Reading Time: 2 minutes
The office smelled like old printer toner and someone’s reheated poha. It was 8:47 PM.
Harsh had not moved from his chair since two in the afternoon. His screen showed a dashboard no one had asked for yet — colour-coded, auto-refreshing, impressive. He was building it for a meeting that was tomorrow. Maybe. The invite said, “tentative.”
Anita dropped a paper cup of cold vending machine tea on his desk without asking. She had her laptop bag on one shoulder. Going home.
“You know Mehta doesn’t read dashboards,” she said. “He just asks whoever is in the room.”
“He will read this one,” Harsh said, not looking up.
She watched him for a moment. Four years they had worked together in this same building — first in the old wing with the broken AC, now here, in the new wing with the AC that was too cold. Some things traded places. Some things did not change at all.
“You skipped lunch,” she said.
“I had a deadline.”
“The deadline was four o’clock. It is now almost nine.”
He finally looked at her. Something in his face was tired in the way that sleep does not fix.
Sudha appeared in the doorway, jacket already on, keys in hand. She had joined the team eight months ago from a company in Mysuru — calmer, she said, than Bangalore. She had stopped saying that recently.
“The meeting is cancelled,” Sudha said. “Mehta forwarded it just now. Rescheduled to next Friday.”
Harsh looked at the screen. All that colour. All those rows.
Nobody spoke.
Then Anita picked up the paper cup she had placed on his desk and threw it in the bin. Clean shot.
“Biryani place is still open near the circle,” she said. “The one with the standing tables.”
Sudha was already nodding.
Harsh closed the laptop. Not with frustration. With something that felt more like permission — the kind you forget you are allowed to give yourself.
They walked out into the Bangalore night. The air outside smelled of rain that had come and gone, petrichor rising from the warm road, autorickshaws clattering past. The dashboard would be there in the morning. The biryani would not.
Some things, Harsh thought, are only available right now.
📖 STORY IN BRIEF
Harsh, a driven IT professional in a Bangalore office, stays late into the night building a dashboard for a meeting that no one has confirmed.
When his colleagues Anita and Sudha deliver the news that the meeting is cancelled, the three of them choose biryani and the night air over the glowing screen.
The story asks quietly: when does dedication become a habit of missing the life happening right outside the office door?
💡 THE LESSON INSIDE
Corporate hustle teaches us to treat urgency as virtue — to believe that more hours equal more worth. But not every dashboard needs to be built tonight, and not every meeting deserves the full weight of your evening. The work will wait. The moment with the people who know you — that has a closing time. Recognising the difference is not laziness. It is the one skill no performance review will ever measure.
✨ Words Worth Keeping
Tentativenot confirmed or fixed — used when plans might change. A tentative meeting invite means it could be cancelled without notice.
Rescheduledmoved to a different time — when something planned is postponed and given a new date rather than cancelled entirely.
Petrichorthe distinct earthy smell that rises from dry ground after rain — one of those words that captures a feeling most people recognise but ...
Dedicationthe commitment to giving time and energy to work or a cause — admired when balanced, damaging when it becomes the only mode.
Permissionthe act of allowing something — here used to describe the quiet internal permission we forget to give ourselves to rest, to stop, to st...
🌱 Phrases to Remember
Not looking upso focused on a task that you do not lift your eyes or acknowledge what is happening around you — often signals obsession or avoidance.
Traded placeswhen two things exchange positions — one problem replaces another, or circumstances shift without anything truly improving.
Closing timethe hour when something stops being available — can refer to a shop or, more meaningfully, to a moment or opportunity that will not wait.
Give yourself permissionto consciously allow yourself to do something you have been holding back — often rest, enjoyment, or stepping away from work.
Only available right nowa reminder that some things — conversations, moods, people, moments — exist only in the present and cannot be recovered later.
📚 Quick Glossary
Dashboarda digital screen or page that displays data, charts, and metrics in one place — used widely in IT and business to track performance.
Pohaa quick Indian breakfast made from flattened rice, often spiced with mustard seeds, onion, and lemon — a staple in offices across Mahar...
Autorickshawa three-wheeled motor vehicle used as a taxi across Indian cities — compact, loud, and one of the most recognisable sounds of urban India.
Tier 2 cityin India, cities that are large and growing but not yet in the same category as Mumbai, Delhi, or Bengaluru — many IT companies now ope...
🎬 See It in Action
1
She sent a tentative calendar invite but never confirmed if the room was booked.
2
The project deadline was rescheduled twice before anyone admitted it was no longer a priority.
3
After the rain cleared, the petrichor from the courtyard drifted through the open window.
4
He closed his laptop and gave himself permission to call it a day at six for the first time in months.
5
The last train home is only available right now — the report can be finished in the morning.
🗣️ Say It Right
TentativeTEN-tuh-tiv
PetrichorPET-rih-kor
Rescheduledree-SHED-yuld
