Boardroom Mein Rishta, Ghar Mein Drama

Kolkata ke legacy office ki seventh floor wali glass cabin mein Ritu Banerjee ka naam ek hi cheez ke liye famous tha—control. Agar meeting 10:00 ki hoti thi, toh Ritu 9:56 pe already present hoti. Agar presentation deck mein ek bhi font mismatch mil jaye, toh uski eyebrow hi enough thi samajhne ke liye ki someone is about to die professionally. Marketing head thi woh, sharp, composed, aur words se itni savage ki log kabhi-kabhi uske “Noted” ko bhi threat samajh lete the.

Aur usi office mein Kabir Sanyal tha—senior product strategy lead, calm as if duniya uske around nahi, woh duniya ke around chal rahi ho. Uske face pe hamesha ek faint sa amused expression rehta, jaise office politics uske liye Netflix ka low-budget drama ho. Ritu aur Kabir ka relationship? Officially colleagues. Practically rivals. Emotionally… dono ko hi lagta tha ki dusra insaan irritatingly smart hai.

“Ritu, your campaign logic is strong,” Kabir ne ek review meeting mein bola, “but thoda too polished lag raha hai. Like ad copy ne therapy le li ho.”

Ritu ne bina palke jhapkaye reply kiya, “And your strategy deck looks like it was made by a man who thinks ‘minimalism’ can hide weak thinking.”

Meeting room mein do log choke kar gaye. Baaki sab ne apne-notes mein itna interest dikhaya jaise life ka sabse important point wahi likhna ho. Mimi—yaani Sohini—Ritu ki close colleague, side mein baithi thi aur uske lips ke corner pe permanent gossip grin tha.

“Bas karo tum dono,” Mimi ne whisper kiya, “office romance nahi, office warfare chal raha hai yahan.”

Ritu ne uski taraf ek look phenka jo politely translated into: shut up before I bury you in brand guidelines. Kabir ne bas halkasa smile kiya. Usko laga tha Ritu ka temper entertaining hai. Ritu ko lagta tha Kabir ka over-calmness fake hai. Dono ek dusre ko samajhne se zyada, one-up karne mein interest rakhte the.

Problem ye thi ki office ka pressure already enough nahi tha. Ghar pe Ritu ki mother, Mrs. Ananya Banerjee, full “suitable boy” mission pe thi. Har Sunday ka call almost same script pe chal raha tha—“Beta, ek baar achhe se mil lo,” “Age ho rahi hai,” “Log kya kahenge,” aur “Tumhari cousin ki shaadi ho gayi.” Ritu ne har baar patience se zyada sarcasm se kaam liya.

“Maa, main 32 ki hoon, koi expired shampoo nahi.”

Ananya Banerjee ne dramatic sigh liya. “Arre, main bas tumhari happiness chahti hoon.”

Ritu ko tab bhi pata tha ki “happiness” ke naam pe checklist chal rahi hai—career, shaadi, child planning, society function attendance, aur preferably ek aisa husband jo saas ke WhatsApp group mein respectable lage. Ananya emotionally soft thi, lekin social radar uska crystal clear tha. Usko darr tha ki log Ritu ko “too independent” na bol dein, ya phir “late” na tag kar dein, jaise zindagi ek railway timetable ho.

Kabir ka ghar bhi kuch alag nahi tha. Uske future in-laws, Mr. and Mrs. Sanyal—haan, wohi extended family jo har baat ko “family values” ke lens se dekhti thi—Kabir ko phone pe ya dinner table pe yaad dila deti ki “ideal husband” ka role abhi se practice karna chahiye. Unke liye shaadi pyar ka nahi, social contract ka extension thi. Kabir ko sabse zyada irritation isi baat se hoti thi ki log usse insaan kam aur resume zyada samajhte the.

Ek Saturday, jab office mein promotion cycle final stage pe thi, Ritu aur Kabir dono ek hi client pitch pe collab kar rahe the—ya technically compete. Leadership role ka bhi chance tha. Boardroom mein tension aisi thi jaise dono ek hi chair ke liye politely fight kar rahe hon.

Presentation ke baad CEO ne bas itna bola, “Good. Very good. We’ll decide after weekend.”

Bas. Aur usi weekend dono ko unke respective ghar se aise calls aaye jaise life ka background verification chal raha ho.

Ritu ki maa ne seedha bol diya, “Ek rishta hai. Boy is from a very good family. Settled. Respectable. Tum bas ek baar mil lo.”

Kabir ke ghar se aunty-type pressure aaya, “Kabir, tum itne stable ho, ab serious hona chahiye. Family ko bhi confidence milta hai.”

Dono ne almost same time apna phone table pe rakha, ek dusre ko dekha, aur bina bole samajh gaye—this is getting ridiculous.

Office pantry mein chai ke cup ke saath Mimi bhi present thi, kyunki obviously office gossip ko fuel ki zarurat hoti hai. Ritu ne ek deep breath liya aur bola, “Mujhe lag raha hai meri maa mujhe arrange marriage ke conveyor belt pe daal degi.”

Kabir ne apni chai stir karte hue kaha, “Mere ghar mein toh pehle se hi production line chal rahi hai. Bas model number missing hai.”

Mimi ki aankhen chamak uthi. “Wait. Tum dono same problem pe ho? Matlab same pressure? Same family nonsense?”

Ritu aur Kabir ek second ke liye chup rahe. Phir Kabir ne jo bola, usne story ka engine start kar diya.

“Dekho,” usne calmly kaha, “if both families think we’re single and available, they’ll keep pushing harder. But if they think we’re… not available, thoda time mil sakta hai.”

Ritu ne narrowed eyes ke saath bola, “Kabir, are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

Kabir ne shoulder lift kiya. “Fake relationship. Temporary. Controlled. No emotional damage. Mostly.”

Mimi ne chai almost choke kar di. “Yeh kya daily soap ka corporate edition hai?”

Ritu pehle toh offended thi. Phir practical brain ne kaha—actually, this is insane enough to work. Families ko thoda jhatka lagega, office rumors bhi manage ho jayenge, aur shaadi ke pressure par brake lag sakta hai. Kabir ko bhi relief mil sakti thi uske relentless relatives se. So, the most absurd mutual agreement in office history was born over cutting chai and one exhausted Friday.