The Resignation Heist
A man resigns in the morning, regrets it by 9:10 a.m., and spends the rest of the day fighting HR, buffaloes, hippos, and dogs — all inside his imagination.
Never watch motivational videos. Even if YouTube throws a thousand at your face for free.
Why? Well, it was 9 a.m. on the first day of the month, when I watched a motivational video about chasing your dream.
At 9:07 a.m., I resigned from my job in a fit of moral courage, caffeine, and temporary insanity. My hands trembled as I kept the resignation letter on the HR's desk, but my chest swelled with pride.
At 9:10, Netflix reminded me I needed to pay the monthly bill. And so did my landlord, my bank, and other stupid drugs I was addicted to pay every month. My “dream life” suddenly looked like sleeping on a pavement with dogs licking my face to comfort me.
So now, after regaining my sanity, my goal was simple: get that resignation letter back from HR before 5 p.m.
I walked up to Rita at the HR desk. She folded her arms and glared at me. My stomach twisted. My palms were damp.
Why, Nikhil? Why did you have to write those words? “Better opportunities” would have worked just fine. But I compared the shit in our toilet to the HR. Even Shakespeare wouldn’t have dared. But no, I had to. And now I was standing here, waiting to be flushed first.
I cleared my throat. “Hi, small mistake. I’d like to un-submit my resignation.”
She stared at me for a moment. Then she smiled, the kind of smile you give before throwing someone into a well. “You do?” She chuckled. “Well, I thought HR was a shit machine that needed to be flushed out urgently from the company?”
I swallowed the awkwardness, but my throat dried. “I didn’t mean that. Please don’t take it personally.”
She stood up, her chair screeching back. Her fists clenched, and I closed my eyes, bracing for the slap.This is it, Nikhil. Death by HR. Not with paperwork, but with a slap.
Silence.
I opened one eye. She was back at her desk, typing furiously.
“You mentioned my name in the letter,” she said flatly. “Said I should be flushed out first.”
My ears burned. My head throbbed. I kept thinking of an excuse. But there's no coming back when you compare the HR to shit in the office toilet. “I am sorry,” I whispered finally.
No answer. Only the rapid clack of her keyboard.
“I am really sorry… I was drunk,” I added quickly.
She looked at me, then at her watch. “At 9 a.m.?”
I nodded, avoiding her eyes. Yes, Rita, I am that hopeless. Please let me live. Don't flush me out.
“Anyway, I can’t help you, Nikhil. I already forwarded your resignation to the HR Head, Neha. Only she can help you. But she’s in back-to-back interviews till evening.”
I nodded like a saint accepting punishment. I opened my mouth again to apologise—but she raised her hand and showed me the middle finger.
I turned away, face burning. Wonderful. First I insult her, now she’s flipping me off. What’s next, will she charge me consultancy fees for ruining my own career?
Considering what I had written about the HR family, I was sure the Head HR, Neha might shoot me on sight.
Never ever call HR a shit head, or shitty head, or anything with the word shit. Lesson learned too late.
So instead of talking to her, I planned another route.
At noon, I recruited Sanjay, our office peon and part-time magician.
“Mission: distract. Goal: retrieve my letter from Neha's cabin.”
He nodded seriously. “Classic coffee spill operation.”
At exactly 12:15, Sanjay strutted with a cappuccino, flashing me a thumbs-up. I held my breath. Yes. This is it.
But instead of the coffee spilling, Sanjay did. He tripped, arms flailing, and fell flat on his back with a grunt like a dying buffalo. I swear I heard a buffalo grunt back from somewhere.
Rita rushed out to help him. I felt bad for Sunjay. He was grunting like a mad buffalo. But I flushed the guilt aside and focussed on my chance of entering Neha's cabin. My pulse shot up. I moved Sunjay's leg with my feet, jumped over him and tiptoed toward the door—
“Trying to steal stationery again?”
I froze.
Laxmi Aunty, the admin queen, blocked my path. Her sari swished as she raised a compass like a dagger. She reminded me of the hippo video I saw last night. I backed away instantly, imagining the hippo sitting on me, hammering the compass into my skull after crushing my muscles with her 500-pound body. This wasn’t death by resignation. This was death by stationery powered by the hippo.
I retreated faster than my bank balance on EMI day.
By 2:00, I was sweating buckets. My legs shook under my desk. My brain kept painting pictures: me begging on a street corner, coins clinking near my feet, dogs peeing near my street bed, pretty girls shutting their windows as I passed by their cars.
I was reminded I was still at the office when I heard the usual noise of my idiotic colleagues. The courier guy walked in, bag slung over his shoulder, whistling like God had sent him to save me.
I rushed to him and pulled him aside. His eyes widened in fear, like I was about to kidnap him.
“Look, take this money.” I shoved a ₹500 note at him. “Bring me the resignation letter from the head HR's desk.”
He looked at the note, smirked, and slid it into his trousers like a magician hiding a card. “₹1000. I’ll consider this ₹500 as advance.”
My jaw clenched. This idiot is negotiating my life like vegetables at a market. The clock mocked me. I shoved him another note.
Ten minutes later, he returned, gesturing at the stairs.
“Here’s your letter.”
I tried to snatch it, but he pulled back until I handed him more money. Grinding my teeth, I shoved it at him and ripped open the paper.
It wasn’t God. The idiot must have been sent by the devil. He hadn’t brought my resignation — just some random report.
I almost tore my hair out. A scream escaped my throat. People turned to look—even Shalini, the pretty girl who never noticed me, gave me a concerned glance.
I sank in my chair, clutching the useless file. My wallet was lighter by ₹2000, my dignity lighter by a ton.
Bloody illiterate courier. How hard is it to steal something?
By 4:30, my head was doing somersaults. Sweat ran down my back. My heart hammered so loudly I thought people could hear it. My mind tortured me with vivid images of my future life on the street. This time, the dogs weren’t licking my face — they were humping on my street bed.
No, I had to stop it. I had to do something.
Then I saw Neha walking through the door. I kept staring, hoping she’d notice, but she avoided me as if I were invisible. I walked toward her, but she barged straight into her cabin.
My last chance. I jumped up, but the attendant blocked me at the door. I paced the corridor, my shoes squeaking, my shirt sticking to my back.
This wasn’t an office anymore. This was a jail, and I was the prisoner waiting for judgment — just to save my bed from the humping dogs.
When she finally came out, I blurted, “I made a mistake. Please don’t process my resignation. I need this job.”
She stared at me. Silent. Her eyes drilled into me. My brain replayed every word I’d written for her: Shitty Smelly HR. Head of No Heads. Useless Smelly Queen.
My chest tightened. My knees wobbled.
Finally, she said, “Nikhil, if you have a problem with us not fixing the toilets, just complain. No need to decorate your letters with adjectives from the toilet.”
I swallowed hard. I’m dead. Completely dead.
“And if you flush out all the HRs,” she added, folding her arms, “who’ll save you when you do something this stupid?”
I stared at her feet—wide, planted firmly, weirdly attractive in the moment—and muttered, “I’m really sorry. I didn’t—”
“Keep your lies,” she cut me off. “Anyway, we never process resignations on the same day. There’s a 24-hour cooling-off rule.”
Relief washed over me like cold water. My legs almost gave way. “So… I’m not fired?”
She smiled. “Nope.”
I felt the urge to kiss the ugly lady, but better sense prevailed. In my head, the dogs stopped humping and looked at me with grief over their lost bed.
I thanked her and started walking toward my desk. Then it struck me — I shouldn’t keep my resignation letter anywhere near sight. Not for my sake. For the sake of humanity… and Netflix.
I turned back. “Can I have my letter?” Guilt clung to my voice.
Neha chuckled and shook her head. “I pasted it on the CEO’s toilet.”
“You what?” My head spun like a flywheel.
“Yes,” she shrugged. “I figured, why not use it for the office’s advantage. At least now he’ll release funds for toilet repairs.”
My eyes bulged.
“Well, thank me. He wanted to fire you. But I saved your job.”
Relief flickered. At least I had my job… my position was safe.
I nodded and turned back, but her words followed me. “Well, there’s a slight change. You won’t be working at the same desk now.”
“Then?” I asked weakly.
Neha pointed to the desk Sanjay had placed neatly by the toilet. “To convince the CEO to let you keep your job, I had to give up your present position. He demoted you to the most junior role instead. That’s your new desk.”
She patted my arm with her polished hand and walked away.
I stood frozen, sweat dripping, silently cursing the motivational video I had watched that morning.
The dogs started humping again.
The buffalo grunted in reply to my grunts.
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