Siddharth Bhattacharjee
Part 1
Monday mornings had a peculiar smell at Dalal Street—part anxiety, part ambition, and a solid dose of stale filter coffee. For Rudra Sen, senior broker at Kothari & Sons Securities (no Kothari worked there anymore), it also smelled like danger. Not because of the stock market, but because his ancient laptop, nicknamed “Laxmi”, had a tendency to start only on alternate days. Today, unfortunately, was not one of them. Rudra’s day began, as always, with a lecture from his boss, a man with a moustache thick enough to have its own Aadhaar card. “Sen, Sensex is down, your hair is down, your shirt is downmarket—do you want to pull this firm down with you?” thundered Mr. Batabyal, who believed yelling was the purest form of leadership. Rudra, immune to insults after a decade in this chaotic circus, merely smiled and poured himself another cup of burnt coffee. “Don’t worry, sir, I have a gut feeling today will be green,” he said, referring to the market. His gut had predicted rain last week during a heatwave.
Kothari & Sons was a peculiar brokerage. It ran on an outdated server, unpaid interns, and Rudra’s never-ending optimism. The office had three working computers, four air conditioners that only cooled the ceiling, and one office assistant named Golu, who claimed he had once arm-wrestled Rakesh Jhunjhunwala. Golu was also the unofficial chaiwala, IT technician, and therapist for nervous clients. Rudra settled at his desk—a table so old it probably pre-dated the NSE—and opened his notebook, which he used more for doodling than data. He drew a bullish goat charging at a bearish lizard. Art therapy, he believed, was underrated in financial services.
At precisely 9:15 a.m., the markets opened. Chaos erupted in the office like a Durga Puja pandal on half electricity. Phones rang. Clients screamed. Rudra, however, remained calm. His secret? He only answered odd-numbered calls and believed in the universe’s randomness. His first call was from Mrs. Bose, a septuagenarian investor with a taste for volatile pharma stocks and homemade pickles. “Rudra, why is Dr. Reddy down? I had a dream of him flying last night,” she said. “Ma’am,” Rudra said solemnly, “perhaps the doctor needed rest today. Dreams are delayed signals. Maybe tomorrow he’ll soar.” Satisfied, she promised to courier him another jar of mango pickle.
Meanwhile, Rudra’s colleague, Minty, a young MBA who spoke in hashtags and bought NFTs of cows, was losing her mind. “Why are midcaps crashing? Who shorted Vedanta? Who moved my Nifty cheese?” she cried. Rudra, sipping his tea, calmly said, “You need to meditate, Minty. And maybe invest in socks, not stocks. They’re more stable.” Golu, overhearing this, offered her a fresh cup of elaichi chai and whispered, “Don’t worry didi, even Ambani has bad days.”
Things took a dramatic turn when a mysterious new client walked in. Dressed in a silk kurta and sunglasses despite it being cloudy, he introduced himself as “Mr. Goldfinger”, no first name. “I want to invest in emotions,” he declared. “The market is too rational. I need irrational exuberance.” Rudra blinked. “Sir, this is a brokerage, not a poetry club.” But Goldfinger insisted on buying shares of companies based on astrology, moon phases, and the mood of his parrot. “Today my parrot bit my finger. That means FMCG will rise,” he explained. Minty giggled. Rudra, intrigued and bored in equal measure, took the challenge.
By noon, Rudra had convinced Goldfinger to buy 1,000 shares of a biscuit company whose logo looked vaguely like his parrot. At the same time, he had to deal with a tech glitch that showed every stock as either “UP” or “MEH”. Mr. Batabyal stormed in, red-faced and sweaty. “Who sold ITC at 30 rupees?” he bellowed. “That was a typo, sir,” Rudra admitted. “But consider it a karmic correction.” Batabyal fainted into Golu’s arms, who placed him gently on a bean bag labeled “Bear Market Recovery Zone.”
As lunch arrived—mystery curry from the roadside dhaba and two and a half rotis shared among five people—Rudra reflected on his life. He had a finance degree, a broken smartwatch, and a reputation for surviving market crashes by sheer luck. “Someday I’ll write a book,” he said aloud. “Call it Stocks and Shenanigans.” Minty rolled her eyes. “Only if there’s a chapter on how you once bought 500 shares of a company that turned out to be a sweet shop in Bihar.” “Hey,” Rudra defended, “they made a profit.”
By the end of the day, Goldfinger’s parrot theory had surprisingly worked. The biscuit stock soared due to a viral video. Mrs. Bose called again to say she dreamt of Rudra turning into a talking calculator. “Is that bullish or bearish?” he asked. “It means you’re finally useful,” she replied. Rudra laughed so hard he spilled tea on his only working tie. As the market closed and the office descended into its usual sigh of exhaustion, Rudra leaned back. Another day survived. Another drama dodged. And still no idea how he kept his job.
Tomorrow was another gamble. But for Rudra Sen, life itself was a speculative stock. He believed in luck, laughter, and liquidity—in that order.
Part 2
The next morning, Rudra Sen walked into Kothari & Sons Securities wearing mismatched socks and the air of someone who had wrestled with dreams of margin calls all night. The office was buzzing—not because the market had exploded, but because someone had brought mishti doi. Golu had placed it ceremoniously on the reception desk under a post-it that said “Handle with Devotion.” Rudra nodded at it, adjusted his loose tie like a cricketer preparing for a toss, and walked in to face another episode of corporate chaos.
Minty was already at her desk, cross-checking her crypto alerts while chewing sugar-free gum like a stockbroker on Wall Street cocaine. “Rudra da, did you check the US Fed news?” she asked, eyes wide. “The Fed sneezed and our Sensex caught pneumonia.” Rudra shook his head. “Minty, I’ve stopped listening to the Fed. It’s like watching your ex’s vacation stories—depressing and irrelevant.” Minty rolled her eyes so hard her contact lens nearly rotated 180 degrees. Golu, meanwhile, was busy fixing the ancient ceiling fan with a spoon and what looked like a shoelace. “Office economics,” he said wisely. “Jugaad is the only hedge fund we have.”
As Rudra was settling in, Mr. Batabyal burst in with his usual thundercloud face. “Sen, we have a crisis.” “Which kind, sir?” asked Rudra casually. “Technical, emotional, or spiritual?” “A VVIP client is coming,” Batabyal barked. “Behave professionally for once. No parrot stories. No doodling. No emotional counseling!” Rudra sighed and removed the hand-drawn ‘Market Mood Chart’ from his wall—it had a sad bull and a smug bear playing chess. “Noted, sir.”
Precisely at 10:00 a.m., the VVIP client arrived. She was a woman in her late forties, wearing a crisp cotton sari and sharp glasses that suggested she had once scolded an entire room of auditors into submission. “I’m Mrs. Iyer,” she said. “I handle the treasury investments of Lakshmi Mahila Samiti.” Minty nudged Rudra and whispered, “Women’s cooperative funds—big money, super cautious, and allergic to crypto.” Rudra smiled warmly. “Welcome, madam. Please have a seat. Golu, special tea—less sugar, more respect.”
Mrs. Iyer got straight to the point. “I need safe, consistent returns. Nothing volatile, nothing speculative. Also, my team wants to learn—can we do small workshops on financial literacy?” Rudra’s ears perked up. Teaching? Talking? Tea? This was his zone. “Absolutely. I can even prepare a market simulation game using chess pieces,” he said. “Pawns for retail investors, the queen as the RBI.” Mrs. Iyer blinked. “Let’s keep it simple.” “Of course,” said Rudra, slightly deflated.
By noon, the Samiti had invested in three blue-chip stocks and one mutual fund with the emotional stability of a Zen monk. Batabyal looked pleased, even briefly patted Rudra’s back before muttering something about “miracles and monkeys”. As the lunch hour rolled in, so did the chaos. The office printer caught fire—not literally, but it printed fifty blank sheets with the words “Market Down. Mood Worse.” scribbled in Golu’s handwriting. Minty laughed so hard she choked on her low-carb granola bar. Rudra, ever the poet, muttered, “Even machines are now sentient bears.”
Then came the most bizarre moment of the day—Rudra received a LinkedIn message from a man named “Crypto Guru Babaji.” The message read:
“I see your aura. It’s green. Invest in CoinKarma now. Special discount for brokers with receding hairlines.”
Rudra stared at the screen. “How did he know about my hair?” he whispered. He showed Minty. She howled. “It’s an AI-generated babaji! He uses face-reading filters and sells coins based on zodiac signs. Some people made money. Most got spiritual trauma.” Rudra replied to the message with a GIF of a goldfish wearing glasses.
But the real twist of the day came at 3:15 p.m. Rudra noticed that one of the stocks they had advised Mrs. Iyer to avoid had suddenly jumped 17%. It was a little-known tech firm called Doodlebyte Solutions, famous for making AI-generated children’s bedtime stories. Turns out, an international investor had accidentally tagged them in a funding announcement meant for another company, and the internet did the rest. “Should we call Mrs. Iyer?” Minty asked. “Tell her we missed a rocket?” Rudra shook his head. “No. Her mandate was clarity and caution. This was a banana peel miracle.”
Just then, Goldfinger returned, parrot perched on shoulder, now wearing a tiny pink scarf. “Rudra, the bird says banking stocks are moody. What’s your human intuition?” Rudra replied, “My human intuition says you should invest in umbrellas. It’s going to rain debt.” Goldfinger grinned. “Perfect. Buy 300 shares of Monsoon Umbrellas Ltd.” Rudra didn’t argue. The man’s instincts—or parrot—were somehow working.
As the markets closed, Rudra looked at the screen and then at his team—Minty dancing to a silent playlist, Golu writing poetry about fiscal deficits on tissue paper, and Batabyal shouting at the television as if Arnab Goswami had insulted his demat account. Rudra whispered to himself, “Maybe I don’t know where this market is going. But I know I’ll ride it, laughing.”
Outside, the sky darkened. A storm was building—possibly weather, possibly economic. Rudra zipped up his bag, turned off Laxmi the laptop (who had miraculously worked today), and walked out. Tomorrow might bring new stocks, new shocks, and possibly a new WhatsApp scam—but Rudra was ready. Armed with chai, charm, and chaos management skills that no MBA could teach.
He walked home whistling, thinking of starting a podcast: “Zen and the Art of Portfolio Maintenance.”
Part 3
The next morning began with calamity disguised as breakfast. Rudra Sen, broker, philosopher, and reluctant IT support guy, bit into a toast that turned out to be a coaster. He made no complaints. At Kothari & Sons, he was used to harder things—like clients who traded based on planetary retrogrades and colleagues who thought memes were market research. He arrived at the office to find Golu sweeping the entrance in a warrior’s stance, muttering, “Negative energy must be cleansed before the opening bell.”
Inside, Minty had already set up a full-blown Excel war zone. Her laptop had so many tabs open it looked like a virtual spider had spun its web through Bloomberg, CoinDesk, and Pinterest. “Rudra da,” she said gravely, “I had a dream last night. Elon Musk was dancing in a lungi and singing Rabindrasangeet. I think it means something.” Rudra squinted. “Yes, it means you need to log out of Twitter earlier.” Just then, Mr. Batabyal walked in wearing a tie so loud it could disturb monetary policy. “Team!” he bellowed. “Big day! We’re expecting an audit visit. So clean your screens, hide your dreams, and pretend we are respectable.”
Rudra immediately minimized the open window where he was researching “stocks mentioned in Bollywood movies.” Golu replaced the office’s broken water dispenser sign with one that read “strategic liquidity center.” Minty switched from meme analysis to a slideshow titled “Ethics in Equities: A Short Tale.” Batabyal looked around, impressed but suspicious. “Rudra, no jokes today.” “Not even nervous ones?” asked Rudra. “Especially not those.”
At exactly 10:30 a.m., the auditor arrived. He was a tall, thin man named Mr. Pande with the voice of an unplugged harmonium and the expression of someone who hadn’t smiled since the Harshad Mehta scam. He began inspecting desks, files, transaction logs—and then he spotted Rudra’s famous doodle notebook, lying temptingly open. “What’s this?” he asked, holding it like a dangerous exhibit. Rudra froze. “That’s, uh… market psychology visualized through animal metaphors?” Mr. Pande flipped through pages filled with cats in bull costumes, bears drinking lattes, and a unicorn applying for an IPO. He said nothing. He just sighed and moved on to the pantry, where he declared the fridge “non-compliant.”
After the inspection, the team collapsed like a deflated IPO. Golu brought in samosas to recover morale. Batabyal looked at Rudra. “Next time, hide your art.” Rudra muttered, “Even Picasso faced rejection.” “Picasso didn’t have SEBI,” replied his boss. Just when the day seemed to stabilize, Rudra’s phone rang. It was one of his strangest clients: Rinku Bhai, a Gujarati wedding planner who traded commodities in between sangeets. “Rudra bhai, jaldi bolo—zinc ka kya scene hai? And also, I want to short silk,” he said breathlessly. “Short silk?” Rudra echoed. “Yes! Wedding season’s off. Rain’s ruined three mandaps. I have intuition!” Rudra sighed. “Silk is not a listed commodity, Bhai.” “Then find something shiny and similar!” Rudra told him to invest in a textile ETF and pray to whichever deity handled dry weather.
Then came the afternoon slump—the time when the market slowed, humans grew drowsy, and brokers contemplated alternate careers as astrologers or stand-up comics. Rudra found himself in deep thought, staring at the ticker. Minty broke the silence. “Rudra da, what’s your biggest trade regret?” Rudra sipped his chai, squinted like a tragic hero, and said, “Not marrying that girl from my MBA batch who had insider access to HDFC.” “Ugh,” said Minty. “I meant stock regret.” “Oh,” said Rudra. “Then maybe selling Titan too early. Or trusting a friend who said ‘it’s just a small correction’ before the crash of 2020.”
The office phone rang again. It was Mrs. Bose. “Rudra, I want to invest in a company that makes raincoats. My neighbor’s cat ran away and came back soaked. That must mean something.” Rudra nodded solemnly. “Absolutely. The universe is sending a liquidity warning.” She added, “Also, please come pick up the pickles. I made a new batch called ‘Equity Explosion’.” Rudra promised to visit her later with Golu, who had developed a fanboy obsession with Mrs. Bose’s mango chutney.
The final twist of the day came when Rudra noticed a new intern lurking near the printer. His name was Abhinav, fresh out of engineering, with a resume that included coding, trading crypto, and winning third prize in a hackathon titled “Hack the Dalal.” Batabyal introduced him with little enthusiasm. “This is our new intern. Try not to corrupt him.” Rudra offered his hand. “Welcome to the jungle. Ever read The Intelligent Investor?” “No, sir,” said Abhinav. “But I read Rich Dad Poor Dad and watched Scam 1992 twice.” “Close enough,” said Rudra. “Do you know how to use a stapler?” “Yes, sir.” “Excellent. You’re overqualified already.”
As the day wrapped up, Rudra stood by the window, watching clouds gather over the city. The market had closed marginally up, Batabyal hadn’t screamed in the last half hour, and Golu had composed a haiku about dividend yield. Minty handed him a fortune cookie from a Chinese lunchbox she’d ordered. Rudra cracked it open. It read: “Your next big break will come wrapped in nonsense.”
He looked around at the team—Minty yelling at a frozen Bloomberg feed, Golu trying to translate Sensex movements into Bangla couplets, Abhinav measuring CPU temperature like it was a fever. Rudra smiled. Maybe nonsense wasn’t so bad.
Part 4
It was a Wednesday morning when Rudra Sen’s destiny took the shape of a pigeon. Not metaphorically. A real pigeon flew in through the half-broken AC vent and landed on his desk just as he was about to bite into a cream biscuit. The pigeon stared at him with a look of existential accusation, knocked over his pen stand, and promptly pooped on his Mutual Fund brochure. “Omen,” whispered Golu, bowing slightly. “Could mean market reversal. Or bird flu.” Rudra stared at the bird, sighed, and offered it a piece of biscuit. “Here, take this. I already feel shorted.”
The pigeon refused the biscuit and flapped onto Mr. Batabyal’s sacred chair—the one no one sat on unless ordered under threat of HR intervention. Batabyal entered the office a minute later, briefcase in hand and a fresh coconut in the other. He paused. He blinked. He saw the pigeon. He screamed. The pigeon screamed back. Golu screamed in harmony. Minty, unfazed, live-streamed the moment on her Instagram story with the caption: “Dalal Street’s new CEO. #BirdBoss #StocksInTheAir”
The pigeon was finally evicted with strategic flapping of file folders and two crackers left over from last Diwali. Rudra placed a sticky note on his desk that said: “Avoid shorting airline stocks. They remember.” Once peace returned, Batabyal gathered everyone for an announcement. “We are expanding,” he declared. “By one more client.” Everyone clapped politely. “She’s big. Very big. TV anchor. Business celebrity. Author of Bulls, Babas & Biryani.” Golu gasped. Minty dropped her protein bar. Rudra squinted. “Wait… you mean Shruti Vyas? The woman who shouted ‘BUY ZINC’ on national TV during a budget speech?” Batabyal beamed. “Yes. She’s visiting. Today. So, look sharp. Hide your spiritual objects and personal snacks.”
Two hours later, she arrived in a yellow linen suit, gold-rimmed sunglasses, and the perfume of media confidence. Shruti Vyas walked like she owned the index. She spoke like every word was a headline. “This is the place?” she asked. “Looks charmingly dysfunctional.” Rudra stood up and gave her his warmest smile. “We prefer the term ‘character-rich’.” She laughed. “Good. I don’t trust offices with too much order. Reminds me of auditors.” She sat at Rudra’s desk uninvited, opened his drawer, found a stress ball shaped like a rupee symbol, and nodded approvingly.
“I want a portfolio that reflects me,” she announced. “Bold. Unexpected. Trending. But secretly risk-averse. Like a raita with green chili—dangerous, but with yogurt.” Rudra blinked. “Of course,” he said. “We’ll create a volatility-adjusted personality-driven thematic fund. Working title: The Shruti Index.” “Ooh, I like that,” she said, pulling out her phone to tweet it. Within minutes, the hashtag #ShrutiIndex began trending in niche finance circles and at least one group of bored MBA interns.
While Shruti discussed investment philosophy using metaphors involving biryani layering and yoga mats, Golu served tea in mismatched cups. “Careful,” he whispered. “She once broke a stock with a bad tweet.” Minty peeked over her laptop. “Her followers bought all of Trikon Paints last year because she liked their Instagram post. Stock doubled in two days. Then crashed. Now it’s a meme coin.” Shruti glanced at them and said, “I can feel your admiration. It’s palpable like GST paperwork.” She stood up. “Anyway, I’m off to a crypto roundtable called ‘Bitcoins and Banter.’ Call me when my portfolio has pizzazz.” She left, trailing perfume and minor panic behind.
Rudra slumped in his chair. “Did we just agree to build an influencer-led investment portfolio with zero fundamentals and infinite hashtags?” Batabyal looked delighted. “We’re going viral, Sen. Learn to dance with the algorithm.” Golu brought him a glucose biscuit. “You’ll need this,” he said gravely. Rudra took a bite and wondered if he should update his LinkedIn title to “Emotional Risk Analyst.”
Post-lunch, the office faced another crisis. Their internet went down. The server blinked red. Minty shrieked. “I can’t access anything! It says ERROR 504 GURU MEDITATION.” Rudra stared at the message. “That sounds less like a bug and more like an ashram.” Abhinav, the new intern, tried rebooting the router using a combination of technical skill and chanting what might have been a Shlok. After ten minutes, the internet returned—stronger, faster, possibly enlightened. Golu declared the server had achieved digital moksha.
Then came the final client of the day: Mr. Goswami, a quiet retired professor who only invested in stocks of companies that had birds in their logos. “I believe in avian synergy,” he said. “My entire portfolio is flying high.” Rudra stared at the list: Kingfisher (defunct), Phoenix Bio, and Eagle Agro. “Sir, may I suggest you consider Penguin Publishing too?” Goswami nodded seriously. “Literature stocks are underappreciated.” As he left, he handed Rudra a bookmark and said, “Read Tagore. He understood market cycles before markets even existed.”
As the day ended, Minty discovered that her carefully constructed NFT portfolio had vanished. “What happened?” she cried. “Did someone hack me?” Rudra looked over her screen. “No, you invested in NFTs of disappearing paintings. This was the endgame.” Minty collapsed into her chair. Golu offered her a mint and a new horoscope.
Rudra, weary but strangely amused, leaned back and watched the sky turn purple outside the office window. In a world of pigeons, poets, parrot-investors, and portfolio influencers, he had learned one thing—logic rarely won. But laughter always helped.
Tomorrow was Thursday. He had a strange feeling about Thursdays.
Part 5
Thursday arrived with the grace of a drunk elephant and the subtlety of a market crash. Rudra Sen walked into Kothari & Sons with a bruise on his shin, a result of tripping over a neighborhood goat on his way to the metro. “A bullish omen,” he muttered. “Goats mean growth.” Golu handed him his morning chai with the reverence of a monk. “Sir, your stars are confused today. Jupiter is in reverse parking mode.” “So is my scooter,” said Rudra, limping to his desk.
Minty was already in high alert mode. “Did you hear?” she whispered. “Finance Minister’s dog went missing last night. Twitter’s convinced it’s a signal. Petcare stocks are going wild.” “People need therapy,” Rudra replied, biting into a stale rusk. “And maybe a new hobby. Like bird-watching or brick collecting.” Just then, Batabyal burst into the room like a faulty fire alarm. “Team! Emergency!” Everyone froze. “A famous Hollywood actor has tweeted about India’s startup scene. We’re going to be flooded with calls. Brace yourselves!”
The tweet in question came from none other than Kevin Bacon, who had once eaten butter chicken in Delhi and was now, for some reason, deeply concerned about agri-tech in Haryana. “India is the next farm frontier,” he tweeted, along with a photo of him standing beside a suspiciously photoshopped tractor. The ripple effect was instant. Phones began ringing. Clients wanted to invest in “anything with soil.” One wanted earthworm futures. Another asked if “kachha mango pickle” could be commoditized. Rudra calmly opened a file titled “Unhinged Investor Queries” and began logging the madness.
At 11:20 a.m., Shruti Vyas called again. “Rudra, my aura is glowing today. I wore a green sari and two followers said they saw money in my eyes. Let’s buy green energy stocks.” “Which ones?” Rudra asked. “Surprise me,” she purred. “But make it poetic.” Rudra blinked twice, sipped his tea, and purchased small amounts in four different companies—one made solar panels, one produced organic tea, one recycled used toothpaste tubes, and one sold scented candles powered by cow dung. “Balanced,” he told her. “Like a haiku written by an MBA.”
Meanwhile, Golu had an existential crisis. “Sir,” he asked softly, “is it wrong to invest emotionally? I feel a deep connection to biscuit companies.” Rudra smiled. “Golu, as long as you don’t eat your dividends, follow your gut.” Golu looked relieved and immediately put money into CrumbCo Ltd., whose tagline was “Bite Into the Future.”
At noon, Abhinav, the intern, revealed that he had coded a tiny AI bot named Brokie that could respond to market moods in emojis. “It’s still learning,” he said nervously. “But it’s honest.” Rudra typed “Nifty50” into Brokie. The bot replied with a shrug, a cup of tea, and a goat emoji. “Accurate,” Minty nodded. “Almost prophetic.”
Then came a sudden surprise visit—Mrs. Bose, armed with two jars of her latest creation: “Fiscal Fennel” and “Credit Crunch Carrot.” She entered like royalty, placed the jars on Rudra’s desk, and declared, “Today, I feel bullish. Let’s buy cement. The neighbor’s bathroom collapsed. That means demand will rise.” “Logic,” whispered Golu with reverence. Rudra made a small investment in a rural cement company that also sponsored kabaddi tournaments.
Just then, a wild-eyed man burst into the office. “Is this where the stocks live?” he asked. He wore a kurta, had no shoes, and held a paper bag that looked suspiciously alive. “Sir?” asked Rudra cautiously. “I have insider information,” the man declared. “My cat has been sneezing exactly five times every hour. That means a pharma boom is coming. Buy cold medicine stocks. The feline doesn’t lie.” Batabyal tried to escort him out, but the man left the paper bag on the reception desk and ran away yelling, “Invest before the sixth sneeze!”
The bag meowed. It contained a very annoyed kitten and a handwritten note: “This is Meowshant. Watch his tail. It’s an index.” Rudra looked at Minty. “Should we… follow this cat?” Minty replied, “At this point, cats are more consistent than the GDP.” Golu adopted Meowshant immediately and made him head of morale.
By mid-afternoon, Rudra received a call from an old classmate, Neeraj, now a corporate strategist in Singapore. “Bro, I’m coming back to India. I want to invest. But only in companies that make Indian-style toilets. Western commodes are spiritually disconnected.” “Noted,” said Rudra, adding “Porcelain Patriotism” to his investment spreadsheet. Minty overheard and shook her head. “This market is a meme in disguise.” “Then we must learn to dance in the absurd,” Rudra replied. “With grace. And TDS.”
As the day wound down, Abhinav’s bot suddenly displayed a laughing emoji, then a rocket, then a poop emoji. “That’s our closing signal,” Rudra said. “Highly accurate, somewhat disturbing.” The team packed up. Golu made Meowshant a bed out of shredded IPO forms. Minty posted a meme: Broker by day, philosopher by EMI. Batabyal sighed into his desktop and whispered, “At least we didn’t lose power today.”
Outside, thunder rolled. Rain was coming. Rudra stepped out into the wind, umbrella under one arm, leftover pickle in the other, thinking about life. He had brokered love, madness, memes, and Meowshant the cat, all in one Thursday. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a slogan formed: “Invest in nonsense. It always returns in laughter.”
Tomorrow, he knew, was Friday. Fridays were never normal.
Part 6
Friday began with a power cut. Not the symbolic, emotional kind, but the actual blackout kind. The office of Kothari & Sons was plunged into darkness just as Golu was microwaving yesterday’s samosa, which now hissed threateningly like a vengeful spirit. “Blackout before market open,” Golu whispered. “A bad sign. Or maybe a new IPO.” Rudra Sen lit a candle he kept for such moments and declared dramatically, “Let there be light. And reasonable brokerage fees.” Minty entered five minutes later with wet hair and headphones still on, dancing to a song only she could hear. “The electricity’s gone?” she asked. “Perfect. Today I’m trading based on intuition and lunar tides anyway.”
They opened the windows. A warm breeze swept in, along with the smell of egg roll from the vendor below. Rudra sipped tea in candlelight and mused, “You know, maybe the market too needs a day without screens. We could call it ‘Analog Friday’—no Wi-Fi, no charts, just vibes.” Batabyal arrived right then, umbrella dripping, eyes blazing. “What is this? A meditation centre? Where’s the generator?” Golu replied solemnly, “Sir, the generator has gone to meet its ancestors. It died nobly—trying to charge three phones and an air fryer.”
Still, the market didn’t stop. Minty was operating from a power bank. Rudra had tethered his old phone to create a hotspot. Abhinav, ever the genius intern, connected a bicycle to a small alternator and began pedaling. “If I stop,” he gasped, “Bloomberg crashes.” “Keep going,” Rudra encouraged. “Think of it as your MBA thesis.”
Then came the call. The call that Rudra always dreaded. Mr. Dubey. A man who treated trading like Tinder—he swiped in and out of stocks based on first impressions. “Rudra ji,” Dubey announced, “I feel romantic today. Let’s invest in lingerie brands. Or chocolate manufacturers. Or those companies that make those scented candles with names like ‘Whispers of Rain.’” Rudra nodded slowly. “Okay, sir. Do you have a budget in mind?” “Thirty-two thousand and seventeen rupees. And thirty-seven paisa.” “Very precise, sir.” “Yes. It’s the exact amount I won betting against myself in a chess match.”
Rudra split the amount across three penny stocks with vaguely sensual product lines, added a tiny chocolate startup that had been featured in a wedding blog, and threw in a candle company for good luck. Dubey was thrilled. “Such aroma! Such emotion!” he cried before hanging up to attend a pottery class. Rudra scribbled in his notebook: “Client Risk Profile: Poetic Lunatic.”
Meanwhile, Shruti Vyas video-called from an airport lounge in Dubai. She was wearing designer sunglasses and sipping something orange. “Rudra,” she purred, “I’m surrounded by excess. I want to short luxury. Sell handbags. Invest in handloom.” “Okay,” Rudra said. “Do you want high-yield handloom or artisanal underdogs?” “Surprise me. Also, post something about it on my behalf. Use hashtags like #EthicalElegance and #ClutchTheCrash.” Rudra sighed and typed: “Investing in values over vanity. Today we choose looms over labels. #ShrutiIndex”
Minty watched and said, “You know, I think she’s influencing the market more than SEBI these days.” “Well,” Rudra replied, “she has better lighting and a ring light.” Just then, a new alert popped up—an obscure packaging company named FlexiPak had spiked 28% in two hours. Reason? A viral YouTube video showing a cat dancing inside one of their cardboard boxes. Minty grinned. “I bought that stock last week. Meowshant sat in that same kind of box yesterday. I took it as a sign.” Golu gasped. “The cat is a prophet.” Rudra, reluctantly impressed, muttered, “Let’s never question feline logic again.”
At lunchtime, Batabyal called a team meeting. He stood with a whiteboard and wrote in big letters: “Diversify or Die.” “We need more verticals,” he said. “Less dependence on commissions. What if we launch merchandise?” Minty sat up. “Like ‘Buy Low, Sell High’ mugs?” “Or T-shirts that say ‘I Survived the 2008 Crash’?” Rudra suggested. Golu added, “How about candles that smell like a bull run?” Abhinav proposed a video game called IPO Tycoon. Batabyal looked thoughtful. “All good ideas. We’ll discuss further once the power’s back. Till then, think big. Think merch.”
The second half of the day was surprisingly calm. The power returned. Meowshant the cat took a nap on the newspaper. Golu meditated with a headphone in one ear and a live news feed in the other. Rudra helped a retiree invest in a green cement firm started by three monks. “They mix philosophy with fly ash,” the man explained. “They believe buildings should breathe.” Rudra nodded. “Makes sense. So should portfolios.”
At 3:20 p.m., a surprise client walked in. A small boy, not older than 12, carrying a piggy bank shaped like a penguin. “I want to invest,” he said. “My name is Aditya. I’ve saved Rs. 471. I want it to become Rs. 1,000 by Diwali.” Rudra blinked. “That’s a five-month time horizon, a 112% return expectation, and no risk appetite.” “Exactly,” said Aditya. “Also, I like dinosaurs and soft drinks. Can we invest in both?” Rudra looked at the boy for a long moment. Then he said, “Yes. But only if you agree to a candy dividend.” They bought a single share of a beverage company and promised a review in October.
The markets closed with a mild upward swing. Nothing dramatic. No crashes. No moon-based decisions. Just a strange, candle-lit day with pedal-powered trades and penguin banks. Rudra sat quietly, watching Meowshant chase a rubber band on the floor. Minty packed up, humming. Golu handed him a soft pamphlet for their proposed merchandise line: “Stocks & Shenanigans™ – Wear Your Worries.”
Outside, the streetlights flickered back to life. Rudra smiled. “Fridays may be weird,” he thought, “but at least they’re honest.” And in his head, he imagined tomorrow: a Saturday free from Sensex, but not from sensibility. Or perhaps a dance class with Dubey.
Part 7
Rudra Sen wasn’t supposed to be in office on Saturday. Technically, no one was. But Saturday at Kothari & Sons had a way of sneakily becoming a “half day” that lasted until twilight, especially if Batabyal arrived early and brought biscuits. That morning, Rudra entered wearing jeans, an old band T-shirt, and the tired expression of someone who had spent the previous evening explaining inflation to his landlord. Minty followed ten minutes later in activewear, having come straight from yoga, whispering something about chakras aligning with blue-chip stocks. Golu had brought his harmonium because he was trying to record a musical piece called “Volatility in Raag Bhairav.” Meowshant, the cat, was asleep inside the printer tray, having claimed it as his personal throne.
Batabyal, surprisingly chipper, held up a paper. “Good news, team. We’re going to be featured in Local Leaders Weekly! They’re doing a story on ‘Small Firms with Big Energy.’” “We’re a stock brokerage, not a dance crew,” Rudra said. “Why would they choose us?” “Because someone,” Batabyal paused dramatically, “tweeted about our customer-first approach and the office cat. It went viral.” Everyone turned to Minty. “I posted a photo of Rudra da giving financial advice to a seven-year-old while the cat slept on his laptop,” she confessed. “I captioned it: When your CFA meets C-A-T.”
Rudra groaned. “Great. Now I’ll be a meme for investors with allergies.” “Relax,” said Batabyal. “They’re sending a journalist today. Be normal. Or at least pretend.” The journalist arrived half an hour later. Her name was Anuja Roy, and she carried two cameras, three pens, and the professional curiosity of someone who had once done a deep dive on idli vendors disrupting e-commerce. “So,” she began, “what makes Kothari & Sons different?” Rudra was about to respond with “chronic confusion and philosophical chai breaks,” but Batabyal jumped in with, “Innovation. Grit. Personalized service.” Minty added, “And memes. We respect the meme economy.” Anuja looked intrigued.
She interviewed everyone. Golu talked about “emotional brokerage” and how he sensed the market in his bones, especially when he hadn’t eaten enough protein. Minty explained her latest NFT experiment—an audio file of Rudra sneezing during a trade, currently valued at ₹49 by a Lithuanian investor. Rudra tried to sound serious. “I believe investing is storytelling. Every client has a plot. My job is to find them the right climax.” Anuja blinked. “That sounded slightly inappropriate.” “Storytelling climax,” Rudra clarified, blushing slightly. “Not… you know.”
Anuja then spotted Meowshant. “Who’s this majestic feline?” she asked. “That,” Rudra said proudly, “is our Director of Instinctive Insight. He once predicted a market rally by falling asleep on an IPO form.” Anuja laughed, snapped twenty pictures of the cat, and made a note. “We’ll call the article: The Broker, the Bot, and the Bombay Cat.” Rudra sighed. “Why not? We’re already in absurd territory.”
After the interview, as Anuja left promising a “quirky, heartwarming piece,” Batabyal pulled Rudra aside. “That was good PR. Now let’s turn this buzz into business. We need something new. Something bold. A service no other brokerage offers.” “Free therapy?” Rudra suggested. “Office yoga?” Minty added. “Investment advice in verse?” Golu offered. Batabyal nodded thoughtfully. “Why not all of them? Let’s offer ‘Mindful Investing.’ Packages with chai, chants, and choice-based diversification. We’ll call it ‘ZenStocks.’” Rudra choked on his tea. “Sir, are we becoming a wellness retreat?” “If it works, yes,” Batabyal replied. “Let them balance chakras and portfolios together.”
As if summoned by fate, a new client walked in—a man in his early forties wearing a kurta, silver bangles, and the expression of someone who regularly spoke to planets. “Hello,” he said. “I’m Rahul. I’ve been following your cat.” Rudra blinked. “Our cat?” “Yes. I saw the post. I feel Meowshant is connected to something larger. My guru believes he’s the reincarnation of a 17th-century gold trader from Gujarat.” “That… would explain his interest in shiny paperclips,” Rudra said. Rahul sat down. “I want to invest based on his choices. I’ll donate five percent of any gains to a temple. Also, I have strong feelings about copper.” “Emotionally or financially?” “Both.”
That afternoon, Meowshant sniffed around three annual reports, scratched one, and finally sat on a mid-cap metal stock report. Rudra interpreted it as a “Buy” signal. They placed the trade. Rahul left, satisfied and spiritually uplifted. Rudra shook his head. “I used to believe in valuation metrics. Now I follow a furry oracle.” Golu nodded. “Faith moves markets. And sometimes litter trays.”
The rest of the day passed peacefully. Abhinav finished coding a new dashboard that displayed market news as haikus. Minty pitched an idea for a podcast: Trade or Tirade, where clients talk about their worst financial decisions anonymously. Rudra helped a retired dentist invest in a green paint company because “he liked their soothing shade of blue.” At sunset, they all sat on the balcony with chai, watching traffic crawl and thinking about nothing in particular.
Rudra looked around—this odd little team of traders, poets, techies, cats, and chaos—and felt oddly proud. They weren’t the biggest or the richest. But they were, undoubtedly, the most absurdly alive. “Next week,” Batabyal announced as he left, “we launch ZenStocks. Prepare brochures. And incense.” “Do we offer scented dividends too?” Rudra asked. “Only if they outperform,” Batabyal replied.
As the shutters rolled down and the lights dimmed, Rudra whispered to Meowshant, “What would the market say if it could talk?” The cat blinked slowly, yawned, and walked away. “Exactly,” said Rudra. “Silence and chaos. The perfect forecast.”
Part 8
Monday morning opened like a confused email—unnecessary, urgent, and full of attachments nobody wanted. Rudra Sen stepped into Kothari & Sons carrying a half-eaten banana, two unpaid bills, and a weekend hangover induced not by alcohol, but by watching three back-to-back webinars on “Ethical Blockchain Mindfulness.” Golu greeted him with both hands in a namaste, eyes closed. “Today we launch ZenStocks, sir. I am in spiritual mode. I have brought tulsi tea.” “Make mine with caffeine,” Rudra replied. “Spirituality can wait until post-lunch.”
Batabyal stood near the whiteboard, scribbling slogans in three colors. “ZenStocks begins today. We are offering serenity with securities. Calm with capital. Peace with profits.” Minty arrived mid-sentence and said, “Add ‘tranquility with tax-saving.’ We need millennial keywords.” Rudra sat down, shaking his head. “We’re one scented candle away from becoming a spa.” “Exactly!” said Batabyal. “I’ve already ordered 20. Lemongrass and ‘Fiscal Harmony’ flavors.”
By 10:30 a.m., their landing page for ZenStocks went live. It promised “a guided journey into your financial soul” and offered packages like Mindful Mutuals, Yogic Yield Plans, and The Karmic SIP. Rudra had insisted on adding disclaimers in bold—“We are still a SEBI-registered brokerage. No chakras were harmed in the making of this portfolio.” First response came within fifteen minutes. A woman named Lavanya from Pondicherry wrote: “I am looking for spiritual ROI and socially conscious dividends. Do you do blessings-based allocations?” Rudra replied, “Yes. We align your portfolio with planetary positions and quarterly results. And we bless every transaction with a bell.”
While Minty curated the Zen playlist—featuring Tibetan bowls, distant cowbells, and the Nifty opening bell slowed down 500%—Golu started burning incense beside the demat forms. Meowshant, now unofficially promoted to “Feline Investment Monk,” sat quietly in a yoga pose near the CPU. The first client walked in around noon. He wore all white, had a serene beard, and spoke in couplets. “I have money,” he said, “but no peace. Help me invest in both.” Rudra led him to the Zen corner—two floor cushions, a Himalayan salt lamp, and a mutual fund brochure with hand-drawn mandalas.
“What kind of peace are you looking for?” Rudra asked, keeping a straight face. “Inner peace,” the man replied. “And also quarterly income.” Rudra suggested a balanced hybrid fund and threw in a bamboo plant. The man nodded, satisfied. “You understand me.” “I barely understand the market,” Rudra said, “but thank you.”
Just then, Shruti Vyas called. “Rudra, I love the ZenStocks buzz. Can we create a sub-brand for influencers?” “You mean ZenFluence?” “Yes! Tailored portfolios for content creators. Based on likes, aesthetic, and emotional colors.” “That sounds… dangerous.” “Dangerously trendy,” she corrected. “Get on it.” Rudra made a note. Minty had already started designing a poster: “Influence your net worth with inner work.”
Meanwhile, Abhinav launched a “Mindfulness ROI Calculator” that blinked softly and whispered “breathe” after every click. Golu had taken to ringing a bell before every trade. “We honor the volatility,” he said solemnly. The office smelled like lemongrass and mild fear.
At 2:00 p.m., disaster struck. A major IT company released bad results, triggering a market dip. The candles flickered. The playlist switched to flute funeral music. Clients started calling in a panic. “Should I sell?” “Is this a correction or a karmic punishment?” “Can I sue Mercury retrograde?” Rudra held up his hands. “Team,” he said, “remember our training. We are calm. We are brokers. We are barely employed but fully centered.”
He lit another candle, took a deep breath, and told clients: “Stay invested. Think of the dip as a bow being drawn—so that the arrow can fly.” “That’s beautiful,” one client said. “Also, what’s the exit load?” Minty managed to stop three clients from selling everything by sending them a GIF of Meowshant meditating. Abhinav’s bot, Brokie, changed its emoji from a crying bear to a tea cup with a smile. The storm passed.
By evening, ZenStocks had eight new clients, one of whom had paid partly in bitcoin and partly in bonsai plants. Golu insisted on blessing every onboarding form with a drop of holy water he claimed was sourced from a Durga Puja pandal in Salt Lake. Rudra didn’t argue. He was too tired, and honestly, the client retention rate had never been higher.
Batabyal stood before the team at closing hour and declared, “This is it. This is our future. Mindful investing. We shall scale. We shall franchise. We shall maybe even be featured on Rajeev Masand’s business round-up.” Rudra, half-asleep, asked, “Do we get bonus incense sticks if we cross our Q3 targets?” “Yes,” said Batabyal. “And scented envelopes for ELSS.”
That night, as Rudra left the office, he saw Meowshant sitting on the hood of his scooter, looking at the moon. He sat beside him and whispered, “Do you think this is madness or genius?” The cat blinked slowly, turned away, and began licking his paw.
“Fair enough,” Rudra said. “Either way, I’m still billing it under consulting.”
Part 9
Tuesday came dressed in disguise. It looked innocent enough—mild sun, fewer traffic honks, even a vaguely cooperative metro crowd—but Rudra Sen knew better. Markets loved to ambush when everyone was relaxed. At 9:05 a.m., the coffee machine at Kothari & Sons exploded. Not violently, but with enough hissing and steam to send Golu running in with a sandal in one hand and a mantra in the other. “It’s a sign,” Golu said breathlessly. “Today will either be extremely good… or terribly operatic.” Minty, sipping cold brew from her steel sipper, said, “Or maybe we should stop buying used appliances from Telegram groups.” Rudra walked in moments later, carrying a folder, a half-finished crossword, and a bag of oranges. “Vitamin C combats chaos,” he explained, dropping one on Golu’s desk. “Also, I had a coupon.”
The day’s chaos began, as expected, with a tweet. A popular YouTuber with 3 million subscribers had released a video titled “Why the Stock Market Is a Government Conspiracy and You Should Buy Goats.” The market shivered. Penny stocks tied to rural agri products soared. Goat-themed NFTs reappeared. Someone on Reddit declared “NannyCoin” the next crypto revolution. Rudra watched it all unfold with the grim patience of someone watching pigeons steal fries. “I need to lie down,” he muttered. “And maybe invest in fencing companies.”
Meanwhile, ZenStocks continued to attract seekers of financial salvation. One client, named Veena, arrived dressed in saffron robes and carrying a diary titled ‘Manifesting My Multi-Bagger.’ She wanted her investments matched to her breathwork routine. “I exhale three times for each bullish wave,” she explained, eyes closed. Rudra handed her a risk-profile form shaped like a lotus. “Please select your tolerance: Calm, Wavy, or Earthquake.” Veena selected “Wavy.” They put her money in three sectors—organic farming, wellness resorts, and a small publishing house that made horoscopes for pets.
Around 11:30, Batabyal barged in with a newspaper. “We’ve been mentioned in print!” he shouted. “The article calls us ‘quirky, resilient, and mildly mystical.’” Minty screamed in joy. Golu lit a diya. Rudra blinked. “We’re going to become the TED Talk of brokerages, aren’t we?” “Embrace it,” said Batabyal. “Embrace the madness. It’s branding now.”
Then, the call came. From none other than Rahul—the copper investor and self-declared disciple of Meowshant. “Rudra ji,” he said in a whisper. “It’s time.” “For what?” “For the big move. I’ve dreamt of steel. Cold, strong, uncompromising. Meowshant appeared riding a steel spoon.” Rudra stared at the phone. “Was this after dinner?” “Yes. Paneer butter masala.” “Understood.” But he didn’t dismiss the vision. Steel stocks were due for movement. Rudra bought cautiously. By 2:00 p.m., steel prices surged after a trade policy change. Golu yelled, “The cat is never wrong!” Minty made a new meme: Meowshant in a steel helmet, captioned “Alloy to the World.”
But just as celebration peaked, a knock came at the office door. Two suited men entered, flashing IDs from a private compliance agency. “Routine check,” one said. “We’ve received reports that you’re conducting financial consultations while burning incense and playing animal soundtracks.” “That’s our ZenStocks offering,” Rudra said politely. “And the sound was a peacock, not an algorithm.” They scanned the office. “Who’s the cat?” “Our Director of Instinctive Insight.” “Does he have a PAN card?” Rudra hesitated. “No, but he pays emotional dividends.” The agents weren’t amused.
Batabyal emerged, wearing a kurta and holding a plate of prasad. “Gentlemen,” he said grandly, “We believe finance should be human, heartfelt, and somewhat fragrant.” After 20 minutes, several printed documents, and one free yoga brochure, the agents left, shaking their heads and muttering about “too much turmeric in capitalism.”
By 3:30, the market had settled. The goat stocks deflated. The wellness fund rallied. Veena messaged: “I felt a surge of alignment. Did something good happen?” Rudra replied, “Your breathwork is working.” Golu, inspired, decided to record a podcast: “Chai, Charts & Chakras.” Abhinav created a feature where the ZenStocks app changed background color based on market mood. “Blue for balance, red for rage, green for greed,” he explained. Minty created a quiz titled “Which Mutual Fund Are You Based on Your Morning Beverage?”
Rudra, sipping his fifth cup of tea, looked out the window. He had a strange feeling again. Not doom. Not joy. Just… comedy. Life had become one long, ridiculous brokerage sitcom, and he was the unwilling star. He missed the days when all he worried about was price-to-earnings ratios. Now he worried about whether Meowshant preferred large-cap or mid-cap stocks.
Just before close, a surprise parcel arrived. It was from Mrs. Bose. Inside: four jars of pickle named “Smallcap Spice,” “Debt Delight,” “Midcap Mango,” and “High Risk, High Tamarind.” Rudra laughed so hard he spilled chutney on his keyboard. Minty called it a bullish spill.
As they closed the shutters for the day, Rudra said aloud, “What even are we now?” Golu replied serenely, “A brokerage. A temple. A comedy club. Maybe all three.” Meowshant purred. Somewhere, a goat bleated in the distance. And Rudra whispered, “Bring on Wednesday. I fear nothing now.”
Part 10
Wednesday began with a siren. Not from a firetruck or an ambulance, but from Rudra Sen’s alarm clock, which had been accidentally set to “nuclear warning” mode. He fell out of bed, kicked over a pile of unopened demat forms, and landed on his yoga mat—which had never known yoga. “Auspicious,” he muttered, brushing his teeth with stock tips playing in the background. “Today, the market will either gift me enlightenment or indigestion.”
At Kothari & Sons, the air smelled of lavender incense and leftover mustard oil. ZenStocks had begun affecting even their cleaning supplies. Golu was chanting quietly as he wiped desks, and Meowshant had taken to sitting on the computer mouse, refusing to move unless bribed with fish-flavored treats. Minty arrived wearing a kurta that said “Beta, Mutual Fund Sahi Hai” and carrying a thermos of lemon ginger tea. “Today feels wild,” she declared. “Something’s going to happen.” Rudra nodded. “I also sense something. Possibly indigestion.”
The first client of the day was a poet. Literally. Mr. Anupam Chakraborty, self-proclaimed bard and accidental equities enthusiast. “I want to invest in companies that rhyme,” he said. “Also, preferably those that use alliteration.” Rudra blinked. “So… Tata Tea? Britannia Biscuits? Dixon Devices?” “Yes!” Anupam cried. “You understand me!” “I don’t,” Rudra replied honestly. “But I’ve stopped resisting.”
Anupam left behind a handwritten poem titled ‘Bull & Bear: A Love Story’ and a cheque of ₹12,000, which he signed with a feather pen. Batabyal, who had returned from a bank visit with four samosas and one fresh conspiracy theory, read the poem and said, “We should do poetry readings. With option charts in the background. That’s culture.” Minty whispered, “If SEBI ever audits our souls, we’re finished.”
At noon, Shruti Vyas video-called in full glamour mode. “Rudra, I’m hosting a retreat in Goa called ‘Finance & Fireflies.’ Think crypto by the beach, deep breathing by the charts.” “That sounds illegal,” Rudra said. “Or at least asthmatic.” “I need a live ZenStocks pitch during my keynote. Can we broadcast from your office?” Rudra looked around. Golu was massaging his own temples. Meowshant was eating the corner of an equity report. Minty was applying lipstick while reciting Sensex levels. “Yes,” he said. “We’re… ready.”
By 3:00 p.m., they were live. The Zoom link blinked open. Dozens of well-dressed people in linen shirts stared into their slightly chaotic office. Rudra stood in front of a whiteboard where someone had drawn a bull with sunglasses. “Good afternoon,” he began. “ZenStocks is not just a product. It is a philosophy. Here, we believe every stock has a story, every trader a soul, and every correction a cosmic realignment.” Golu rang the bell. Minty played soft sitar in the background. Meowshant sneezed.
“We align chakras with sectors. If you are an Aries, we prefer aggressive equity. A Taurus? Maybe fixed-income. Gemini? We give you two portfolios.” Some in the audience clapped. One man wept. Another tried to ask a question about derivatives, but Rudra drowned it out by saying, “We offer spiritual SIPs. Emotionally adjusted NAVs. And a monthly mantra with each folio.”
When the Zoom call ended, Batabyal hugged him. “We’re not just brokers,” he said. “We’re digital monks with brokerage codes.” “And tax obligations,” Rudra reminded him. “Yes, yes. But monks nonetheless.”
As the day wound down, Rudra received a call from an old college friend, Preeti, now a lawyer. “I’ve been reading about ZenStocks,” she said. “Are you guys legit or completely insane?” “Both,” Rudra replied. “Why?” “Because I want to invest. But only in companies that have legal departments run by women. Also, they should make biodegradable pens.” Rudra scratched his head. “That’s specific.” “So is life,” she replied.
He found one stationery company in Gujarat that met the criteria. “Preeti,” he said, “this might actually work.” “Of course it will,” she replied. “I know you. You’re an idiot with intuition.”
As they talked, Rudra realized he missed talking to old friends. The stock market had become his life, but somewhere in the noise of indices and incense, he had stopped checking in on people who weren’t attached to portfolio performance. “Come by the office sometime,” he said. “We have candles now.” “You always did,” she laughed. “They were just less fragrant.”
At 5:00 p.m., Meowshant jumped onto Rudra’s lap, yawned, and placed one paw on a report about electric mobility. “That’s it,” Minty whispered. “EV sector. He has spoken.” Golu nodded. “Shall I do a puja?” “Please don’t light camphor near the router,” Abhinav called out. Batabyal approved the trade. They bought.
Outside, the sky glowed lavender. The street was noisy but distant. Rudra stood by the window, the Zoom applause still echoing in his ears. The candle on his desk flickered once, then died. “End of day,” he said aloud. “End of doubt.” He made one last note in his diary: “Even in madness, some things multiply—like laughter, faith, and compound interest.”
Tomorrow was Thursday. And the penultimate episode in this circus.
Part 11
Thursday arrived with the scent of closure and the faint whiff of burnt incense. The Kothari & Sons office felt unusually still—like the pause before a punchline. Rudra Sen entered wearing a kurta over jeans, a sign that he had either achieved spiritual balance or run out of clean shirts. Golu greeted him with folded hands and whispered, “I had a dream. We were listed on NASDAQ. Meowshant rang the opening bell. And you… you were giving life advice to Warren Buffett.” Rudra blinked. “Was I charging him?” “No, you were gifting him mango pickle.” “Tragic,” Rudra sighed. “A lost revenue opportunity.”
Minty entered moments later with a chocolate croissant and a worried look. “Today feels… final,” she said. “Like the season finale of a show where no one knows what the plot was, but everyone’s emotionally invested.” Rudra nodded. “I feel it too. Like the markets are holding their breath. Or like Meowshant’s planning something.” The cat in question was perched on top of a file cabinet, tail flicking like a metronome of mystery.
The day began with a surprise. A courier arrived for Rudra—a sleek black envelope sealed with wax. Inside: an invitation to speak at “FinLit Fest 2025: The Future of Feelings in Finance.” Rudra laughed so hard he had to sit down. “They want me to give a keynote on emotional investing.” Batabyal took the envelope, read it thrice, and then declared, “We’ve arrived, Sen. You’re no longer just a broker. You’re a brand. A thought-leader. Possibly a meme.”
By 10:30, the office was buzzing. Clients called not just to trade, but to talk. Someone asked if Rudra believed in lucky tickers. Another wanted advice on naming her pet rabbit after a dividend-paying stock. Shruti Vyas video-called wearing sunglasses shaped like rupee signs and said, “I’ve trademarked ‘ZenFluence.’ We’re building a course. Want to co-host?” Rudra stared at her. “Do I have to chant?” “Only during tax season,” she replied.
At noon, a surprise guest arrived—Mrs. Bose, dressed in a silk sari and holding a Tupperware full of something fragrant. “Beta,” she said, “this is my final batch of Fiscal Fennel. I’m going to Singapore. My niece got a job with Temasek.” Rudra hugged her. “Who’ll scream at me about pharma stocks now?” “I’ll send voice notes,” she promised. “Also, I left some handwritten notes about dream-based portfolio management. Don’t ignore page five.”
As they waved goodbye, Rudra realized something: his clients weren’t just clients anymore. They were stories. Characters. Co-authors of the absurd novel he lived every day. Meowshant sneezed at that moment, like punctuation.
The market closed slightly green. Nothing dramatic. No crashes, no miracles. Just a steady hum. Golu served samosas to everyone and read aloud from a notebook titled “F&O: Faith and Optimism.” Abhinav launched a final update to the ZenStocks app, which now included a “Mood Meter” that matched user stress levels with stock suggestions. Minty played a calming track called “Equity Enigma in C Major.”
Then, as the sun dipped, the lights dimmed, and the office grew quiet, Rudra stood and made an announcement. “Friends, comrades, co-madmen—I think it’s time.” Golu gasped. Minty stopped mid-bite. “Time for what?” Batabyal narrowed his eyes. Rudra smiled. “Time for the next phase. ZenStocks has become too big to stay here. We need a new office. A proper one. With windows that shut. Wi-Fi that works. Desks that don’t wobble. A meditation room. And maybe a vending machine with lemon tarts.”
Batabyal looked stunned. “You mean… expansion?” “Yes,” said Rudra. “Let’s go full absurd. National. Maybe even international. Golu, your podcast. Minty, your memes. Abhinav, your bot. Meowshant—well, he’ll remain the soul of it all.” There was silence. Then applause. Then someone threw a stapler, possibly in joy.
That evening, they packed up early. Golu fed Meowshant a celebratory treat. Minty stuck a Post-it on Rudra’s monitor: “Never forget the chaos that made you.” Abhinav gave him a framed graph of ZenStocks’ first client growth curve—hand-drawn, irregular, beautiful.
Rudra walked out last, holding the cat in one arm and the leftover samosas in the other. As he stood under the old streetlamp, watching the city blur into night, he thought of everything—of IPOs and incantations, losses and laughter, pickle jars and poetic traders. In a world that had long lost its plot, he had found his in the least likely place—a tiny brokerage full of misfits, dreams, and the smell of burning camphor.
The wind picked up. Meowshant sneezed again. Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang. Rudra smiled. “New office. New chapter. Same madness.”
Because in the end, he knew—the market may fluctuate, but nonsense always compounds.
THE END
