came easily because it was almost the truth. Payment was supposed to come today. There was always a thin bridge between reassurance and dishonesty, and Samyukt had become very good at standing on it.
“Come home on time,” Naina said. “Ishita wants to discuss something with you.”
“What did she do?”
“Why do you assume she did something?”
“Experience.”
His mother laughed softly. The sound loosened something in his chest.
“Eight thirty,” she said.
“I’ll try.”
“That means nine thirty.”
“Eight forty-five. Final offer.”
“Eat.”
She ended the call before he could negotiate further.
Samyukt opened his messaging app and stared at the hotel accountant’s last reply.
Will check and update.
It had arrived four days ago.
He typed a polite reminder, deleted it and called instead.
The accountant answered after the fifth ring. “Yes?”
“Good morning, sir. Samyukt from Samar Chemicals. I’m calling regarding invoice 2147.”
Keys clicked at the other end. “That invoice is on hold.”
“Why?”
“Purchase-order mismatch.”
“The quantity was revised after delivery. Your housekeeping manager signed the new challan.”
“Then send the revised invoice.”
Samyukt stopped moving.
On his desk, beneath a catalogue he had meant to sort last week, lay a sheet with REVISED written across the top in his own handwriting.
“I sent it,” he said, less confidently.
“Not on the portal.”
“I emailed it.”
“Portal submission is mandatory.”
He remembered opening the portal late one night, seeing the list of required fields and deciding he would do it the next morning when his head was clearer. Then a leaking drum had arrived. Then a customer had returned twenty cans because the labels were crooked. Then a creditor had called. Then it had become today.
“If I upload it now, how soon can you release the payment?” he asked.
“It will enter the next cycle.”
“Which is?”
“Friday.”
Samyukt looked at the date on the monitor. Monday.
“Sir, the material was delivered six weeks ago.”
“And the correct invoice has not been submitted.”
“The correction is one line.”
“The system doesn’t know that.”
“You know that.”
Silence.
Samyukt felt heat rise into his face. The man’s indifference, the absurdity of payment for a completed delivery being held hostage by one form, his own stupid delay—everything pressed against the same weak point.
“Sir, I have suppliers and deliveries waiting because your company has accepted the goods and—”
He stopped. Anger would not move the payment. It would only give the accountant a reason to end the call.
Samyukt inhaled through his nose and let the breath settle low in his abdomen, the way he once had before releasing an arrow.
“I apologise,” he said. “Tell me exactly what is missing. I’ll complete it while we’re on the phone.”
The accountant’s voice softened by a degree. “Upload the revised invoice, signed challan and credit note. Mark the purchase-order revision in remarks.”
For the next twelve minutes, Samyukt did precisely what he was told. The payment still would not arrive before Friday, but the accountant agreed to request an exception.
It was not a victory. It was movement, and movement would have to do.
By eleven, the supplier had received ₹60,000. The business account was overdrawn by ₹21,588. By noon, the landlord had sent another message. At twelve thirty, an old customer called to complain that the floor cleaner’s fragrance was weaker than the previous batch. At one fifteen, Samyukt ate cold aloo paratha over the ledger while watching a delivery tempo reverse within an inch of the front shutter.
The third person asking for money arrived at three.
Mr Sethi never raised his voice. Samyukt would have preferred shouting. Shouting was honest. Mr Sethi spoke with the patient disappointment of a schoolteacher discussing a capable child who had chosen to fail.
He entered wearing a pale grey shirt despite the September heat. His gaze moved once around the shop: the half-filled drums, the packed cartons, the ageing computer, the framed photograph near the desk.
Samar stood in that photograph with one hand on a newly painted signboard and the other around nineteen-year-old Samyukt’s shoulder. The board read SAMAR CHEMICALS — INDUSTRIAL & HOUSEKEEPING SOLUTIONS. Both of them looked exhausted and absurdly proud.
Mr Sethi sat without being invited.
“How is Naina ji?” he asked.
“She’s well.”
“And your sister?”
“Also well.”
“Good. Family should be well.” He folded his hands over his stomach. “Your father understood that.”
Samyukt’s jaw tightened.
The original ₹5 lakh loan had Samar’s signature on it. Years of interest, partial payments and missed months had turned it into something that behaved less like a number and more like weather. Always present. Occasionally violent.
“I transferred twenty-five thousand last month,” Samyukt said.
“Interest was due before that.”
“I know what was due.”
“Then you know why I’m here.”
“A large payment is clearing this week.”
“You said that last week.”
“Because it was supposed to clear last week.”
Mr Sethi glanced again at Samar’s photograph. “Your father also trusted people’s promises.”
The heat in Samyukt’s face returned, faster this time.
“If you came to discuss repayment, discuss repayment. Don’t talk about my father.”
Mr Sethi studied him. Then he smiled—not warmly, but with recognition. He had found the boundary.
“Forty thousand by Saturday,” he said. “After that, we’ll discuss a new schedule.”
“Twenty-five.”
“Forty.”
“Thirty, and I’ll give you the next date in writing.”
“Your writing has not been especially profitable for either of us.”
Samyukt’s fingers curled beneath the desk.
He wanted to stand. He wanted to tell the man exactly what kind of person used someone’s dead father to frighten him. Instead, he looked at the cartons waiting to be dispatched and thought of the rent, Ishita’s plans and his mother counting grocery money without letting him see.
“Thirty-five,” he said.
Mr Sethi rose. “Saturday.”
At the door, he stopped beside the photograph.
“Samar was a good man,” he said. “Good men often leave complicated accounts.”
When he was gone, Samyukt remained behind the desk for several seconds.
Then he opened the bottom drawer, took out a roll of billing paper and threw it hard against the wall.
It bounced once and landed under a chair.
“Excellent,” he muttered. “Very frightening.”
He retrieved it, because billing paper cost money.
At eight twenty-six that evening, Samyukt pulled down the shop shutter. His shoulders ached as he fitted the lock. The market around him was still bright—pharmacies, coaching centres, food stalls and mobile shops fighting the darkness with white LEDs and handwritten offers. Scooters squeezed through gaps that did not exist. Someone nearby was frying momos. A delivery rider argued with a security guard while three people gave both of them directions.
Dwarka moved around him with the confidence of a place expecting tomorrow to resemble today.
His phone vibrated.
Raghav: Game tonight. No excuses.
Kabir: He will say he has work.
Raghav: He always has work. We are rescuing him from capitalism.
Samyukt typed while walking towards his motorcycle.
Samyukt: Capitalism has better aim than you.
Raghav: Personal attack. 10 pm.
Kabir: 10:30. Raghav saying 10 means 10:30.
Raghav: Betrayal from inside the house.
Samyukt smiled and put the phone away.
Home was a two-bedroom rented flat less than fifteen minutes from the shop, although the journey took longer on evenings when every red light seemed to choose him personally. When he opened the door at eight fifty-three, Ishita was sitting cross-legged on the floor with her laptop, three notebooks and an expression usually associated with court appeals.
She looked at the wall clock. “Eight forty-five, final offer.”
“Traffic.”
“The national excuse.”
Naina emerged from the kitchen carrying a steel bowl. “Wash your hands. Food is ready.”
“I need to change.”
“Hands first.”
“I’m twenty-five.”
“Then by now you should know to wash them without being told.”
He obeyed.
Dinner was rajma, rice and the onion salad that Naina always made too spicy and insisted was perfectly fine. Samyukt ate his first serving quickly enough that she put more rice on his plate without asking.
“Slowly,” she said. “No one is taking it away from you.”
“I might,” Ishita said.
“You already took half the rajma.”
“Psychology graduates require protein.”
“You graduated with a BA, not from a wrestling academy.”
Ishita nudged her laptop towards him. An application form filled the screen.
“MA entrances,” she said. “Two forms close this week.”
“Then fill both.”
“Both have fees.”
“How much?”
She told him. It was not a large amount. Today, every amount had become large.
“Fill them,” he repeated.
“Bhai, I can wait. I’m also applying for jobs.”
“Do both.”
“I don’t want you paying for everything.”
“Good. When you become a famous psychologist, I’ll send all my bills to you.”
“You need a psychologist before that.”
“I live with one.”
“Exactly. Free treatment, still no improvement.”
Naina smiled, but her eyes stayed on Samyukt. “Did the payment come?”
He took a drink of water.
“It’s processed. Friday, most likely.”
Not a lie. Not completely.
“And the landlord?” she asked.
“Handled.”
“Samyukt—”
“Maa.” He tried to keep his tone gentle. “I said I’ll manage it.”
The words came out more sharply than he intended. Naina lowered her eyes to her plate.
The silence lasted only a moment, but he hated himself inside it.
“Sorry,” he said. “Long day.”
She placed another spoonful of rajma on his plate. “That is why you should be home on Sundays.”
He almost told her about Mr Sethi. He could have said the number aloud—thirty-five thousand by Saturday—and watched the burden become something shared.
Instead, he said, “This Sunday. Promise.”
After dinner, Ishita returned to her applications. Naina watched a television serial at low volume. Samyukt sat at the small table near the balcony and opened the old ledger he had brought home from the shop.
Most of its pages were in his father’s handwriting: rounded Hindi notes, hurried English abbreviations and customers’ names followed by small comments that no accounting software would accept.
Paid late, but daughter’s wedding. Give time.
Good man. Business weak. Do not pressure.
Brother’s friend. Help if possible.
Samar had built the business from nothing and then treated its money as if every relative’s emergency had a legal claim over it. Samyukt had spent six years resenting that kindness and trying to preserve it at the same time.
On the inside cover, his father had written a sentence in blue ink:
Neki kar, dariya mein daal.
Do good and cast it into the river.
Samyukt ran his thumb over the words.
His father’s last meaningful advice returned to him often. It had come during an ordinary conversation, long before breathlessness, traffic lights and a desperate drive to the hospital turned every earlier moment into a final one.
Never leave kindness, empathy and compassion behind. You will not find happiness without them.
He shut the ledger.
At ten thirty-seven, he put on his headset and joined the game.
“The industrialist arrives,” Raghav announced. “How many multinational corporations did you acquire today?”
“Three,” Samyukt said. “I rejected a fourth. Their work culture was poor.”
Kabir’s voice came through more quietly. “You sound tired.”
“He always sounds tired,” Raghav said. “That’s his brand.”
“I’m fine.”
“Payment came?” Kabir asked.
Samyukt selected his character and stared at the loading screen. Kabir remembered things people hoped he had forgotten.
“Friday.”
Neither friend spoke for a second.
Then Raghav said, “All right. Tonight we lose because of skill, not depression.”
“We lose because you rush alone,” Kabir replied.
“I create opportunities.”
“For the enemy.”
The first match began. For forty minutes, Samyukt’s world became clean and immediate: footsteps through the headset, ammunition counts, doorways, angles, the position of two people he trusted. Raghav pushed every fight as though hesitation were a moral failure. Kabir repaired bad decisions while complaining about them. Samyukt watched the edges, noticed movement first and still followed Raghav into situations all three of them knew were foolish.
They lost twice and won once.
During the next loading screen, Ishita raised the television volume in the other room.
“…recorded across multiple seismic stations,” a news anchor was saying. “However, officials have clarified that no earthquake occurred.”
“One minute,” Samyukt said, pulling one side of the headset away.
On television, a scientist stood beside a graph of thin, repeating spikes.
“The signal resembles a low-frequency seismic event,” she explained, “but we have found no corresponding epicentre, surface movement or known tectonic cause. At present, there is no reason for public alarm.”
Ishita looked back at him. “Earthquake without an earthquake?”
“Instrument error,” Samyukt said.
Kabir had heard the broadcast through Samyukt’s microphone. “At multiple stations?”
“Congratulations,” Raghav said. “The earth has discovered bugs.”
The anchor moved on to a political debate. Ishita lowered the volume again.
Samyukt put his headset back on, but the next match did not hold him. The room felt close despite the open balcony door. He got up and stepped outside.
Below, Dwarka was settling into its usual night sounds—distant horns, a dog barking and the whistle of a pressure cooker in another flat. Nothing shook. Through the open door, the water in the glass on his table remained perfectly still.
Yet the air felt heavier than it had that morning.
Samyukt drew a slow breath into his abdomen.
It did not settle him.
For no reason he could name, he looked up.
The sky above the apartment blocks was clear and empty.
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
Kabir: It happened again. Same pattern. Same interval.
Samyukt read the message twice.
Before he could reply, a dull heat gathered beneath his ribs. It was gone within a breath, but for that brief moment it had felt almost deliberate.
He pressed a hand against the spot and waited.
Nothing happened.
Below him, Dwarka continued as though nothing had changed.