Priya Paul
Chapter 1: Curse of the Jobless Genius
If you had asked Nakul Joshi five years ago where he saw himself by the age of twenty-nine, he would’ve said something obnoxiously overconfident, like: “Running my own unicorn startup while sipping espresso in a glass tower overlooking Mumbai.” What he hadn’t seen coming was the actual reality: living back with his parents in a sleepy tier-3 town called Baneshwar, sharing a wall with his mother’s singing bhajan clock, and applying for the post of a government peon.
But life, as Nakul often reminded himself these days, had a dark sense of humour.
Baneshwar hadn’t changed in the five years Nakul was away chasing Silicon Valley dreams. The same potholes greeted him at the railway station. The same coconut-seller, now with slightly more white in his beard, still shouted, “Ek rupaye extra lagega chilled ke liye!” And the auto-wallahs still looked at returning residents like vultures spotting a confused chicken.
Nakul’s mother, Savitri Joshi, however, had changed.
She now believed Nakul was cursed.
“You see, beta, no matter how smart you are, if Shani is angry, even your brain becomes useless! Guruji says your stars are out of alignment. Until you get a permanent government job, your career will keep failing,” she declared one evening, while grinding chutney and watching a WhatsApp video of a dancing goat she found suspiciously spiritual.
Nakul, seated at the dining table, groaned. “Maa, my startup failed because our investors bailed during Series A, not because Saturn forgot my birthday.”
Savitri wasn’t having it. “Guruji has clearly said: temporary naukri means temporary life. Government naukri means government blessings.”
“And what job do you suggest I apply for? IAS exam’s form is closed. ISRO isn’t hiring astronauts from small towns. Should I try for the post of Prime Minister?”
She pointed to a newspaper cutting on the fridge.
It read:
“Vacancy: Peon – Revenue Department, Baneshwar. Qualification: Class 8 Pass. Job Type: Permanent Government Post.”
Nakul choked on his tea.
To understand why Nakul even considered this insanity, we must understand the Joshi household.
Mr. Madhukar Joshi, Nakul’s father, was a retired railway station master who had perfected the art of sipping tea and silence in equal measure. He watched his son’s career misadventures like one would watch a test match with no expectations—quietly hoping, mostly resigned.
His younger sister Neha, on the other hand, was in the opposite phase of life. A 21-year-old mass communication student and full-time meme creator, she found Nakul’s downfall delicious.
“You know bhaiya,” she said that evening, scrolling through Instagram, “you should seriously apply. Peons these days get more stability than YouTubers.”
Nakul looked at his family and sighed.
A degree from IIT. An MBA from IIM. Six months at a venture capital firm. A failed startup called “Snackster” that delivered regional snacks across India. And now, this.
His life had become a very well-educated joke.
The next morning, Nakul was dragged by his mother to meet Guru Pitambar Baba, a self-declared “Job-Astrologer” who operated out of a neon-lit shop next to Baneshwar’s famous dosa cart.
Baba looked like he was born directly into saffron robes. With a long, suspiciously fake beard, he claimed to have helped “seven IAS officers, one NASA engineer, and the entire accounting team of LIC” find their true destiny.
He looked at Nakul’s birth chart, tilted his head dramatically, and gasped.
“Beta, this is not an ordinary kundli. You are cursed with naukri-dosh! Until you accept a sarkari job—any job—you will fail. Even your marriage will be delayed!”
Nakul, not planning to get married anytime soon, snorted. “What if I become a freelance stand-up comic?”
The baba’s eyes narrowed. “Then you will be unmarried, jobless, and mocked by the planets.”
His mother slapped his shoulder. “Beta, don’t joke with the stars. They’re watching.”
A week later, just to shut his mother up, Nakul clicked “Apply” on the online peon job portal. He uploaded his resume—heavily edited to exclude any signs of intelligence—and left the section for educational qualification as: “Passed Class 10 (just barely)”.
Surely, he thought, they’ll never select him.
A week passed.
Then, an envelope arrived.
“You are shortlisted for the interview. Date: Monday. Venue: Baneshwar Revenue Department.”
Nakul stared at it like it was a prank.
His father blinked. “Looks like your fake mediocrity finally worked.”
Monday morning, Nakul ironed the only plain shirt he had that didn’t scream “Tech Bro.” He walked to the Revenue Department with the gait of someone attending a roast.
The office was…exactly what he expected. Paint peeling off the walls, ceiling fans that rotated out of politeness, and files that looked like they dated back to Mughal rule.
A sleepy-looking clerk handed him a tray of tea. “Go. Serve chai to the interview panel.”
“Sorry, what?”
“That’s part of the interview. Peons must serve chai first. We judge your balance and smile.”
So there Nakul was, serving tea to three bored government officers, while trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it all. In a moment of nerves, he muttered under his breath:
“Productivity is never an accident. It is always the result of intelligent planning and focused effort.”
The room froze.
One of the officers looked up. “What did you just say?”
Nakul blinked. “Uh…Peter Drucker? Management guru?”
The three men looked at each other. One whispered, “Beta lagta hai yeh AI pe training le ke aaya hai.”
Three days later, Nakul got a call.
“You have been selected for the post of Peon, Grade 3. Reporting next Monday.”
He stared at the phone like it had just confessed to murder.
His sister clapped. “OMG, you’re now literally chai pe charcha!”
His mother lit a diya.
His father muttered, “At least now we can get subsidised lentils.”
Nakul, meanwhile, lay down on the couch and muttered, “This isn’t a career move. This is a cosmic prank.”
But deep down, a small part of him was curious.
How bad could this job really be?
Chapter 2: Peon Position and Pandemonium
Monday morning arrived with all the drama of a B-grade soap opera. Savitri Joshi woke up at 5 AM, bathed the house in agarbatti smoke, and placed haldi-turmeric dots on Nakul’s forehead like he was heading for battle. Which, in a way, he was.
“Take dahi-cheeni,” she insisted, spooning yogurt and sugar into his mouth. “For luck.”
“Maa, I’m going to serve tea and stamp papers, not fight elections.”
“Exactly why you need divine help.”
And with that, Nakul Joshi, gold medalist, ex-startup CEO, reluctant peon, stepped into the Baneshwar Revenue Department for his first day at work.
The Revenue Department building was exactly how he remembered it from the interview—maybe dustier. A banyan tree guarded the entrance like an ancient gatekeeper. Paint peeled off like sunburned skin. A dog slept on a file labeled “Urgent: 2017.”
Inside, a bell rang somewhere, but it wasn’t clear whether it signaled time or trauma.
At the reception, a woman chewing paan pointed vaguely toward a corridor and said, “Go left. Peon training room.”
As Nakul walked past layers of cobwebbed file racks, he spotted a small cardboard sign taped above a door: “Peon Room – Handle With Care.”
Inside sat Pinky Singh, Baneshwar’s most notorious peon—and Nakul’s new colleague.
Pinky Singh was a woman in her late 40s with a raspy voice, sunglasses worn indoors, and an authority complex that could rival police inspectors.
She sized up Nakul like he was a contestant on a reality show she didn’t approve of.
“You’re the IIT boy, right?”
Nakul blinked. “How do you know?”
“The walls talk. Also, Sharma Ji saw your interview. Said you quoted American babas while serving chai. Dramatic much?”
Nakul gave a sheepish smile.
Pinky leaned in. “Listen up, James Peon-d. You’re not here to revolutionize anything. Your job is chai, files, and pretending to know nothing. Got it?”
“Crystal,” he said.
“Good. Now follow me. Time for your induction.”
The training was absurd. Nakul was taught how to:
Carry five cups of chai on a single tray without spilling (Pinky’s pro tip: “Walk like you’re on eggs. Think duck, not deer.”)
Avoid eye contact with senior officers unless addressed (and even then, look only at their chins)
Stamp documents exactly 1.5 cm from the margin (too close, and they reject the file; too far, and you’re “modernising government”)
Use the BRT—Baneshwar Roster Technique, which was just a dusty book where everyone signed in, then left for snacks
At one point, Nakul asked, “What if I complete my tasks early?”
Pinky laughed like he told the best joke of the century.
“You sweet summer child. We don’t finish tasks here. We carry them forward. Like ancestral debt.”
His first job was simple—deliver three cups of tea to Room 203. Easy.
Except: The lift didn’t work. The cups had no handles. A monkey entered through a broken window and tried to steal a biscuit from his tray.
He finally reached Room 203—sweaty, one cup short—and handed over tea to three stern-looking officers, who immediately pointed out the problem.
“This cup has less milk.”
“This one has no sugar.”
“This one is hot. I have acidity.”
Nakul smiled politely and said, “Should I file a complaint with the cow?”
That earned him a warning memo by lunch.
By midday, Nakul had met the other peons:
Bachchan Peon: Named so because he recited Kabir ke dohe while sleeping.
Kamlesh: 23, part-time peon, full-time IPL dreamer. Bowls with file tubes.
Rasila Didi: Who had unofficially been running the office for 30 years by yelling at everyone.
Together, they formed an underground fraternity called “Tea Break Brotherhood”.
At 3 PM, they sat outside on a broken bench, sipping their own contraband chai, and gossiping about who got transferred, who bribed whom, and how Sharma Ji allegedly faked a hernia to avoid election duty.
Kamlesh asked, “Tu sach mein IIT se hai, bhai?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Then what the hell are you doing here?”
Nakul sipped his chai. “Correcting my stars.”
They all nodded solemnly. It was the most relatable thing he’d said all day.
The real test came at 4:30 PM.
Nakul was assigned to escort Mr. D. K. Shastri, the department head, from his car to his office. Sounds simple?
Mr. Shastri was 58, walked slower than Wi-Fi in a village, and expected to be greeted with a bottle of chilled water, a newspaper folded to the crossword, and exactly three almonds (no more, no less) placed in a steel katori.
Nakul, in his rookie enthusiasm, got: Room-temperature water, A Sudoku sheet, Four almonds.
Mr. Shastri stared at the almonds like they were poisoned.
“What is this? You mocking me?”
Nakul said, “I thought an extra almond would bring extra health.”
The old man wheezed. “You think you’re very smart. Don’t try to outshine the sun, peon. You’ll burn.”
By 5:30 PM, Nakul was drained.
He had: Served 19 cups of tea, Stamped 46 files, Sat through two power cuts, Escaped one rat and one angry stapler machine, And received two verbal warnings.
As he left, Pinky Singh clapped him on the back. “Not bad, city boy. You didn’t cry even once.”
“Yet.”
“Good. Tomorrow, you’ll clean the file shelves. Wear something disposable.”
Back home, his mother beamed. “How was it, beta?”
“Like a boot camp designed by Kafka and run by monkeys.”
His sister uploaded a meme that said:
“IIT + MBA = PEO(N)NEER”
And somehow, Nakul knew—this circus was just getting started.
Chapter 3: Chai, Files, and Frustration
By day three of his glorious peon career, Nakul Joshi had already reached an existential phase of employment most people hit after fifteen years in a dead-end job. He had learned to:
Sip lukewarm tea without gagging,
Walk through corridors while being invisible,
And fold government files using the ancient origami technique known only to clerks over 50.
But the biggest lesson so far?
No one cared about logic in the Baneshwar Revenue Department.
It started with a mysterious summons.
“Nakul Peon! Collector Sir wants File Number 639-B immediately,” shouted an overworked clerk named Jadhav, whose glasses always dangled like they were considering resigning.
Nakul looked around. “File 639-B? Where is it kept?”
Pinky Singh smirked. “Ah, the mythical beast returns.”
“What?”
“That file hasn’t been seen since demonetisation.”
“Then why is he asking for it?”
“Because his assistant promised it. His assistant’s assistant told the junior clerk. And the junior clerk told you. Congratulations, you’re officially part of the bureaucracy’s ‘pass-the-parcel’ chain.”
Undeterred, Nakul plunged into the dusty records room—a place where files went to die and ghosts of interns past whispered from behind broken shelves.
He emerged three hours later with:
Red eyes,
A shoe missing its sole,
And a file labeled 639-B/NOT TO BE TOUCHED – termites inside.
Success?
No.
The Collector rejected it because it had tea stains from 2014 and smelled “like mildew and betrayal.”
Meanwhile, Nakul’s chai-serving duties became more dramatic.
The new assistant commissioner, Ms. Malvika Rao, arrived from Mumbai. She had a no-nonsense aura, heels that echoed like authority, and a habit of using phrases like “actionable insights” and “let’s touch base offline”—which confused everyone except Nakul.
On her second day, Nakul served her a cup of tea.
She looked at it, sniffed, then asked, “Is this sugar-free?”
Nakul panicked. “It’s…emotionally sweet?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to be funny?”
“Honestly? Not on purpose anymore.”
She scribbled a note and passed it to her PA. Later, Nakul found it pinned on the peon noticeboard:
“All tea for Madam Rao must be:
Sugar-free
Light on milk
Served at 62–65°C
Accompanied by two Marie biscuits
– not broken.”
“Welcome to chai compliance,” Pinky said dryly.
Nakul’s next challenge: understanding the file approval chain. A simple document, like a request for a chair repair, required:
1. Approval from Section Officer A
2. Forwarding by Clerk B
3. Signature from Deputy In-Charge
4. Re-signature from someone whose actual job was unclear
5. Scanning by a machine that only worked if you banged it twice
Nakul once asked, “What happens if all signatories are absent?”
Pinky replied, “Then the chair stays broken till the next monsoon. That’s how we maintain continuity.”
One day, he spent four hours chasing a stapler.
“Where’s the main stapler?” he asked.
“Ask Room 17,” someone said.
Room 17 said, “Rasila Didi has it.”
Rasila Didi said, “It was last with Gopal.”
Gopal said, “I gave it to Sharma for his daughter’s wedding cards.”
It was returned three days later… with glitter on it.
During afternoon tea, the peons had a ritual:
• Complain,
• Gossip,
• And invent new theories.
One afternoon:
Kamlesh asked, “You ever notice Sharma Ji only signs files during odd-numbered days?”
Rasila nodded. “Astrologer told him even days cause gas.”
Nakul added, “I think this office runs on superstition and photocopies.”
Then Pinky announced, “Tomorrow, strike likely. Officers want AC repaired. It’s making weird noises.”
“But it’s 47 degrees outside!” said Nakul.
“Exactly. We protest by sitting in the sun and blaming the government.”
“How is that different from yesterday?”
“It’s officially different.”
One day, a surprise visitor arrived: a stern auditor from Delhi, inspecting efficiency.
Everyone panicked.
Officers ironed shirts for the first time in a decade. Clerks cleaned desks. Peons were told to “look busy.”
Nakul, who was carrying files, happened to walk past in a crisp shirt.
The auditor mistook him for a junior officer.
“You from HQ?” she asked.
Nakul blinked. “Uh… technically, I’m from Sector 42, Baneshwar.”
“No one here looks this organized. Sit down. Let’s talk.”
Before he could protest, he was handed a performance report and asked to analyze department productivity.
So Nakul, former MBA, did what he was good at.
He:
• Highlighted six inefficiencies,
• Suggested workflow improvements,
• Designed a new file-routing system using Google Forms.
The auditor was thrilled.
“You’re the future of governance!”
The next day, the real junior officer showed up.
The mix-up was discovered.
Nakul was demoted from “rising star” to “overenthusiastic chai guy” in under 10 seconds.
His punishment?
He had to manually update 427 ledger entries by hand.
In pen.
Without A/C.
Just when Nakul thought things couldn’t get worse, the monsoon arrived.
The department roof leaked.
Rain poured through the electric switchboard.
The printer sparked.
The peon team was tasked with setting up 37 buckets across the office to catch the drips. The buckets were labeled like Olympic teams:
Bucket A – Room 203 Leak Champion
Bucket F – Near Photocopier Splash Zone
Kamlesh held a betting pool on which bucket would fill first.
Nakul won. Bucket M overflowed and short-circuited the biometric machine.
Ironically, that meant everyone got to go home early.
That evening, Nakul sat outside on the steps, sipping tea with Pinky and Kamlesh as clouds rumbled in the background.
He watched a senior officer pace inside the building, screaming about a missing stamp.
Kamlesh muttered, “Why do we do this, bhai?”
Pinky exhaled. “Because the world needs order. And order needs people who know where the stapler is.”
Nakul laughed, then fell quiet.
Oddly, despite everything, he felt… calm.
In the chaos, there was routine.
In the nonsense, there was familiarity.
Maybe this wasn’t his forever job.
But for now?
It was the comedy show he didn’t know he needed.
Chapter 4: Strike, Selfies, and Scandals
If there was one thing Nakul had learned about the government office in Baneshwar, it was this:
Chaos wasn’t an exception. It was protocol.
But even Nakul wasn’t prepared for what a government employee strike, a viral selfie, and a missing air conditioner would do to his already bizarre career.
It started innocently enough.
Monday morning. 9:52 AM.
Kamlesh burst into the peon room like a Bollywood reporter in a breaking news montage.
“STRIKE!” he announced, arms flailing, eyes wild.
Pinky looked up from his crossword. “Again?”
“ACs are still broken. Officers union has declared a Symbolic Protest.”
“What’s symbolic about sweating in polyester shirts?” Nakul asked.
“It means… we don’t work. But we sit here. Dramatically.”
“Like performance art?”
“Exactly. We call it administrative resistance.”
The “strike” rapidly turned into a full-blown festival. Someone brought samosas. Another peon connected a Bluetooth speaker. Old files were rearranged to form a barricade near the photocopy room. People were lounging on floor mats like a government-approved beach holiday.
And then, the inevitable happened: Selfies.
Pinky handed Nakul a phone. “Take our picture. Caption it: ‘Fighting heat and injustice ✊☀️ #GovernmentLife’.”
Nakul sighed but clicked.
By lunchtime, dozens of employees had uploaded photos.
One particularly enthusiastic group had made a cardboard protest sign that read:
“No Cooling, No Filing!”
Another read:
“Hum Sarkari Hai, Par Thande Bhi Hai!”
But things took a turn when a local freelance journalist named Ritu Sinha — also Pinky’s cousin — posted a collage of strike selfies on her Instagram account with the headline:
“Government Staff Protest With Style — AC Broken, Morale Unbroken!”
It got shared. Then reshared. Then picked up by DesiBuzz.in.
By evening, Nakul’s blurry photo of officers posing with samosas had 3,000 likes.
Tuesday morning, as Nakul arrived, he noticed something strange.
People were pointing.
Some were giggling.
A stranger in a kurta approached him and said, “Excuse me, are you Chai Guy Nakul from the viral protest pic?”
“What?”
“You’re trending. The one holding the teacup near the file barricade? Your eyebrows look… revolutionary.”
Nakul’s phone buzzed with an unknown WhatsApp forward:
“Meet Nakul Joshi – The Face of Silent Government Rebellion.”
Pinky cackled. “You’re famous, baba!”
By noon, memes had arrived:
• One showed Nakul raising a tea cup with the words: “Chai Pe Charcha 2.0”
• Another: “AC Nahi Toh Aisa Hi Sahi – Govt Peon Goes Viral”
Kamlesh began offering 5-rupee selfies with Nakul to interns.
But all fame comes at a price.
Enter: Mr. Omkar Desai, Vigilance Department. Black sunglasses, slick hair, the permanent expression of a man smelling something unpleasant.
He stormed in Wednesday morning with a file that said “Urgent” in three places and barked, “Who authorized media into government premises?! Who posted photos during official hours?”
Everyone pointed to each other.
Eventually, fingers landed on Nakul.
He stood up. “Sir, I was just told to click a photo. I didn’t—”
Desai narrowed his eyes. “Is it true you’re organizing protests in the file room?”
“What? No! I was just fetching staplers!”
“Enough! I’ll need your ID. And access to your… phone.”
Pinky whispered, “Tell him you use a landline.”
Nakul handed over his phone. Desai scrolled through.
He paused at a meme: Nakul in sepia filter with the caption ‘One man. One fan. One fight for AC.’
Silence.
Then Desai muttered, “…this one’s actually quite funny.”
Just when it looked like things would calm down, a new crisis struck:
One of the AC units — yes, the very thing they were striking over — was gone. Vanished.
The Accounts department’s portable air conditioner had disappeared overnight.
Speculation began immediately:
• “Was it stolen?”
• “Did the Collector shift it to his farmhouse?”
• “Maybe it evaporated due to overuse?”
A formal complaint was filed.
A committee was formed.
CCTV footage was examined… and guess what they saw?
A blurry shadowy figure wheeling the AC down the corridor at midnight.
Everyone looked at Nakul.
“It’s not me!” he said, panicking. “I leave by 6 PM. I swear on my chai!”
Desai raised an eyebrow. “Convenient timing, Joshi.”
Nakul was summoned to the “complaint cell,” which was just a room with no fan and three broken chairs.
Officer Desai began the questioning.
“What were you doing on the night of June 3rd?”
“Dreaming of quitting.”
“Do you have access to room 104?”
“No, I’m banned. I spilled tea on a printer there.”
“Who do you think took the AC?”
“My guess? The rats. They’ve unionized.”
Desai wasn’t amused.
Then, in a dramatic twist, Pinky burst in holding a maintenance receipt.
“Sir! We found this in the photocopy room drawer. The AC was officially sent for repair last week by Accounts Sharma Ji. He forgot.”
A moment of silence.
Desai sighed. “Typical.”
Nakul smirked. “So… am I off the hook?”
Desai looked annoyed. “For now.”
Despite the cleared name, Nakul’s brush with scandal made him infamous.
People now called him:
• “AC Chor” (even though he wasn’t),
• “Strike Model Peon,”
• And his personal favourite, “Filefluencer.”
But then came an unexpected surprise.
Ms. Malvika Rao — the very no-nonsense assistant commissioner — called him to her office.
“I’ve seen your Google Forms system.”
Nakul froze.
“Oh god. Am I being fired for using modern tech?”
She smiled. “No. I’ve forwarded it to the district admin. They’re impressed.”
“You… liked it?”
“It’s the first time someone under 60 suggested anything functional. Also, you’re surprisingly popular online.”
Nakul blinked. “Is that good?”
She handed him a small envelope. “You’ve been promoted. Official Peon Grade 2.”
Nakul stared.
“This comes with slightly less pointless errands… and your own desk.”
Tears threatened.
Then she added, “But no more selfies.”
As the week ended, peace returned.
The AC was reinstalled.
The protest ended.
And Nakul, now upgraded and slightly more respected, got a new desk by the water cooler — with actual sunlight.
He still served chai. Still fetched files.
But now, people greeted him with grins.
Pinky whispered one day, “Fame suits you.”
Kamlesh asked for a selfie. Again.
And Nakul?
He sat at his desk, sipping tea, watching the absurdity unfold.
Because somehow, amidst chai, selfies, and scandal…
He’d become part of the system. And strangely, he didn’t hate it anymore.
Chapter 5: Interns, Interviews, and an Accidental Promotion
After surviving strikes, scandals, and viral selfies, Nakul had finally found something resembling stability.
His new desk — just under a ceiling fan that occasionally worked — gave him a sense of status. He even had a drawer. Granted, it didn’t close properly and smelled vaguely of pickles, but it was his.
However, peace in a government office is like free Wi-Fi at a railway station — unreliable and often a trap.
Every summer, the Baneshwar Collectorate welcomed interns. They came from big cities, armed with laptops, enthusiasm, and a dangerous belief that bureaucracy could be streamlined.
This year’s batch was particularly aggressive.
They were from an elite private college in Delhi. All of them wore branded clothes, carried reusable water bottles, and began every sentence with:
“In our policy workshop, we discussed…”
Nakul first met them when one mistook him for a courier.
“Excuse me,” a girl in smart khakis said, handing him a folder. “Please get this signed by the commissioner.”
Nakul blinked. “Why me?”
“Aren’t you… the delivery guy?”
“I’m Peon Grade 2,” he said proudly.
“Oh. Is that above or below assistant coordinator?”
“It’s slightly above chaiwala, slightly below air conditioner.”
The girl laughed awkwardly. “Cool. I’m Riya. MPA student. Interning on e-governance.”
Nakul had no idea what that meant, but he respected her confidence.
Within days, the interns were everywhere — filling out surveys, drafting reports, interviewing officers.
They even began referring to Pinky as “local support staff.”
The main intern project was ambitious: digitizing five years of administrative records.
Nakul watched in amusement as the interns faced their first big enemy: government handwriting.
They sat huddled over dusty files, trying to decode pages that looked like they were written by a blindfolded cat during an earthquake.
One intern screamed, “Is this number an 8 or a Bengali 3?!”
Pinky muttered, “It’s a Bengali ga. Good luck.”
Then came the realization: half the files had duplicate serial numbers. Some had dates from 1987. One file simply read:
“Sab kaam ho gaya. Aur kya chahiye?”
The interns were disillusioned by Day 3.
Nakul tried to help. “Want chai?”
Riya replied, “I want a refund on my education.”
As if interns weren’t enough, the office had another major event: recruitment interviews for junior clerks.
Nakul was drafted to manage logistics. His job? Ensure candidates filled the correct forms, didn’t faint from nervousness, and didn’t sneak in relatives pretending to be them.
He created a file naming system that impressed even the HR officer.
“You’re strangely efficient for this office,” she noted.
Nakul shrugged. “I’ve made peace with inefficiency by becoming its organized manager.”
Interview day arrived with its usual madness:
• One candidate wore a full suit in 40°C heat.
• Another forgot his application but brought his horoscope.
• A third insisted on singing to “display confidence.”
Meanwhile, the interns were taking notes.
“This is valuable ethnographic data,” Riya whispered.
“It’s just weird,” Nakul corrected.
Three days later, a memo arrived.
Subject: “Transfer and Promotion Order – Nakul Joshi”
It created immediate chaos.
Kamlesh gasped, “Promotion?! Are you becoming Assistant Supervisor?!”
Pinky said, “Baba, tea on you today!”
Nakul stared at the memo, confused. He hadn’t applied for anything. He barely understood what the title meant.
He rushed to Ms. Malvika Rao’s office.
“Ma’am, I think there’s a mistake. I didn’t apply for promotion.”
She adjusted her glasses. “Apparently, the system says you were recommended by the HR panel and have a ‘working knowledge of digitization practices.’”
“That was just a Google Form!”
“Well, congratulations. You’re now Assistant Coordination Officer – Digitization Support. It’s honorary. No extra salary. Just more work.”
Nakul blinked. “So I’ve been promoted… accidentally?”
She smiled. “Welcome to governance.”
When the interns heard, reactions were mixed.
Riya was stunned. “Wait, you got promoted before us?”
“I didn’t even want it,” Nakul insisted.
Another intern whispered, “He’s infiltrated the system. Genius.”
Some began interviewing him for their final paper:
• “How does it feel to rise through informal networks?”
• “What strategies did you employ in upward mobility?”
Nakul’s answer: “I make good chai.”
With his accidental promotion came unexpected authority.
He now had a new ID badge, was added to one official WhatsApp group, and — most impressively — he was allowed to “approve print jobs.”
But power has its price.
He was now expected to:
• Attend meetings (even the boring ones).
• Understand acronyms (RFP, GIS, HRMS).
• Wear semi-formal shirts.
Riya gifted him a tie. Pinky tried to wear it as a headband.
Kamlesh called him “Sir.”
Nakul begged him to stop.
On his last day, Riya approached Nakul.
“You know… I came here thinking everyone was lazy or corrupt.”
“And now?” he asked.
“I still think that,” she said, smiling. “But people like you make the place work.”
She handed him a gift-wrapped notebook. The cover said:
“System Upgrade: One Chai at a Time”
Nakul laughed. “It’s too much credit.”
“No, it’s just the right amount,” she said.
As the interns left, waving from an Ola cab, Nakul stood by the gate, holding his honorary promotion letter and a half-eaten samosa.
He looked up at the dusty signboard that read:
“Baneshwar Collectorate Office.”
Somewhere between files, failures, and fantastic interns…
He had made a place for himself.
Chapter 6: Office Olympics, Broken Elevators, and Bureaucracy’s Got Talent
After the whirlwind of interns, interviews, and accidental promotions, Nakul Joshi was beginning to think he might actually survive a full year at the Baneshwar Collectorate. Little did he know, the universe had other plans — and they came in the form of office games and a broken elevator.
Monday morning began like any other, with the shrill whistle of the peon’s clock and the distant clatter of falling files.
Suddenly, the office PA system crackled to life.
“Attention all staff!” boomed Ms. Malvika Rao’s voice, crisp as ever.
“We are pleased to announce the inaugural Baneshwar Collectorate Office Olympics, starting next week. Events include file relay races, tea brewing championships, and a photocopier sprint.”
The room erupted into a mix of confusion, excitement, and outright panic.
Nakul, still getting used to his new promotion, was nominated as the “team coordinator” — which basically meant he had to convince the notoriously lazy staff to participate.
Kamlesh volunteered enthusiastically, polishing his sandals for the “speed walking” event.
Pinky strategized for the “best chai maker” contest, while the interns from Delhi created spreadsheets analyzing everyone’s chances.
The photocopier sprint was the event everyone dreaded; the ancient copier had a mind of its own and frequently jammed mid-race.
To add to the chaos, the office elevator broke down spectacularly on the first day of the games.
The stairwell, already dusty and faintly smelling of old files, became the scene of many dramatic sprints and huffing-and-puffing contests.
Nakul quickly became the “stairmaster,” counting how many flights everyone climbed between files.
The IT guy, who hadn’t left his cubicle in three days, shocked everyone by winning the “fastest file courier” award — mostly because no one expected him to move at all.
The highlight of the week was the talent show, cheekily titled “Bureaucracy’s Got Talent.”
Pinky attempted a stand-up comedy routine about government inefficiency. His best joke?
“Why did the file cross the road? To get stamped by the officer who wasn’t in the office!”
The interns formed a flash mob dancing to a remix of “Jana Gana Mana.”
Nakul tried his hand at singing but was promptly advised by Kamlesh to stick to chai brewing.
Through all the fun, Nakul discovered surprising truths:
• The office was full of hidden talents.
• Even the grumpiest clerks had a soft spot for the photocopier sprint.
• A shared laugh was the best way to survive bureaucracy.
As the Olympics concluded, Nakul sat back at his desk, sipping chai.
He may have started as a lowly peon, but now, he was part of a community.
A quirky, chaotic, wonderfully human community.
Chapter 7: Secret Alliances, Office Politics, and The Great Tea Heist
The Baneshwar Collectorate was not just a government office — it was a living, breathing soap opera, where alliances shifted faster than the ceiling fan speeds and every chai break was a strategic summit.
After the Office Olympics, things seemed calmer, but Nakul knew better: trouble was brewing. And this time, it involved something precious — the office tea supply.
One morning, Nakul arrived to find the tea tin suspiciously empty. Pinky, the unofficial chaiwala, was frantic.
“Baba, the tea is gone! This is a disaster!”
“Gone?” Nakul blinked. “Did someone drink it all before morning?”
“No, no. This is sabotage,” Pinky declared. “There’s a tea thief in the office!”
The news spread like wildfire. Everyone was suddenly a suspect.
Kamlesh took it upon himself to investigate.
“Who benefits from no chai? The new intern batch? The clerk from the third floor? The officer who doesn’t drink?”
Meanwhile, Riya and her intern gang formed a “Tea Watch Committee,” armed with notebooks and CCTV footage requests.
Nakul was caught in the middle, trying to keep peace between the chai loyalists and the caffeine skeptics.
As accusations flew, the office atmosphere grew tense.
Meetings were held behind closed doors, whispers echoed in the corridors, and files mysteriously went missing.
Even Ms. Malvika Rao, the ever-calm commissioner, was seen holding emergency tea strategy sessions.
Nakul, curious and unable to resist a mystery, started his own undercover investigation.
Dressed in his best kurta and armed with a mug, he staked out near the pantry.
At 11:03 am sharp, he caught Kamlesh sneaking in with a secret stash of tea packets.
“Kamlesh! Tea smuggler!” Nakul exclaimed.
Kamlesh looked guilty but defiant. “I was saving it for the ‘Tea Emergency.’ Office politics, yaar.”
Nakul laughed. “You’re the tea mafia.”
The tea crisis ended with a grand chai party organized by the interns, complete with biscuits and playlist.
The office learned a valuable lesson: in government work, it’s not just files that need managing — it’s relationships, trust, and, yes, tea.
Sipping chai amidst laughter and reconciliations, Nakul realized his accidental promotion wasn’t just about work — it was about becoming part of a community that thrived on chaos and camaraderie.
And sometimes, the smallest things — like a missing tea tin — could bring everyone together.
Chapter 8: Emails, Errands, and the Eternal Waiting Game
The Baneshwar Collectorate was a place where time seemed to stretch and contract depending on the urgency of a file and the availability of chai. After surviving secret tea wars, Nakul was about to face a new kind of challenge — mastering the art of the eternal waiting game.
With his accidental promotion, Nakul had been handed a laptop, an email ID, and a password he could never remember.
The office had recently gone “semi-digital,” meaning most official communication was supposed to happen by email — a system that often caused more confusion than clarity.
His inbox was a mystery:
• Emails requesting approvals for files he never saw.
• Memos with confusing attachments.
• Forwarded jokes from the commissioner’s assistant.
Nakul’s attempts to reply were… creative.
“Dear Sir, Your file is under process. Regards, Nakul.”
“Dear Ma’am, Your request has been noted. Awaiting further instruction.”
None of these messages ever seemed to get a response.
Between emails, Nakul found himself running errands.
“Go get the signature from the registrar.”
“Submit the form at the post office.”
“Buy more biscuits for the tea party.”
Each errand was a mini-adventure involving lost forms, long queues, and the occasional bribe of sweets.
One day, Nakul got lost in the government office maze and ended up in the veterinary department.
He returned with a pamphlet on cattle health and no signatures.
Back at his desk, Nakul discovered the true meaning of bureaucracy — waiting.
Waiting for files to move, for signatures to arrive, for approvals to be granted.
Waiting for the copier to stop jamming, for the electricity to come back, for the tea to brew.
One afternoon, Nakul’s watch stopped working.
He realized time was irrelevant here.
Despite the chaos, Nakul found solace in small victories.
The email he sent asking for a day off was actually approved.
He managed to coordinate a meeting without losing any files.
He even brewed a perfect cup of chai.
Sometimes, that was enough.
As Nakul looked around at the dusty desks, the humming fans, and the endless paper stacks, he smiled.
The Baneshwar Collectorate was more than an office.
It was a test of patience, humor, and heart.
And Nakul was ready for whatever came next.
End
