Sudesh Rao
Harsh Gupta had always imagined his life would pass quietly between spreadsheets, half-drunk cups of tea, and the occasional team lunch where no one remembered his name, and that was perfectly fine with him because invisibility was his survival strategy in the large and chaotic Gurgaon office of Midas Synergy Solutions, a company that did everything and nothing at once, surviving on buzzwords and investor slides. He was a man who entered meetings late enough to avoid introductions and left early enough to avoid being assigned tasks, a man who owned three identical shirts in pale blue because choice gave him hives, a man who lived by the motto “no news is good news.” Which was why, when the email arrived on a Tuesday morning with the subject line “Congratulations, Acting CEO,” Harsh assumed it was spam, perhaps even a phishing attempt, and deleted it. Five minutes later another email came, this time from HR, marked urgent, with the same subject line. He clicked it open with trembling fingers and discovered, to his horror, that through some cosmic clerical error his name had been slotted in as interim Chief Executive Officer while the real CEO went off to meditate in the Himalayas.
He stared at the email as though it were a death sentence. He reread it thrice, hoping it would transform into something mundane like a reminder about fire drills, but it remained stubbornly life-ruining. Before he could even draft a polite refusal, a calendar invite appeared for a “CEO induction meeting,” and within ten minutes Nisha Verma from HR was standing at his cubicle with the expression of someone retrieving a cat from under a truck. “Mr. Gupta,” she said crisply, “come with me.” She led him to the executive floor, a place he had never dared enter, where the carpets were thick enough to muffle footsteps and the air smelled faintly of imported leather. She ushered him into a corner office with glass walls and a view of the city that made his stomach lurch. “This is your office now,” she said, as though pronouncing a curse. Harsh sat gingerly on the giant swivel chair, half-convinced alarms would go off.
The first day as CEO was a surreal horror film mixed with slapstick. Nisha, in her crisp saree and sharper eyes, walked him through the schedule with the tone of someone babysitting a confused uncle. “At eleven you will chair the leadership sync,” she said, placing a thick file in front of him, “at two you meet the investor liaison, and at five you have the town hall.” Harsh wanted to protest, to confess that he had no idea why he was there, but every time he opened his mouth his throat locked, and all that emerged was a nervous cough that Nisha interpreted as gravitas. By eleven he was seated at the head of a conference table, staring at senior managers who had never before acknowledged his existence. They launched into discussions about Q4 projections, burn rates, and pivot strategies. Harsh nodded furiously, not comprehending a word, until in a fit of panic he blurted out, “Why don’t we just do less?” The room fell silent. Then someone murmured, “Minimalist leadership. Brilliant.” Another chimed in, “Radical simplicity.” They all nodded, scribbling notes. Harsh, sweating through his shirt, realized he had accidentally said something that sounded intelligent.
By lunchtime Amit Sinha, the office gossip whose phone battery survived entirely on the energy of secrets, had already spun Harsh’s accidental promotion into legend. Half the office believed he had studied leadership in Japan under a Zen monk, while the other half whispered he was an undercover consultant planted by investors to test loyalty. Harsh, meanwhile, was hiding in the washroom, desperately googling “how to be a CEO,” but the Wi-Fi signal was weak and the only result that loaded was a Quora post suggesting “confidence, posture, and eating almonds.” He returned to his office nibbling on the almonds Nisha had left on the desk, hoping no one noticed his shaking hands.
At two, the investor liaison arrived, a smooth-talking man with a silk tie and a vocabulary of buzzwords that could stun cattle. He launched into an enthusiastic monologue about scaling synergies, leveraging bandwidth, and unlocking verticals. Harsh listened for ten minutes, brain numb, until out of sheer exhaustion he muttered, “Why don’t we stop using these words and talk like humans.” The room froze. The liaison blinked, then broke into a wide grin. “Refreshing! Exactly the disruption we need!” he exclaimed, slapping the table. Harsh, bewildered, nodded slowly, and by evening Nisha informed him that investors were thrilled with his “vision.”
By five, Harsh had to address the entire company at the town hall. Standing on stage, blinded by the spotlight, he clutched the microphone with sweaty palms. His prepared notes were a mess of jargon he didn’t understand, so instead he abandoned them and croaked, “Work less. Talk simply. Don’t overthink.” Then, because his mind blanked, he added, “And drink water.” The audience erupted in applause. Employees tweeted his lines with hashtags like #WaterLeadership and #SimpleCEO. By the time he stumbled off stage, Harsh had inadvertently become a workplace guru.
Back in his office, Harsh sat staring at the wall, unsure whether he had just destroyed the company or invented a new management style. Nisha entered, her expression unreadable. “Well, Mr. Gupta,” she said, “whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. They adore you.” He tried to confess, to tell her it was all a mistake, but she raised a finger and added softly, “Don’t spoil it. Sometimes accidents create leaders.” Then she left him alone with his confusion. Harsh removed his tie, loosened his collar, and whispered to himself, “I only wanted a quiet life.” Outside, the office buzzed with energy, employees energized by his accidental revolution, while Harsh wondered how long he could survive before the truth caught up with him.
Harsh barely slept that night, tossing and turning in his modest one-bedroom flat in Dwarka, staring at the ceiling fan as though it might provide corporate advice, his mind looping over the bizarre applause he had received for telling people to drink water, and he wondered if the world had gone mad or if he had unknowingly stepped into a parallel universe where incompetence was mistaken for vision. He arrived at the office the next morning hoping it had all been a dream, but the receptionist greeted him with “Good morning, sir!” in a voice so reverent he almost turned around to check if someone important was standing behind him. No, it was him. He was the important one. The thought made him queasy.
His calendar was already packed. Nisha, efficient as always, handed him the day’s schedule: a budget review with finance at ten, a strategy workshop with marketing at one, and a press interview at four. Harsh blinked at the last item in disbelief. “Press?” he croaked. “Yes,” said Nisha, “your town hall remarks went viral, business dailies are calling you the ‘Zen CEO.’ They want your insights on leadership.” Harsh felt his soul leave his body.
The finance meeting was a disaster disguised as genius. The CFO, a stern man with rimless glasses, explained the ballooning expenses in grim tones. Harsh, who couldn’t follow half the numbers, muttered, “Why don’t we… not spend money we don’t have?” intending it as a stupid joke. The room froze, then the CFO leaned forward, eyes shining. “Of course! Cash discipline! We’ve grown complacent. Brilliant call, sir.” The managers nodded eagerly, scribbling down his words. Harsh sat back, stunned, as if he had just performed black magic by stating the obvious.
At lunch, Amit Sinha cornered him in the pantry, whispering conspiratorially, “Sir, rumor is you used to be a monk before entering corporate life. Is it true you meditate twelve hours a day and that’s why you speak so little but so profoundly?” Harsh, chewing nervously on a samosa, mumbled, “Uh, something like that.” Within an hour the entire office believed the new CEO had taken a vow of minimalist speech, explaining his short, cryptic one-liners. Employees were quoting him like scripture. On Slack channels people were writing, ‘Drink water’ is not just about hydration, it’s about clarity of purpose. Harsh wanted to crawl under his desk and never emerge.
The marketing workshop was worse. A room full of bright young executives presented elaborate slides filled with neon graphics, slogans like “Synergize Your Future” and “Empower Tomorrow Today.” Harsh’s brain shut down at slide number four. In desperation, he raised his hand and said, “What if… we stop making slides and just tell people what we actually do?” A hush fell. Then someone clapped. Another followed. Soon the entire team erupted in applause, calling it “the death of PowerPoint tyranny.” By the time the meeting ended, Harsh had accidentally abolished presentations company-wide, and Slack was buzzing with memes of him smashing laptops like a rock star.
At three, Nisha barged into his office, half-amused, half-panicked. “Do you realize what you’ve done?” she asked. Harsh groaned, “Ruined everything?” She shook her head. “No, you’ve ignited a cultural revolution. People are excited. Morale is the highest I’ve seen in years. Investors think you’re onto something big. And now the press is here.” Before he could protest, she whisked him into a conference room where two journalists were waiting with recorders.
The interview was surreal. They asked about his management philosophy. Harsh, too tired to invent lies, blurted, “I just think we should all calm down.” They asked about innovation. He muttered, “Sometimes the best idea is no idea.” They asked about employee engagement. He said, “Let them eat lunch in peace.” The journalists scribbled furiously, nodding as if they were hearing wisdom from a prophet. That evening, headlines blared across business portals: ‘The Zen CEO of Gurgaon: Simplicity as the New Disruption.’ Harsh stared at his phone in horror as his face appeared in thumbnails, looking dazed and sweaty, yet somehow interpreted as serene.
Back at his desk, Nisha entered with a smile tugging at her lips. “You’re officially a thought leader,” she said, dropping a pile of newspapers on his desk. “And investors want you to keynote at the tech summit next week.” Harsh choked on his tea. “Keynote? I can’t even key in my password without help.” She laughed, shaking her head. “Relax, Mr. Gupta. For once, don’t overthink.” He wanted to scream that overthinking was the only thing keeping him alive, but instead he nodded numbly.
As the office emptied out that evening, Harsh remained in the corner office, staring at the Gurgaon skyline as neon billboards flickered to life. He tried to write a resignation letter but stopped midway, paralyzed by the thought that stepping down might plunge the company back into its old toxic chaos. Employees were smiling more, departments were collaborating, people were going home on time. All because of his accidental nonsense. It was terrifying, but part of him felt a tiny spark of pride. He had never been important before, never mattered beyond the margins of an Excel sheet. Now the whole company hung on his every word, misinterpreted or not.
Still, as he packed his bag and shut off the lights, one thought circled in his mind like a mosquito: this was unsustainable. Tomorrow, the illusion would surely collapse. Tomorrow, they would discover he was a fraud. And tomorrow, he suspected, would be even worse than today.
The morning after his so-called press triumph, Harsh Gupta sat in his office staring at a calendar reminder that read, in bold and merciless font, “Tech Summit Keynote: One Week.” His palms immediately dampened, his throat felt like sandpaper, and he briefly considered faking a terminal illness. But before he could fantasize about hospital beds and medical certificates, Nisha walked in, radiant as ever, holding a folder marked “Summit Prep.” She looked at him the way an air hostess might look at a nervous passenger just before turbulence—polite, reassuring, but fully aware of impending disaster. “Congratulations again, Mr. Gupta,” she said smoothly, “the industry is buzzing about your philosophy. The summit organizers are thrilled. They’ve even changed the theme to match your ideas: Simplicity is the Future.”
Harsh blinked. “What?”
“Yes,” she replied. “You’re the headliner. The Prime Minister might attend. No pressure.”
Harsh nearly fell off his chair. “Nisha, I can’t do this. I don’t have a philosophy, I don’t even have a working printer.” But she just smiled and slid the folder toward him. “Don’t worry, sir. We’ll prepare. For now, just keep being yourself.” He wanted to scream that “himself” was precisely the problem, but she had already glided out the door.
The next few days were a blur of unwanted attention. The cafeteria staff started offering him free idlis, saying his “drink water” mantra had inspired them to replace cola with lemon water. The security guard saluted him so sharply every morning that Harsh feared he might dislocate something. Everywhere he went, employees whispered reverently, There goes the Zen CEO.
Meanwhile Amit Sinha, thriving as the office oracle, spread fresh rumors. “Did you know sir refuses to look at PowerPoints because he can literally see the future?” he whispered in the pantry. “Apparently he predicted the pandemic. He’s clairvoyant.” Within hours, memes flooded the office Slack: Harsh’s blurry face photoshopped with glowing third eyes, captioned CEO of Prophecy. Harsh begged Nisha to intervene, but she just laughed. “Better they think you’re mystical than incompetent,” she said.
The summit rehearsal was his personal nightmare. The organizers, expecting profundity, had built a massive stage with giant LED screens flashing Simplicity Is Power. They asked him for slides, but remembering his own ban on presentations, Harsh stammered, “I’ll… just talk.” They clapped like seals, calling it revolutionary. During rehearsal he shuffled on stage, muttered, “Don’t panic,” and walked off. The hall went silent. Then the organizer wiped away a tear. “Minimalist perfection,” she whispered. Harsh wanted to vomit.
Back at the office, pressure mounted. Departments scrambled to align with his “philosophy.” The IT team stopped sending lengthy emails and began replying only with emojis. The legal department, inspired by his “speak simply” mantra, sent a two-line contract to a client who nearly fainted at the lack of fine print. Productivity inexplicably soared. Investors hailed it as a “new corporate religion.” Harsh, meanwhile, lived in a constant state of dread, waiting for the façade to collapse.
On Friday evening, just when he thought things couldn’t escalate further, Nisha marched in holding a tablet. “CNN wants an interview with you tonight,” she said. Harsh’s jaw dropped. “CNN? As in America?” She nodded. “They’ll beam you live into their leadership segment. Fifteen minutes. Don’t worry, I’ll sit beside you.” He tried to argue, but she was already setting up the room.
The interview began with a cheerful anchor asking, “Mr. Gupta, what’s the secret to your leadership success?” Harsh froze. His brain screamed: There is no secret. I’m a fraud. But out of his dry mouth came, “Silence.” The anchor leaned forward. “Could you elaborate?” Harsh, desperate, croaked, “When you don’t speak, you hear more. When you hear more, you know enough. When you know enough, you don’t need to speak.” The anchor gasped. The chat window exploded with hashtags: #ZenCEO #SilenceIsStrategy. By the time the segment ended, Harsh had inadvertently authored a new school of management thought.
That night, lying in bed, Harsh stared at his ceiling fan again. His phone buzzed endlessly with congratulatory messages, but all he could think was: How long before the bubble bursts? He was not a leader, he was a man who once fainted at a blood donation camp. And yet, here he was, being compared online to Steve Jobs and the Dalai Lama in the same sentence.
Saturday morning brought fresh hell. The landlord, a grumpy man who never returned calls, rang his bell at dawn carrying sweets. “Beta, I saw you on TV! I knew you’d make it big. Rent increase from next month, okay? You can afford it now.” Harsh nearly wept. He trudged into the office later, exhausted, only to find a massive poster of his face hanging in the lobby with the caption: Lead Like Water. Employees were taking selfies with it. Amit whispered in awe, “Sir, you’ve become a movement.”
Nisha met him in the corridor, eyes gleaming. “The summit is in four days. You’ll be brilliant.” He opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off gently. “Look, Harsh, maybe you don’t realize it, but people are happier now. They’re laughing, leaving on time, actually talking to one another instead of hiding behind jargon. Whether by accident or not, you’ve changed something. Don’t run from it.”
Harsh swallowed hard, torn between terror and a faint, reluctant pride. For the first time in years, his name meant something. He was visible. He mattered. And yet, deep inside, he was still the same timid man who preferred faded spreadsheets to spotlights.
As he returned to his office, his phone buzzed again. This time it was a direct message from the summit organizers: “We’d like you to extend your keynote to forty minutes.” Harsh slumped into his chair, buried his face in his hands, and whispered to himself, “Forty minutes of nothing. They’ll finally see the truth.”
But outside his glass walls, employees clapped each other on the back, buzzing with anticipation for their new messiah’s grand sermon.
The day of the Tech Summit dawned with the kind of nervous energy that makes even seasoned CEOs break into cold sweats, and Harsh Gupta, who was neither seasoned nor really a CEO, felt as though he were walking toward his own execution. He had spent the last three nights rehearsing in front of his bathroom mirror, but no amount of staring at his own panicked reflection had prepared him for the reality of the cavernous convention center, its glass domes gleaming like the surface of a spaceship, banners everywhere screaming Simplicity Is the Future, his accidental mantra now plastered across billboards. Delegates in expensive suits milled about, journalists jostled for photographs, and somewhere in the crowd Harsh swore he saw Amit Sinha livestreaming from his phone, already hashtagging #ZenCEO.
Nisha met him backstage, radiating calm in a navy blazer that looked like it had been ironed by angels. “Breathe,” she said, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “They’re already on your side.” Harsh muttered, “They’ll be on my side until I open my mouth.” But she smiled, unfazed, and pushed him gently toward the stage entrance. “Just remember: less is more.”
The hall was a sea of expectant faces, thousands of eyes fixed on him, cameras flashing. Harsh’s knees wobbled, his throat clamped shut, and he wished desperately for a fire drill. Instead he found himself at the podium, staring at a giant countdown timer. Forty minutes. He cleared his throat, leaned toward the microphone, and—because panic makes fools of us all—blurted, “Hello. Please drink water.”
There was a ripple of laughter, then applause, as though it were the opening line of a carefully crafted TED Talk. Emboldened by the reaction, Harsh fumbled for words and muttered, “The problem with business today is that we do too much. Maybe… do less.” Silence. Then thunderous applause. He blinked in disbelief as people leapt to their feet, nodding like disciples.
From that moment onward, Harsh’s survival instincts took over. He abandoned the notes he had never understood and simply spoke from the raw, terrified emptiness inside him. “Stop making things complicated. Use small words. Go home on time. If a meeting goes beyond fifteen minutes, leave.” Each line was met with louder applause, as though he were delivering revelations instead of random anxieties. Someone in the audience began chanting “Zen CEO!” and within minutes the hall erupted into a rhythmic chorus.
The organizers, thrilled, projected his face twenty feet high on LED screens, his deer-in-headlights expression interpreted as profound serenity. Reporters typed furiously, hashtags trended globally, and by the thirty-minute mark Harsh realized he could say anything and they would lap it up. So he did. He rambled about his dislike for coriander in office canteens. The audience laughed knowingly, interpreting it as a metaphor for cutting unnecessary complexity. He confessed that he often hid in bathrooms to avoid people. The crowd roared, assuming it was a parable on reflection and solitude. At one point he dropped his water bottle, bent to pick it up, and the audience gasped, then applauded wildly, convinced it was a symbolic gesture of humility.
By the time he reached the end of his allotted forty minutes, Harsh was drenched in sweat, dizzy from relief, and convinced he had exposed himself as a blathering fraud. Yet the hall erupted in a standing ovation, cameras flashing like fireworks, people chanting his name. The Prime Minister, seated in the front row, leaned over to whisper something to his aides, and minutes later, Harsh was informed he had just been invited to join a government advisory council on “Simplification of Bureaucracy.” Harsh nearly fainted.
Backstage, Nisha hugged him lightly, her cool composure barely concealing her astonishment. “You did it,” she said. “You actually did it.” Harsh groaned. “I did nothing.” She smiled knowingly. “Exactly. That’s what they loved.”
By evening, his speech had gone viral. Clips flooded social media with captions like ‘The Courage to Do Less’ and ‘Bathroom CEO Philosophy.’ Business schools announced new electives based on his ideas. Influencers quoted him in pastel-colored Instagram posts. Harsh spent the night curled up on his sofa with a blanket over his head, begging the universe to end his nightmare of accidental success.
But the universe, as usual, wasn’t listening.
The next morning his inbox was flooded. Fortune magazine wanted a cover story. Harvard wanted him to guest lecture. A wellness retreat in Bali offered him an all-expenses-paid vacation if he would endorse their “Simplicity Diet.” Even his landlord texted again, this time offering to introduce him to his daughter.
At the office, employees greeted him like a returning war hero. Amit cornered him at the elevator, eyes gleaming. “Sir, your speech changed my life. I’m quitting my job to pursue stand-up comedy. Your words gave me the courage.” Harsh, alarmed, tried to dissuade him, but Amit only bowed reverently. “Your silence speaks volumes.” He ran off, leaving Harsh speechless.
In the boardroom later that day, investors clapped him on the back, praising the surge in stock prices following his speech. One of them, a billionaire with too many rings on his fingers, leaned close and whispered, “You’ve made simplicity sexy, my boy. Don’t stop now.” Harsh nodded weakly, wondering how long before someone noticed he had no idea what he was doing.
Nisha, ever the steady force, pulled him aside. “You’ve created a monster, Mr. Gupta,” she said, half-smiling. “People believe in you. Now you have to decide—do you keep pretending, or do you find a way to lead for real?” Harsh stared at her, his stomach twisting. He had never led anything in his life, not even a carpool. But as he looked out at the buzzing office, employees happier than he had ever seen them, he felt a strange sensation—responsibility.
That night, as he sat alone in his apartment, he stared at his reflection in the window. The Zen CEO. The prophet of simplicity. The man who had somehow stumbled into power by doing less than nothing. For the first time in his life, Harsh wondered if maybe, just maybe, he could learn to be the person everyone already believed he was.
The week after the Tech Summit should have been Harsh Gupta’s victory lap, yet he spent most of it sitting rigid in his swivel chair like a man awaiting trial. Outside his office, employees buzzed with new energy, investors celebrated soaring share prices, and journalists camped at the reception hoping for another nugget of “Zen wisdom.” Inside, Harsh nursed ulcers. For all his accidental fame, he knew he had managed only to say nothing in increasingly creative ways. But now the world wanted more, and worse, they wanted action.
It began innocuously enough when the CFO walked in with a sheaf of papers. “Sir, since you spoke at the summit, our clients are clamoring for a new product line. They expect us to lead the market with something bold yet simple. We need your guidance on whether to expand into fintech or health tech.” Harsh’s stomach knotted. “Uh… what if we… don’t?” he muttered. The CFO blinked. “Don’t?” “Yes,” Harsh said, fumbling, “don’t expand. Just… do what we do, but… better.” To his horror, the CFO’s face lit up. “Of course! Focus on core strengths! Genius.” He marched off, leaving Harsh stunned.
But the illusion couldn’t last. Two days later, a crisis erupted. The IT team had followed his ban on PowerPoints so literally that they refused to submit documentation for a crucial government compliance report. The deadline loomed, fines threatened, and chaos spread. Managers stormed his office demanding direction. Harsh nearly confessed everything then and there, but panic made him blurt out, “Why don’t we just… tell the truth?” The managers exchanged baffled looks. One asked, “You mean… submit a plain text file?” Harsh nodded weakly. Hours later, the company submitted the first compliance report in history written in bullet points so stark and blunt that the ministry officials, usually drowning in jargon, declared it revolutionary. They waived fines and praised Midas Synergy as a model of clarity. Harsh, once again, had tripped and landed on genius.
Still, the pressure gnawed at him. Nisha found him pacing his office late at night, tie undone, eyes wild. “I can’t keep this up,” he admitted. “Every day I open my mouth, I expect the world to collapse.” She regarded him calmly. “Yet it hasn’t. Look around—people are happier, more efficient. Even the investors adore you. Maybe you’re not pretending anymore. Maybe you’re leading.” Harsh barked a laugh. “Leading? I fainted in the middle of a blood donation camp.” She smiled gently. “Yes, and you got up again. That’s all leadership is.”
Before Harsh could digest her words, Amit Sinha barged in, phone camera already recording. “Sir, emergency! A journalist leaked that you abolished presentations because you once had a traumatic experience with Microsoft Office. Is it true?” Harsh froze. “What? No!” But Amit winked, “Say nothing, sir. Your silence is legendary.” He ran off before Harsh could protest. By evening, Twitter was trending with #OfficeTrauma memes, depicting Harsh as a warrior who had overcome software oppression.
The breaking point arrived the following week when a major client threatened to pull a hundred-million-dollar contract unless Harsh personally convinced them to stay. The boardroom filled with grim faces, cameras set up to record his “historic” address. Harsh, sweating bullets, stepped up to the podium. He wanted to run. Instead, he whispered, “We don’t need this contract.” Gasps filled the room. The client’s executives stiffened. But before they could object, Harsh continued, “We want partners, not prisoners. If you stay, stay because you believe. If not, go.” Silence. Then the client’s chairman slowly clapped. “At last, a leader with courage,” he said. The deal was signed within the hour, sweeter than before.
That night Harsh walked home under the neon lights of Gurgaon, feeling both triumphant and trapped. Every time he stumbled, the world interpreted it as wisdom. Every time he tried to confess, someone twisted his words into brilliance. Was this his life now? A fraud elevated to prophet? He longed for the quiet anonymity of his old cubicle. Yet deep down, beneath the fear, a new emotion simmered—pride. Somehow, impossibly, he was making things better.
Still, sleep eluded him. He lay awake, the ceiling fan a blur above him, haunted by a single thought: one day the mask would slip. One day the world would see the truth—that their Zen CEO was just Harsh Gupta, an ordinary man who had stumbled into power. And when that day came, would they forgive him, or would they crucify him for shattering their illusion?
For weeks Harsh Gupta had survived his accidental rise by leaning on panic, dumb luck, and the bizarre human ability to mistake hesitation for depth, but the universe, as it often does, decided that the comedy needed a villain, and the villain arrived in the form of Rajat Malhotra, Senior Vice President of Strategy, a man with slicked-back hair, expensive shoes, and the smirk of someone who believed he was born to run empires. Rajat had been circling like a shark ever since Harsh’s promotion, quietly seething as investors and employees worshipped the man he considered a nobody. And finally, Rajat made his move.
It began subtly. Rumors trickled into the office that the “Zen CEO” had no MBA, no management background, and possibly no idea what he was doing. Harsh overheard whispers in the pantry: “Did you know he used to be in middle management? Just filling spreadsheets?” Someone else hissed, “Impossible, no one that boring could invent such ideas.” But the seeds of doubt were planted, and Rajat watered them carefully. He fed journalists off-the-record tidbits, hinting at Harsh’s incompetence. He encouraged managers to demand detailed strategies, knowing Harsh couldn’t deliver.
The first confrontation came during a high-stakes board meeting. Investors were gathered, the air thick with money and ego, when Rajat leaned forward and said smoothly, “With all due respect, sir, could you explain our five-year roadmap in detail?” Harsh’s blood ran cold. He stared at the table, praying for a power outage, but none came. Finally, he mumbled, “Roadmaps… are like Google Maps. You can’t see five years ahead. You can only see the next turn. So take the next turn well.” He expected laughter, derision, exposure. Instead the room fell silent, then one investor slapped the table. “Profound. Short-term agility. Revolutionary.” They scribbled notes furiously. Rajat’s smirk faltered.
But Rajat wasn’t finished. Days later he cornered Nisha in the corridor. “You know he’s a fraud,” he hissed. She raised an eyebrow. “Maybe. Or maybe he’s what this place needed.” Rajat sneered. “You’re protecting him because you enjoy the circus. But when he falls, he’ll drag you down too.” She walked away without answering, but his words lingered.
The sabotage escalated. One morning Harsh walked into the office to find a dossier placed neatly on his desk, full of printouts of his old HR file—proof of his middling career, average appraisals, and an embarrassing disciplinary note about once mislabeling invoices. On top was a sticky note: This is who you really are. Harsh’s hands trembled. He almost resigned on the spot, but Nisha entered, saw the papers, and without a word tore them in half. “Ignore it,” she said. “You’re bigger than this now.” He stared at her, horrified. “But it’s true.” She smiled faintly. “Truth doesn’t matter. Belief does.”
Still, Rajat pressed harder. He organized a private meeting with select journalists, promising them an exposé that would destroy the myth of the Zen CEO. Amit Sinha, ever the gossip hound, caught wind of it and rushed to Harsh. “Sir! Big trouble. Rajat is planning to expose you. He’s telling the press you’re just a small fry who got lucky.” Harsh slumped in his chair. “Finally, someone will say it.” But Amit, eyes wide with misplaced devotion, whispered, “Don’t worry, sir. I’ll handle it.”
The following morning, Rajat strode into the office triumphant, waving a newspaper. “Your reign is over, Gupta,” he declared, tossing it on the desk. Harsh braced himself. But the headline stopped him cold: ‘From Spreadsheet Slave to Sage CEO: The Humble Journey of Harsh Gupta.’ The article spun his mediocrity into a fable of resilience, portraying his years of obscurity as “the crucible of silent leadership,” his disciplinary notes as “evidence of fighting against bureaucratic rot.” Rajat gaped. “What—how—?” Amit grinned sheepishly from the doorway. “I may have… spoken to the journalist first. Told them the truth, but in a heroic way.”
Harsh was too stunned to react. Employees poured in, congratulating him for his “authentic backstory.” Investors praised his “transparency.” Rajat’s plan had backfired spectacularly. Furious, Rajat confronted Harsh privately. “You think you’ve won? You’re a clown propped up by idiots. I’ll keep coming until you fall.” Harsh, trembling but oddly calm, whispered, “Maybe. But until then, I’ll keep… doing less.”
That evening, as the office lights dimmed, Harsh sat alone, reflecting. For the first time he realized the truth: Rajat was right—he wasn’t qualified, he hadn’t earned this. But perhaps Nisha was also right—belief mattered more than truth. He thought of the smiling employees, the lighter atmosphere, the ridiculous memes that somehow made people laugh in a bleak world. Fraud or not, he had given them something real. And maybe that was enough.
But deep in his chest, fear still throbbed. Rajat would not stop. And Harsh knew that next time, luck might not save him.
Rajat Malhotra was a man who did not forgive humiliation, and after his attempt to unmask Harsh Gupta had spun into hagiography, he turned from subtle sabotage to open war. The office atmosphere shifted; whispers grew sharper, eyes lingered longer, and even the most devoted employees sensed that a showdown was coming. Harsh, for his part, lived like a rabbit in a field full of hawks, jumping at every meeting invite, scanning every corridor for ambushes. He tried to hide in his office, but Rajat was relentless.
The confrontation came during the quarterly town hall. The auditorium was packed, employees buzzing with anticipation, investors watching via livestream, journalists in the back row ready to tweet soundbites. Harsh sat on stage under the blinding lights, palms sweating through his trousers. Nisha stood beside him, calm as ever, but even she could feel the electricity in the air. The moment the Q&A session opened, Rajat rose smoothly from the front row, microphone in hand, his voice slicing through the hall.
“Mr. Gupta,” he began, feigning politeness, “you’ve spoken many times about simplicity. But could you, for the benefit of all of us, share one concrete example of a strategic decision you personally devised that improved this company’s bottom line?” The hall fell silent. Even Amit, livestreaming from the corner, lowered his phone slightly, sensing blood.
Harsh’s throat locked. He wanted to admit it all, to confess he had stumbled through every situation like a blindfolded man, but the silence stretched and stretched until panic forced words out of his mouth. “I… cancelled… the Friday alignment meetings,” he stammered. Laughter rippled through the hall. Rajat pounced. “Cancelled? That’s hardly strategy. That’s laziness.” But before Harsh could collapse in shame, a voice from the back shouted, “It saved us hours every week!” Another added, “Morale shot up after that!” The hall erupted with agreement. Employees clapped and cheered, chanting “No more Fridays!” as if it were a war cry. Rajat’s smirk faltered, his trap collapsing into confetti.
But he was not finished. “Fine,” he snapped, raising his voice. “Then explain your long-term plan. Where do you see this company in ten years?” The question hung in the air like a guillotine. Harsh felt his chest tighten, his vision blur. Ten years? He didn’t know what he was doing tomorrow. In desperation, he whispered, “Alive.” The hall went silent. Then applause. Then laughter, clapping, stomping. Journalists tweeted instantly: ‘Zen CEO on ten-year vision: Alive.’ Within minutes, hashtags exploded across social media.
Rajat’s face burned red. “This is absurd! He’s a fraud!” he shouted, voice cracking. The room gasped. Nisha stepped forward, eyes flashing. “Enough, Rajat. Call him what you will, but under his leadership this company is profitable, our people are happy, and our reputation is global. If that’s fraud, perhaps we need more of it.” The hall roared with approval, drowning Rajat’s protests.
Humiliated, Rajat stormed out, cameras trailing him. Harsh sank into his chair, dizzy with relief, though his heart thudded like a drum. He had been seconds away from collapse, yet somehow his terror had again been mistaken for profundity. Employees left the auditorium beaming, buzzing about their leader’s “bravery,” while journalists scribbled furiously about the man who dared to define success as survival.
Later that evening, Harsh sat in his office staring at the skyline, Nisha beside him sipping coffee. “He won’t stop,” Harsh said softly. “Rajat will come again.” She nodded. “Maybe. But today you won. Not by accident—by being you. They love you because you’re not polished. You’re human.” Harsh shook his head. “I’m still a fraud.” Nisha smiled faintly. “Maybe all leaders are. You just admit it more honestly than most.”
The office emptied, silence settling like dust. Harsh remained by the window, the glow of the city blurring into streaks. He thought of his old cubicle, of spreadsheets and anonymity, of the man he used to be. That man was gone now, replaced by a symbol he barely recognized. The Zen CEO. The Prophet of Simplicity. The Accidental Messiah. He hadn’t asked for it, hadn’t earned it, but it clung to him like a second skin.
And yet, deep down, a strange defiance stirred. If the world insisted on seeing wisdom in his stumbles, perhaps he could learn to stumble with purpose. Perhaps tomorrow, when Rajat struck again, he wouldn’t just survive by accident. Perhaps he could actually choose his words, shape his silence, wield his fear like a tool. For the first time, Harsh wondered if the mask he wore might slowly be becoming his face.
The final act of Rajat Malhotra’s crusade came on a Tuesday morning, when the Gurgaon sun glared so hard it seemed to accuse Harsh Gupta personally of existing. He arrived at the office to find a strange quiet, the kind of silence that precedes an earthquake. Nisha was waiting in his office, arms folded, expression taut. “Rajat has called a press conference,” she said flatly. “He’s promising to reveal the ‘truth’ about you. It’s in the auditorium at noon. He’s invited journalists, investors, employees—the works. He means to end you.”
Harsh’s knees buckled. “Good,” he whispered, almost relieved. “Let it end. They’ll finally know I’m no messiah, just a man who eats Parle-G with his tea.” Nisha’s eyes softened, but her voice was firm. “No, Harsh. If you let him, he’ll define your story. You need to stand there and tell it yourself.”
By noon the auditorium was overflowing. Journalists perched with pens poised, employees filled the aisles, investors in suits whispered in anticipation. At the center of the stage stood Rajat, glowing with vindictive triumph. He gestured to a projector screen where, with theatrical flair, he displayed Harsh’s HR file: years of middling reviews, zero promotions, a disciplinary note about mislabeled invoices. Gasps filled the room. Rajat’s voice dripped with scorn. “This is your so-called visionary. A clerk, a nobody, a man who lucked into power. This is the fraud you’ve been worshipping.”
The spotlight turned on Harsh, seated in the corner, pale and sweating. For once, the murmurs were not reverent but doubtful, suspicious. His heart pounded so loud he thought the microphones might pick it up. He rose slowly, legs trembling, and walked to the podium. Nisha met his eyes briefly, a silent anchor.
He leaned into the microphone, hands shaking, and said the words that had haunted him for weeks: “He’s right.” The hall gasped. Rajat’s grin widened. But Harsh continued, voice wavering but steadying with each syllable. “I am not a genius. I never studied at Harvard. I didn’t invent a philosophy. I was an invisible man in this company, filling spreadsheets, eating my lunch alone. I didn’t choose to be here. I was pushed here by mistake.”
The room shifted uneasily. Journalists scribbled faster. Rajat folded his arms, certain victory was near. But Harsh pressed on, his fear cracking open into something rawer, truer. “Yes, I’m ordinary. Yes, I’m afraid every day. But maybe that’s why you believed me. Because I said the simple things you already knew but had forgotten—that work doesn’t need to be torture, that meetings don’t need to be marathons, that jargon doesn’t make us smarter. I didn’t give you wisdom. I gave you permission. Permission to be human again.”
Silence gripped the hall. Harsh swallowed, his voice gaining strength. “If that makes me a fraud, then fine. I’ll be your fraud. But look around—are you happier? Are you less tired? Are you laughing more? If yes, then maybe fraud can sometimes do more good than truth.”
For a heartbeat the hall hung in suspense. Then a voice rose from the back—Amit Sinha, of course, shouting, “Long live the Zen CEO!” Laughter rippled, then applause, then a standing ovation that drowned Rajat’s fury. Investors clapped, employees cheered, journalists tweeted in a frenzy. Rajat, face crimson, stormed out for the second and final time.
Harsh stood at the podium, stunned, the ovation washing over him like a tide. He hadn’t been clever, hadn’t spun jargon, hadn’t hidden. He had just been himself—awkward, afraid, honest. And somehow, that had been enough.
In the weeks that followed, Midas Synergy continued its strange renaissance. Employees worked fewer hours but achieved more. Clients loved the new straightforward style. Investors, initially wary, embraced the unconventional culture. And Harsh Gupta, once a ghost in the system, found himself still at the helm—not because of accidents or illusions, but because people wanted him there.
One evening, sitting in his office as the sun dipped behind Gurgaon’s skyline, Nisha joined him with two cups of chai. She raised hers in a quiet toast. “To surviving.” Harsh chuckled. “To stumbling.” She smiled. “To leading.” He sipped, staring at the city glowing alive with neon. For the first time, the title on his door—CEO—didn’t feel like a cruel joke. It felt, oddly, like a truth he had grown into.
And somewhere deep inside, Harsh Gupta, the man who only ever wanted a quiet life, finally accepted that sometimes the universe makes leaders not out of brilliance, but out of accidents. And sometimes, accidents are exactly what the world needs.
