THE "YES SIR" CULTURE

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Why This Book?

WARNING: DO NOT READ THIS IF YOU ARE HAPPY.

This is not a motivational book.

If you have picked this book looking for "5 Tips to Become a CEO," or "How to Double Your Salary in 1 Year," or "How to Be Happy at Work," please put this book down right now.

There is a 'Self-Help' section in the bookstore full of colorful books that will tell you sweet lies. Go there. They will sell you a dream.

This book is here to show you the nightmare.

This book is a mirror. A dirty, cracked, honest mirror.

And looking into a mirror is not always nice. Especially when you have been wearing a mask for so long that you have forgotten what your real face looks like.

Who is this book for?

It is for the Sales Manager who wears a shiny ₹20,000 suit to impress a client, but checks his bank balance on his phone before ordering lunch because the EMI was cut yesterday.

It is for the Employee who wakes up at 7:00 AM with a heavy stone on his chest. The person who snoozes the alarm three times, stares at the ceiling fan, and drags his body to the shower like a prisoner walking to jail.

It is for the "Yes Sir" Man who sits in the meeting room, nodding his head at the Boss's stupid idea, while his soul is screaming "No! This is wrong!" inside his head.

It is for the Father who buys the most expensive video game or cycle for his child, just to hide the guilt that he missed the School Annual Day function—again.

It is for the Fresh Graduate who thinks a "Corporate Job" is the key to freedom. He does not know he is signing a contract for a 40-year sentence in an air-conditioned cage.

It is for You, if you have ever sat in your car in the office parking lot for 10 minutes after work. You turn off the engine, but you don't get out. You just sit there, staring at nothing, gathering the energy to go home and pretend to be happy for your family.

Why did I write this?

I wrote this because we have forgotten who we are.

Somewhere between the "Offer Letter" and the "Resignation Letter," we stopped being Humans.

We became "Resources."

We became lines on an Excel sheet. We became "Headcount." We became "Cost to Company."

I wrote this because I am tired of the big lie called the "Corporate Family."

They tell us, "We are a family." But have you ever seen a family that fires its children just to save money?

Have you ever seen a family that makes you compete against your brother for a promotion?

We are making a bad trade every day:

We trade our youth for a salary that is just enough to survive, but not enough to be free.

We trade our eyesight for laptop screens.

We trade our back and spine for office chairs.

We trade our freedom for the fake safety of a monthly SMS from the bank.

I look around my office, and I see a graveyard.

I see my friends dying at the age of 30, even though they won't be buried until they are 75.

They walk, they talk, they send emails, they attend Zoom calls, they laugh at bad jokes—but the light in their eyes is gone.

They are Corporate Zombies. They run on coffee and fear.

I wrote this book to tell you one thing: You are not crazy.

The panic attack you feel on Sunday evening at 6 PM? Millions feel it.

The rage you feel when your Boss presents your idea in the meeting as his own, and you have to sit there and clap? We have all swallowed that poison.

The numbness of staring at an Excel sheet at 2:00 AM during "Month End," wondering if this is what you were born to do? You are not alone.

The frustration of opening your laptop to fix a "Server Bug" while your family is cutting a birthday cake in the next room? Every IT guy feels it.

The guilt of handing a Termination Letter to a colleague you ate lunch with yesterday, just because Management said so? Every HR feels that weight.

The shame of begging a client for a payment like a beggar? We have all been there.

The emptiness you feel after the company "Success Party"? We all feel it.

The fear that one day, you will be replaced by a younger, cheaper guy, or an AI tool? Everyone has it.

You are not crazy. You are just awake in a world where everyone else is pretending to sleep.

What will happen after you read this?

I cannot promise that you will quit your job tomorrow and travel the world.

I cannot promise that you will become a millionaire.

In fact, this book might make you angry. It might make you cry. It might make you look at your Boss and realize he is just as trapped as you are.

But I promise you one thing: The lie will break.

You will stop blaming yourself for a system that is designed to use you.

You will realize that your worth is not defined by your "Yearly Rating" or your "Target Achievement."

You will realize that you are not a Designation. You are a living, breathing soul that has been asleep for too long.

Read this book to wake up.

Welcome to the reality.

Welcome to The "Yes Sir" Culture.

INTRODUCTION: The Golden Cage

Imagine a wild bird.

It flies in the open sky. It hunts for its own food. It sits on any tree it wants. It feels the wind, the rain, and the sun. It is alive. It is free.

Now, imagine you catch that bird.

You clip its wings so it cannot fly away.

You put it in a cage made of pure, shining gold.

Inside the cage, you give it the most delicious food, filtered water, and cool air-conditioning. You keep it safe from storms and hungry animals.

From the outside, the world looks at the cage and claps.

The neighbors say, "Wow! What a lucky bird. Look at that gold! Look at that lifestyle. It has everything!"

Parents tell their little birds, "Look at him. Work hard so one day you can also get a cage like that."

But ask the bird.

Does the gold matter if it cannot open its wings?

Does the tasty food matter if it has forgotten how to hunt?

Does the safety matter if it cannot breathe free air?

The bird is not lucky. The bird is a prisoner.

We are that bird.

The Corporate World is that Golden Cage.

The Salary is the food they give us to keep us quiet.

The Designation (Manager, VP, Head) is the shiny Gold bars designed to satisfy our ego.

The EMI is the heavy lock on the door that keeps us from escaping.

The "Company Laptop" is the digital chain that ensures the cage travels with us, even to our bedroom and our family dinner.

The "Yearly Appraisal" is the mirror they place inside the cage, to trick us into thinking we are growing, when in reality, we are just getting older.

The "Weekends" are the sedatives (nashe ki goli) they give us, just enough to numb the pain so we can survive another Monday.

And the "Retirement Fund" is the cruel promise that we can finally fly... but only after our wings have become too weak to flap.

We spent our whole childhood training for this cage.

In school, they told us: "Study hard, get good marks." Why? To get a good cage.

In college, we fought with our friends, we competed, we stressed ourselves. Why? To get the best spot in the cage.

And now that we are inside, we are too scared to leave.

Why? Because we have forgotten how to fly.

We have forgotten how to survive without the monthly SMS that says: "Salary Credited."

The Illusion of Freedom

We think we are free because we get Saturday and Sunday off.

But are we really free?

A prisoner who gets a 2-day break is still a prisoner.

Try switching off your phone for 24 hours.

Try leaving the office at 5:00 PM sharp for one week.

Try telling your Boss that his idea is stupid.

Try taking a holiday without carrying your laptop.

Do this, and you will see the bars of the cage instantly.

You will feel the chain pulling your neck.

You will realize that the "Company Phone" is not a gift; it is a Digital Leash (Kutta-Patta). It ensures that even when you are at home with your family, your mind belongs to them.

The Tragic End

This book is the story of that cage.

It is the story of how we enter it with a smile, thinking we have "Made It."

It is the story of how we decorate our cage with expensive curtains (Loans), big cars, and fancy gadgets, just to prove to the world that we are happy.

And it is the story of how we eventually die inside it.

And the saddest part?

When the bird dies in the cage, the owner doesn't cry.

He just cleans the cage.

He polishes the gold bars.

And he puts a new, younger bird inside.

The cycle continues.

Read this at your own risk.

This book might break the lock. It might wake you up.

Are you ready to see the bars?

Chapter 1: The First Lie

Part 1: The Interview Room

The Waiting Room: The smell of Desperation

It was 10:45 AM. My interview was scheduled for 11:00 AM, but I had reached the building at 9:30 AM.

That is the first sign of middle-class desperation—we arrive too early because we are terrified of being late. We think that if we are early, Fate will be kind to us.

I was sitting in the reception area of a giant glass building in Cyber City. Everything was white, glass, and steel. It smelled expensive. It smelled like "Success."

The floor was so shiny that I could see the reflection of my worn-out black shoes. I had polished them three times in the morning, trying to hide the scuff marks, but the cracks in the cheap leather were still visible. I tucked my feet under the chair so the receptionist wouldn't notice my poverty.

I looked around. There were four other candidates. They looked confident. One was reading a magazine. Another was typing on a smartphone. I was just breathing.

I was wearing a dark blue suit. It wasn't mine. I didn't own a suit; I couldn't afford one.

I had borrowed it from my cousin, who was two inches taller and ten kilos heavier than me. The sleeves were slightly long, covering my knuckles. The collar was loose, but the tie was choking me. I felt like a child wearing his father's clothes, pretending to be a man.

But I didn't care about the fashion. I needed this job.

Inside my head, a calculator was running:

Father's retirement: 6 months left.
Home Loan: Pending.
Sister's College Fee: Due next week.

The weight of my entire family was sitting on my thin shoulders, hidden under that oversized borrowed blazer. I wasn't just here for a career; I was here for Survival.

The Freezing Room: The Temperature of Fear

"Ziya?" the receptionist called out. Her voice was sharp, mechanical.

I stood up. My legs felt like jelly. "Yes, ma'am."

"Room 304. Sir is waiting."

I walked towards the heavy glass door. My heart was beating so loud. Dhak. Dhak. Dhak.

I took a deep breath, whispered a small prayer to God, and pushed the door open.

The first thing that hit me was the Cold.

Outside, it was 40 degrees—a typical scorching Hyderabad summer. The sun was burning the asphalt.

But inside this room, it was Antarctica.

The Air Conditioner was set to 18 degrees. It wasn't just cool; it was freezing.

It felt unnatural. It was a coldness that didn't just touch your skin; it touched your bones.

I realized much later that this temperature was a symbol. The corporate world is designed to be cold. It is designed to numb you so you don't feel pain.

"Come in, sit down," the man said.

He didn't look up from my resume. He was a man in his mid-40s, balding, with thick rimless glasses. He looked tired, bored, and powerful.

He wore a watch that probably cost more than my father's two months salary.

"Thank you, Sir," I said. My voice shook slightly.

I sat down. The chair was leather, soft, and comfortable. Too comfortable. It felt like a trap.

I placed my hands on my lap to stop them from shaking.

My palms were sweating because of nervousness, but my body was shivering because of the AC.

That contrast—the freezing dry air of the room and the sticky sweat running down my back—is a feeling I will never forget.

He took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and looked at me.

The technical grilling hadn't started yet. First, he wanted to test my acting skills.

"So, Ziya," he started, leaning back in his leather chair. "Tell me something about yourself."

My Inner Truth:

Sir, honestly? I am Ziya. I love sleeping until 10 AM. I write poems in secret because I am too shy to show them to the world. I hate wearing ties—this one is choking me. I am scared of the dark, and I am sitting here only because my father has less than ₹5,000 in his bank account.

My Corporate Answer:

But I didn't say that. Instead, I pressed the 'Play' button on the mental tape recorder I had prepared.

"Sir, I am a result-oriented professional with a MBA degree and a passion for sales. I am a quick learner, a team player, and highly motivated to achieve targets under pressure."

I spoke like a parrot. I had rehearsed these buzzwords in front of the mirror fifty times.

He nodded. He didn't care who I really was. He just wanted to check if I could speak English without fumbling.

The "Why" Trap

"Why are you looking for a change?"

My Inner Truth:

Because my current salary is peanuts. Because my current Boss is a psychopath who calls me on Sunday evenings. Because I am broke, Sir, and my landlord is threatening to throw me out.

My Corporate Answer:

"Sir, I am looking for better growth opportunities. My current organization was great, but I feel I have reached a saturation point there. I want a challenging environment where I can push my limits and contribute to a larger vision."

Lie.

I didn't want challenges. I wanted peace. I didn't want to "push my limits"; I wanted to pay my bills. But in an interview, you never ask for money; you ask for "Growth."

The Ego Massage

"What do you know about our company?"

My Inner Truth:

Absolutely nothing. I just Googled your company name 10 minutes ago in the auto-rickshaw while coming here. I don't care if you sell software or soap, as long as you pay me on the 30th.

My Corporate Answer:

"Sir, this company is a market leader in the B2B sector. I was reading about your recent merger and your Vision 2030. It is very inspiring to see how you are disrupting the market. I would love to be a part of this journey."

He smiled. He loved hearing praises about his cage. I was stroking his ego, and it was working perfectly.

The Sales Pitch

"Why should we hire you?"

My Inner Truth:

Because I am cheap? Because I am desperate? Because I will say 'Yes Sir' to everything you demand?

My Corporate Answer:

"Sir, because I bring value to the table. I don't just work hard; I work smart. If you hire me, I will treat this company as my own."

Lie.

The "Humble Brag" Trap

"What are your greatest strengths and weaknesses?"

This is a trick question.

If I tell him my real weakness, he will reject me. If I say "I have no weaknesses," he will think I am arrogant. So, I have to pick a weakness that is actually a benefit for him.

My Inner Truth (Weakness):

Sir, my weakness is that I procrastinate until the last minute. I hate waking up before 9 AM. I spend 4 hours a day on Instagram reels. And if someone shouts at me, I cry in the washroom.

My Corporate Answer (Weakness):

"Sir, my weakness is that I am a bit of a Perfectionist. Sometimes, I get so involved in the details of anything because I want it to be flawless, that I lose track of time. But I am working on time management."

Lie.

(I basically told him: 'My weakness is that I work too perfectly.' What a magnificent lie. It's like saying, 'My weakness is that I love you too much.')

My Inner Truth (Strength):

My strength is that I can survive on Maggi for 30 days. My strength is that I can hide my depression behind a smile.

My Corporate Answer (Strength):

"My strength is my Resilience. I don't give up easily. No matter how tough the target is, I stay focused until it is achieved."

The Bollywood Script

"Tell me about a challenge you faced and how you handled it."

He leaned forward. He wanted a story. He wanted the "STAR". He wanted to see if I could be a Hero in a crisis.

My Inner Truth:

The biggest challenge I faced was this morning, Sir. I had only 100 rupees in my pocket. The auto driver asked for 150. I had to walk 2 kilometers in this heat to reach your office, sweating in this suit, just to beg for this job. That was the challenge. And how did I handle it? I swallowed my pride and walked.

My Corporate Answer:

I cleared my throat and invented a fiction worthy of an Oscar.

"Sir, during our annual college fest, I was the Head of Sponsorship. Three days before the event, our main sponsor backed out due to budget issues. We were short of INR 50,000. The event was about to be cancelled.

I took it as a personal challenge. I didn't give up. I went to the local market and pitched to 30 different shopkeepers in one day. I explained the branding value to them.

By evening, I had convinced 5 local vendors to contribute 10k each. Not only did the event happen, but we also generated a surplus. I learned that 'No' is just a stepping stone to 'Yes'."

The Reality:

In reality? There was no "Main Sponsor." I had forgotten to approach anyone until the last date. And that 50k? I begged my uncle—who runs a hardware shop—to give the money. He gave it only because my Mom called him and requested. I didn't do any "pitching"; I did "Family Emotional Blackmail."

But he nodded enthusiastically. He loved the story. He saw a "Leader" in me. I saw a "Liar" in the mirror.

But I sold myself like a packet of detergent powder—"Best Quality, Lowest Price."

He seemed satisfied with the acting performance.

Now that the formalities were over, he decided to check the engine.

The Interrogation: Product Verification

He picked up a pen and switched to technical mode.

"Okay, good answer. Now let's talk business."

"What are the 4 Ps of Marketing?"

I answered them all. Fast. Accurate. Like a machine.

I had memorized the textbooks. I had eaten the definitions for breakfast. I was a "Good Student."

He nodded, unimpressed. He had heard these robot answers a hundred times before from a hundred other hungry boys like me.

To him, I wasn't a person. I was a "Product" on a shelf. He was just checking if the product had any manufacturing defects.

Then, he put the pen down.

He took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and looked at me.

For the first time, he made eye contact. The boredom vanished. His eyes became sharp, like a laser.

This was it. The moment of truth.

"Ziya," he said softly. "You have good marks. But marks don't generate Revenue."

I swallowed hard. My throat was dry. "Yes, Sir."

He leaned forward, elbows on the table.

"Tell me," he asked, "Where do you see yourself in 5 years?"

The Lie: Murdering the Soul

The room went silent.

The only sound was the low hummmm of the AC and the ticking of the clock on the wall.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Time stopped for me.

In that one second, my brain flashed images of what I really wanted.

The truth was screaming inside my head, banging against my skull:

In 5 years? Sir, honestly?

I want to be living in a small house near the mountains. I want to wake up without an alarm. I want to take photographs of nature. I want to write stories. I want to sit with my parents and laugh without worrying about the electricity bill. I want to be free. I don't want to be in this freezing room, wearing this uncomfortable suit, selling things I don't care about to people I don't like.

That was the truth. That was my soul speaking. That was the real Ziya.

But then, the Calculator in my head screamed louder.

If you tell him the truth, he will reject you. If he rejects you, you won't get the salary. If you don't get the salary, who will pay the EMI? Who will buy medicine for Dad?

So, I made a choice.

I decided to murder the writer inside me.

I strangled the boy who loved the mountains.

I looked into his eyes, put on a fake, confident smile—the "Salesman Smile"—and I delivered The First Lie.

"Sir," I said, my voice steady and strong now.

"In 5 years, I see myself as a Senior Business Manager in this prestigious company. I want to lead a high-performing team, drive aggressive revenue growth, and dedicate my life to the vision of this organization. Sales is not just a job for me, Sir. It is my passion. Work is worship."

The Interviewer smiled.

It wasn't a warm smile. It was the smile of a hunter who had just caught a bird in the net.

He knew I was lying. I knew I was lying.

But this is the Corporate Game. He wanted a slave who would pretend to love the chains.

"Good answer," he said. "Very good answer. Please wait outside for the next round."

The Marathon of Humiliation

I walked out of the room, thinking the battle was over.

I was wrong. The war had just begun.

In the Corporate World, they don't just check your skills; they check your Endurance. They want to see how much torture you can handle before you break.

Round 2: The "Manager" (The Stressed Soul)

Half an hour later, I was called in again.

This time, it was the Reporting Manager.

He looked like he hadn't slept in 20 years. Dark circles, messy hair, and a tie that was too loose. He was holding a Red Bull can, looking at my resume with suspicion.

He didn't care about my "Vision" or my "Values." He only cared about one thing: His Targets.

He didn't ask "Introduce yourself." He went straight to the point.

Question 1: The Number Game

("Forget the English. Show me the Maths.")

He tapped my resume with his pen.

"Ziya, I don't care about these fancy words like 'Hardworking' or 'Dedicated'. These words don't pay my bills. Tell me your numbers. What was your target last quarter, and how much did you achieve?"

My Corporate Answer:

"Sir, my target was 15 Lakhs. I did 18 Lakhs. That is 120% achievement. I was the star performer of my area."

(The Reality: My target was 15 Lakhs. I barely did 10 Lakhs. The remaining 5 Lakhs? I begged my friend to buy some stock and return it next month. In sales, we don't call it 'Lying'; we call it 'Adjusting the Numbers.')

Question 2: The "How" Trap

("Hope is not a plan.")

He wasn't impressed. He knew everyone lies.

"Okay, good numbers. But tell me HOW? If I give you a target of 20 Lakhs next month, what is your plan? Don't tell me 'I will try my best'. Even a loser tries his best."

This is the trap. He wants to know if I have a proper plan.

My Corporate Answer:

"Sir, I use the 'Reverse Calculation' method. To get 10 sales, I need 50 meetings. For 50 meetings, I need 500 calls. My plan is to make 25 calls every day before lunch, no matter what."

He nodded. He liked the math. To him, I wasn't a human; I was a Calling Machine.

Question 3: The "Extra Mile" Test

("Why you? Why not someone cheaper?")

"Everyone makes calls, Ziya," he said. "Why should I pay you a salary? What extraordinary thing have you done to close a tough deal?"

My Corporate Answer:

"Sir, I never accept 'No'. In my last job, a big client refused to meet me for 3 months. I found out he plays badminton at a local club every Tuesday. I joined that club just to meet him 'accidentally'. I closed the deal on the badminton court."

(The Reality: I basically stalked a man for a month. In normal life, this is called 'Creepy'. In Corporate life, this is called 'Dedication'.)

Question 4: The "Donkey" Test

("Will you destroy your personal life for me?")

Finally, he asked the real question.

"See, Ziya, we work very hard here. Month-end means we stay in office till midnight. Sundays are not holidays; they are for review. Can you handle this pressure?"

He wasn't asking if I could handle stress. He was asking: Are you ready to forget your family? Are you ready to stop sleeping?

I looked him in the eye and told the biggest lie of my life.

"Yes, Sir. I am a workaholic. I love pressure. I hate sitting idle."

He finally smiled. It was a cruel smile.

He ticked a box on his paper.

He didn't find a "Manager." He found a "Donkey" who was ready to carry his load.

"Okay," he said. "Wait outside for HR."

Round 3: The HR (The Vegetable Market)

Then came the HR Round.

This is not an interview; this is a Vegetable Market. But unlike a market where you can bargain, here, the price tag is already fixed, and you are the product on sale.

She placed a sheet of paper on the table. It was pre-printed.

"Ziya," she said, tapping the paper with her pen. "Congratulations. You have cleared first and second rounds."

My heart started racing.

"For this role," she continued, her voice flat and robotic, "We have a standard fixed package. We don't negotiate at this level."

She circled a number on the paper.

CTC: INR 6,00,000.

My eyes widened.

Six Lakhs.

My middle-class brain immediately fired up the calculator:

6,00,000 divided by 12 months equals... 50,000 Rupees per month.

Fifty Thousand.

That was a huge amount.

I imagined 100 crisp notes of 500 rupees in my hand every month.

I imagined sending money to my Dad. I imagined buying a bike.

The number "6 Lakhs" blinded me. It shone so bright that I couldn't see the darkness behind it.

"Is that okay with you?" she asked, already opening the next file, knowing the answer.

"Yes, Ma'am," I said quickly. "Absolutely."

I was scared that if I asked a single question, she would take the paper away.

I didn't ask about the "Variable Pay" (which I might never get).

I didn't ask about the "PF Deduction" (which locks my money away).

I didn't ask about "Professional Tax."

I just saw the 6 Lakhs. I didn't know then that CTC stands for "Cost To Company," not "Cash To Candidate."

The "Sky is the Limit" Lie

She saw that I was happy, but she wanted to make sure I was addicted. She wanted a slave who would run fast.

She pulled out another colorful sheet of paper. It had graphs and rising arrows.

"Ziya," she leaned forward, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret. "6 Lakhs is just the Fixed component. That's for average people. But for a performer like you? The sky is the limit."

She pointed to a column named 'Performance Linked Incentive (PLI)'.

"See this? If you achieve 100% of your target, you can earn an extra 2 Lakhs per year. If you do 120%, you can earn double."

She smiled warmly. It was the sweetest smile I had ever seen.

"And we have a very dynamic appraisal policy. If you perform well, you don't have to wait for a year. We give Fast-Track Hikes in 6 months."

The Dream:

My brain started multiplying numbers again.

6 Lakhs Fixed + 2 Lakhs Incentive = 8 Lakhs!

And if I get a hike in 6 months... Oh my God. I will be rich.

I looked at her. She looked like an angel helping me become a millionaire.

I promised myself right there: "I will work harder than anyone else. I will smash the targets."

The Reality (The Fine Print):

I was so naive.

I didn't know that the "Incentive" she promised was hidden behind an impossible maze of rules.

Six months later, when I finally hit my Sales Target and asked for my incentive, the Manager laughed.

"No, Ziya. You hit the Sales Target. But did you hit the Collection Target? No. Did you update the CRM daily? No. Your Quality Score is 80%, but for incentive, we need 90%."

The "Sky is the Limit" turned out to be a lie. The sky was closed.

And that "Fast-Track Hike"?

When I asked about it after performing like a donkey for 6 months, the same HR said:

"Oh, Ziya, the market condition is bad right now. We have frozen all hikes. Maybe next year."

That day in the interview room, she sold me a dream of a Ferrari, but handed me the keys to a bicycle.

I waited for the magic words. I waited for her to say, "You are hired." But she didn't. Instead, she closed his file, looked at her watch, and said the most terrifying sentence in the Corporate Dictionary: "Thank you, Ziya. You can leave for the day. We will get back to you."

My heart sank. "Will get back to you?" What does that mean? Does it mean Yes? Does it mean No? I wanted to ask, "Ma'am, please tell me now. My father is waiting for the news." But I couldn't. I just nodded like an obedient servant. "Thank you, Ma'am," I said, and walked out of the glass building.

The Torture of Silence (The Waiting Game)

After three rounds of acting, grilling, and begging, they sent me home.

"We will get back to you," they said.

The most dangerous sentence in the English language.

For the next three days, I didn't live. I just existed.

I became a slave to my phone.

Every time it vibrated, I jumped.

Was it them? Was it a rejection?

I refreshed my Gmail inbox 500 times a day.

Refresh. Nothing. Refresh. Nothing.

Those three days were psychological torture.

My brain played tricks on me.

Maybe I asked for too much money. Maybe I shouldn't have worn that blue tie. Maybe I am just not good enough.

This silence breaks you. It makes you desperate. By the third day, you are praying, "God, please just give me the job, I will do anything."

And that is exactly what they want. They want you desperate.

The Selection

Finally, on the fourth day evening, the call came.

"Congratulations, Ziya," the HR voice said. "You have been selected."

I should have been happy. I should have been jumping with joy. I had beaten 50 other candidates.

But I didn't feel joy. I felt Relief.

There is a big difference. Joy is when you win a game. Relief is when the torture stops.

I went to the washroom to wash my face.

The washroom was luxurious. Marble everywhere. Smelled like lemons.

I looked in the mirror.

The boy in the mirror looked the same. Same face, same hair.

But something had changed. His eyes looked a little less bright. They looked... older.

I loosened the tie that was choking me. I splashed cold water on my face to wash away the sweat.

But I couldn't wash away the feeling of betrayal.

I felt dirty.

I had just sold the next 5 years of my life (which actually became 10 years) for a monthly deposit of money.

I had promised to give them my loyalty, my time, my youth, and my dreams.

I pulled out my phone (a cheap Android with a cracked screen) and called my father.

"Papa," I said. "Selection ho gaya." (I got selected).

"Shabash beta!" (Well done, son!). I could hear the relief in his voice. "I knew you could do it. I am so proud of you. Tonight we will celebrate."

I heard the happiness in his voice, and I buried my guilt deep inside my heart like a secret grave.

It's okay, I told myself.

Everyone does it. This is how the world works. I will do this for a few years, save some money, clear the loans, and then I will quit. Then I will follow my passion.

I didn't know then that "a few years" never end.

I didn't know that the lie I told in that room would become my reality.

I didn't know that by saying "Yes, Sir" to him, I had said "No" to myself forever.

That day, in that freezing AC room of Cyber City, Ziya the Dreamer died.

And Ziya the Manager was born.

And the Manager never cries. He only calculates.

To Be Continued..........