Subject: Variable Payout

“Will I get my tea today?” Abhik called out, half-playful, half-accusing, his eyes still buried in the newspaper.

From the kitchen came Anu’s voice, warm and teasing. “Always in a hurry. You just woke up and already want tea?”

“Wake Mamuni up. It’s already 7:30,” he said. “She’ll be late for school.”

Anu laughed. “Your daughter! What else do you expect? And listen, today’s Wednesday. Get some chicken after you drop her. I’ll give you the grocery list. Don’t forget we’re going shopping this evening.”

Abhik groaned. “I don’t get this much work when I open my inbox in the morning. What I need with tea is a biscuit, not a task list.”

Anu reached for the biscuit jar beside his chair. “You only have ‘office work’ in the world, huh? Try doing housework for a day; you’ll realise how easy your meetings are.” She picked up the cups. “Now stop pretending that you have the work of the entire world. I’ll wake Mamuni. Unlike you, I do work for home, not from home.”

“Yeah, yeah… meetings are work too!” he muttered. “Anyway, about the evening shopping, it might be tricky.”

Her voice floated back from the kitchen. “Save the excuses for your boss. The shopping’s happening. Diwali is around the corner, it can’t wait.”

He smiled, folded the newspaper, and went for his shower.

Abhik was a mid-level manager in an IT services firm, living with his much-better-half, Anu, and their sixth-grader, Mamuni, the heart of the home. Post-COVID, the new work-from-home routine suited him, but the wave of layoffs sweeping through the industry had changed the air.

Eighteen years in the IT sector, and yet this was the first time he’d felt fear in the pit of his stomach. Responsibilities, EMIs, the polished comforts of an inflated lifestyle; all balanced on the thin thread of one paycheck. Visibility had become survival. That’s why, even on his home days, he kept his laptopn on, his Team’s light green, his smile ready for the meeting through out the day and the eveining as well.

At the breakfast table, Mamuni asked, “Where are we going for holidays in December? Tashi’s dad is taking them to Singapore. Shall we go to Dubai, please Papa? Not to Uncle’s house again this year.”

Abhik laughed. “Do you even know where Dubai is?”

Mamuni frowned. “Tashi doesn’t know where Singapore is either, but she’s going!”

Abhik looked at Anu, eyes wide, trying not to smile.

Mamuni continued, “I saw Dubai on Instagram reels—so beautiful! Palm resorts, Burj Khalifa, everything shining!”

Abhik said gently, “But your mom has to see her brother too. And you like your little cousin Chiku, right? Don’t you want to play with him?”

“Yes,” she said, “but not as much as I want to go to Dubai. If not Dubai, at least Gangtok!”

While she spoke, Abhik’s mind drifted to his bank balance. Medical bills for his parents had been piling up. Two years without a raise. Post-COVID, he had bought the house, and the EMIs were like those movie goons from the ’70s, waiting outside the factory gate to snatch your salary the moment you step out.

He looked at his daughter and sighed. “Beta, this year is tough. We’ll go to Uncle’s place, okay? Grandpa’s treatment needs money.”

Frustration flickered on Mamuni’s face, but before she could speak, Anu stepped in. “Aren’t you two getting late? Go, go! We’ll plan the vacation later.. after shopping and the play arena in the evening.”

“Yay! Bowling!” Mamuni said, jumping off her chair and grabbing Abhik’s hand.

As they stepped out, Abhik turned back toward Anu, gesturing silently with his eyes; Why now?

Abhik dropped Mamuni at school, bought groceries and chicken on his way back. It was already 10:20, and he still wasn’t home. He should have logged in by now. Just then, the music in his car stopped, and the screen lit up: “Mayank Calling.”

He picked up. Before Mayank could say anything, Abhik began, “I might be late for today’s 10:30 meeting.”

“Okay,” Mayank replied, his tone uneasy. “But I called for something else. I just got a meeting invite from Rajbeer for 3 p.m.”

Abhik glanced at his phone. “That’s strange. I didn’t get any invite. Maybe he wants a one-on-one discussion. Still… odd that I’m not included. Anything I should know? Did you reach out to him?”

“Anyway,” Abhik said, masking the knot forming in his chest, “attend the meeting and keep me posted.”

Mayank hesitated. “He’s also invited HR. I’m worried, Abhik.”

Abhik’s stomach tightened. It didn’t take him a moment to understand what that meant. “Don’t think too much,” he said quietly. “And if I’m late for the 10:30 meeting, please handle it.”

He hung up, his hand still on the wheel. The morning sun seemed sharper now, the road narrower, as if the day had started shrinking around him.

Mayank had joined his team two years ago, one of the brightest technical leads Abhik had ever hired. Abhik had first noticed him at a hackathon, presenting an idea that left the judges speechless. He’d moved heaven and earth to bring him onto his project. From the very first day, Mayank proved his worth.

He poured his soul into work. That never-give-up spirit earned him quick recognition and, inevitably, towering expectations. Six months later, he got married, and naturally, his intensity dipped a little. But even then, he kept outperforming everyone. Within a year, he was named “Talent of the Year.”

Things began to change when he applied for a month’s leave “personal reasons,” he’d said. Anyone who has worked in a large Indian IT firm knows how that phrase lands. These companies love to call themselves employee-friendly, but when billing and margins are at stake, compassion quietly steps aside. Mayank was too valuable a resource; his absence would hurt numbers. Rajbeer, the delivery head, insisted the leave be rejected; and, of course, wanted Abhik to do the rejecting.

That’s the curse of middle management: being the filling between two layers of bread — pressed, flavourless, and invisible. You’re too senior to escape responsibility, too junior to exercise mercy. Still, Abhik called Mayank, hoping to understand. Mayank was evasive at first, muttering something about a medical situation. Abhik pressed gently, again and again. Mayank trusted him; he always had. Despite the hierarchy, he knew Abhik had a good heart, a rare thing in their world. Finally, his voice cracked open.

“We recently went through a miscarriage,” he said quietly. “It’s been hard, especially on my wife. She’s… she’s not coping well. The depression, the hormones… it’s a mess. She barely talks. Cries without reason. Locks herself in the room. Wakes up screaming in the middle of the night. Her parents are with us, but it’s not helping. The only time she seems calm is when I’m home. If I leave her alone now, I’m afraid she’ll…” He stopped mid-sentence, swallowed hard. “I can’t keep pretending at work, Abhik. I need this break to help her, to help us. Otherwise, what’s the point of a career?”

Abhik didn’t know what to say. His throat tightened. He had been there once, not exactly the same, but close enough. After 3 yaers of Mamuni’s birth, Anu too had suffered a miscarriage. For weeks she had been a shadow of herself. It was only Mamuni’s laughter that had anchored them from drifting too far into grief.

“Hang on, buddy,” Abhik finally said. “This will pass. Let me speak to Rajbeer and see what I can do.” When Abhik called Rajbeer, the man listened in polite silence. Rajbeer wasn’t heartless, just… uninterested in anything that dented his portfolio’s numbers. After a few rounds of persuasion, surprisingly, he approved the leave. More to end the conversation than out of empathy.

Mayank returned a month later, but things were worse. His wife’s health hadn’t improved, and his own strength was crumbling. His Teams status was more orange than green. Hospital visits, sleepless nights, they drained him. To make up for missed work, he’d stay up coding till dawn, running on caffeine and guilt. Soon, his own health started breaking down.

The slow spiral began. He wasn’t failing; he just wasn’t brilliant anymore. And when brilliance dims, people notice. Escalations started pouring in. Abhik tried shielding him, delegating tasks, softening client feedback but that only drew resentment from others in the team. Everyone carried their own quiet burdens; no one wanted to shoulder someone else’s.

Though Abhik had acted surprised when he received Mayank’s call, he really wasn’t. He’d been expecting some warning from Rajbeer sooner or later. What surprised him was that Rajbeer hadn’t discussed it with him and even more, that he wasn’t part of the meeting.

He decided he’d call Rajbeer after lunch.

By the time he logged in, it was already past 10:30. He joined the daily stand-up late, speaking just enough to seem attentive, though his mind was elsewhere; scripting imaginary conversations with Rajbeer, rehearsing what he’d say, how he’d argue. But work has its way of swallowing worry. Slowly, the rhythm of meetings, updates, and follow-ups dulled his thoughts. For a while, Mayank’s problem faded into the background noise of the day.

At 1:30, Anu called out, “Lunch is ready.”

“I’ll have it later,” he replied without looking up.

“How late?” she asked, walking to his desk. “It’s already late for me. I have to finish the dishes afterward. What’s the point of working from home if we can’t even eat together?”

Abhik sighed, irritation leaking into his voice. “What do you mean? What’s the point? I’m working from home, not on leave. This work pays the bills, Anu. The lights, your shopping, Mamuni’s vacation ideas, Dad’s medicines; none of it comes from thin air. Someone - which is me - has to keep the wheels turning.” He made air quotes on the last words. Anu, unwilling to escalate, slipped behind him and placed a hand around his neck. “To work, you still need food,” she said gently. “You can’t burn fat for energy. I like the fatty you.”

He smiled despite himself. “Fine. Go ahead and serve.”

As she walked back toward the kitchen, he called out, “Soon you’ll see a six-pack here.”

“Only in your dreams, fatty!” she shouted, laughing.

They ate quietly after that, the silence between them carrying the comfort of habit more than words. After lunch, Abhik retreated into his workroom and closed the door. He sat staring at the monitor for a long moment before finally dialing Rajbeer.

“Hi, Rajbeer. Do you have fifteen minutes?”

“Sure,” came the calm voice.

“I got a call from Mayank. He mentioned a meeting with you today.”

“Yeah,” Rajbeer said. “I suppose you know what that’s about. His performance hasn’t been up to the mark. He’s dragging the team’s delivery, and that’s hitting margins. You’re the manager, you’ve seen it.”

Abhik inhaled slowly. “Yes, but as his manager, I was expecting you’d talk to me before the meeting or at least include me.”

“Didn’t want to complicate things,” Rajbeer replied. “You’ve got a soft spot for him. You hired him. You’d be uncomfortable watching him get fired.”

Abhik straightened. “Fired? Wait, are we letting him go?”

Rajbeer’s tone stayed even. “He’s not performing consistently. What else do you want me to do? I’m just doing what you should’ve done long ago. I shouldn’t have had to.”

“What about a PIP?” Abhik said quickly. “We haven’t given him one.”

“Abhik,” Rajbeer said, sounding slightly amused. “Come on. You really think a three-month PIP will fix this? He can’t focus. His wife needs him, his home life’s collapsing. We let him go now — he gets three months of severance, and three months to help her and look for something new. Maybe he comes back stronger. I’ll even try to get him an extra month of pay. That’s the best we can do.”

“But job-hunting without a job in hand, you know what that means here. It’ll break him.”

Rajbeer exhaled. “That’s the grind, Abhik. He’s old enough to deal with life. And don’t make me the villain here. I have to protect the organisation, its profits, the rest of the team, and yes, my own job. I can’t fix everyone’s personal problems. I’m just doing my job.”

Abhik’s voice went flat. “Right.”

“If you’ve got a better idea, tell me,” Rajbeer added. “Otherwise, don’t make my life harder. I think we’re done here.” Abhik stared at the screen, hearing only the faint hum of his laptop fan. His mouth felt dry. “Okay,” he said quietly, and disconnected. The call ended, but the silence that followed was louder than words.

After lunch, Abhik retreated into his workroom and closed the door. He sat staring at the monitor for a long moment before finally dialing Rajbeer.

“Hi, Rajbeer. Do you have fifteen minutes?” “Sure,” came the calm voice. “I got a call from Mayank. He mentioned a meeting with you today.” “Yeah,” Rajbeer said. “His performance hasn’t been up to the mark. He’s dragging the team’s delivery, and that’s hitting margins. You’re the manager; you’ve seen it.”

Abhik inhaled slowly. “Yes, but as his manager, I was expecting you’d talk to me before the meeting... at least include me.” “Didn’t want to complicate things,” Rajbeer replied. “You’ve got a soft spot for him. You hired him. You’d be uncomfortable watching him get fired.”

“Fired? Wait, are we letting him go?” “He’s not performing consistently. What else do you want me to do? I’m just doing what you should’ve done long ago.” “What about a PIP?” “Come on, Abhik. You really think a three-month PIP will fix this? He can’t focus. His wife needs him, his home life’s collapsing. We let him go now; he gets three months of severance, and three months to help her and look for something new. Maybe he comes back stronger. I’ll even try to get him an extra month of pay.”

“But job-hunting without a job in hand… you know what that means here. It’ll break him.” “That’s the grind, Abhik. He’s old enough to deal with life. And don’t make me the villain here. I have to protect the organisation, its profits, the rest of the team, and yes, my own job. I can’t fix everyone’s personal problems. I’m just doing my job.”

Abhik’s voice went flat. “Right.”

“If you’ve got a better idea, tell me,” Rajbeer added. “Otherwise, don’t make my life harder. I think we’re done here.”

Abhik stared at the screen, hearing only the faint hum of his laptop fan. His mouth felt dry. “Okay,” he said quietly, and disconnected. The call ended, but the silence that followed was louder than words.

It was already 3:40. The meeting must have been over.

Should I call Mayank? Or wait? What would I even say? Should I offer to forward his resume? Push Rajbeer for another month of severance? Pretend everything’s fine?

While those thoughts tangled in his head, another one quietly bloomed underneath: it could be me next. Any day, an invite could pop up. “1:1 with Rajbeer and HR.” What then? How would he manage the house, the loans, the school fees, the endless bills? With AI taking over every other role, how long would it take to find another job; if at all? He didn’t even have six months of savings. No runway. Just one paycheck tumbling into another. He opened his bank app and began mentally counting how much he could pull out from his mutual funds. That’s when his phone rang. “Mayank Calling”.

Abhik’s stomach sank. He answered. “Mayank…”

“You knew about this, didn’t you?” Mayank’s voice was trembling but edged with anger. “Why didn’t you tell me? Don’t tell me you didn’t know. Rajbeer wouldn’t make this decision without you. You could have at least hinted.”

“First of all, I didn’t know,” Abhik said quietly. “It was Rajbeer’s call; completely his. And honestly, what difference would it have made? You did everything you could. You’ve got your family situation, your wife needs you. Would you really put your job over her wellbeing? You wouldn’t. You’ve always given your best. You’re talented… you’ll bounce back once things settle at home. I feel terrible, Mayank. But I’m… I’m just doing my job.”

Mayank let out a short, bitter laugh. “Seems like everyone’s a well-wisher today. You sound just like Rajbeer. All of you..

All of you are Arjunas of the corporate war, huh? Just doing your duty. Doesn’t matter who’s on the other side.”

He took a deep breath, and the anger gave way to exhaustion. “You know, Abhik, I’ve given my heart and soul to this place. Six years of my life; two of those with your team. I took extra tasks, worked weekends, built IPs, made this company money. Back then, I was the ‘Talent of the Year.’ Today, I’m just an example… a cautionary tale. From a role model to someone they quietly erase.”

After a pause, Mayank spoke again, his voice softer now. “Sorry, Abhik. I didn’t mean to lash out. I know you always looked out for me. I’m sure you tried whatever you could. But the truth is, I’m fired. I don’t know what to do next. If possible, please ask for that extra severance month. Therapy sessions aren’t cheap. And maybe I’ll need a few.”

The line went dead. Abhik kept holding the phone, staring at his reflection in the black screen a man who could neither save someone else’s job nor be sure of his own. An email notification blinked in the corner .

Subject: “Variable Payout Announcement.”

This quarter, 40% of the managerial variable component will be released.

Managers hadn’t received their variable pay for three straight quarters. Everyone had stopped expecting it. For a second, he just stared at the words, unblinking. Fourty percent… not much, but enough to breathe a little easier. Enough to fill the fuel tank, maybe pay off a part of the credit card bill, maybe add something to savings. The number stared back at him, half relief, half guilt. He thought of Mayank, of the voice on the phone, brittle and tired.

He decided to use the money to take Anu out for Diwali shopping and to take Mamuni on a vacation. He didn’t know why.Maybe it felt like blood money; paid for by someone else’s fall. Maybe he simply didn’t care anymore. Or maybe, deep down, he just wanted to live a little before the inevitable reached his own doorstep.

Just then, the doorbell rang.

Mamuni had returned from school. Abhik hugged her tightly and said, “Get ready by six, champ. We’re going Diwali shopping. Then the play arena. Then Chinese dinner at your favourite restaurant. And on the dinner table, we’ll plan our vacation. This time Gangtok. Dubai can wait.”

She jumped and ran toward the kitchen, shouting, “Maa! Did you hear that? We’re going on vacation!” Anu turned, her hands still wet from washing vegetables. Mamuni kept talking about mountains and toy trains and momos; her words tumbling over one another.

Across the room, Anu met his eyes and smiled, her lips forming a silent thank you.