The world was a crushing, blue-black weight. There was no up, no down, only a suffocating vastness of water pressing in from all sides. He hung within it, motionless — a puppet with its strings cut — drifting in the silent, endless abyss.
But the silence was a lie.
From somewhere in that vast darkness, sounds began to crawl into his mind. They didn't reach his ears — they stabbed straight into his thoughts, sharp, venomous, impossible to escape.
A voice spoke. Cold. Familiar. Cruel.
"Tum kahin ke nahin laayak ho."
His body twitched — or tried to. Nothing happened. His muscles refused to move. His eyes stayed open, glassy, staring into nothingness.
"Tum ek bojh ho. Sirf ek bojh."
The voice grew heavier, closer, echoing inside his skull. Its tone was mocking, filled with disgust.
"Dekho ise… maut bhi ise pura karne mein nakaam hai."
Laughter followed — distorted, bubbling through the water — a sound that made his chest tighten in terror. The world seemed to bend around that laughter. The water moved. It shifted. It came alive.
From below, a shape formed — smooth, clear, like a sculpture made of water itself. A hand. It reached upward, slow but certain, wrapping around his ankle. Its touch was freezing, colder than death.
It pulled.
The motion dragged him deeper into the dark.
"Koi tumhein yaad bhi nahin karega."
Another hand appeared, gripping his other leg. Then another, crawling up his chest. They were everywhere — water-formed hands clutching, holding, dragging him down, deeper and deeper, into the black.
He tried to scream. Only air escaped his mouth — small bubbles, shimmering weakly before vanishing into the darkness.
The voice whispered again, closer now, like it was right beside his ear.
"Tum sirf ek galti ho, Krishna…"
The last hand formed in front of his face — vast, shapeless, and cold. It covered his eyes, his mouth, his breath. The world dimmed. His heartbeat slowed.
"Jaao… vishwa ke liye tum sirf ek bekaar cheez ho."
And with a final, merciless pull, the water swallowed him whole. The light vanished. The world went silent again — except for the faint echo of that cruel laughter fading into the deep.
Ha… Ha..!
Krishna suddenly got up with a jerk, his chest rising and falling fast. Sweat was dripping from his forehead, his t-shirt completely soaked. He sat on the edge of the bed, breathing heavily, holding his head with both hands.
"Phir se… ye sab phir se shuru ho gaya…"he whispered to himself, voice trembling.
He looked around — it was already morning. The pale sunlight was slipping through the half-broken window, lighting the small room. The walls were slightly cracked, one corner had damp patches, and a ceiling fan above made a slow, creaking sound. There was an old wooden table beside the bed with a few newspapers, a glass of water, and his small keypad phonelying there.
He reached for it with shaking hands and pressed the button. The small screen lit up — 7:30 a.m.
"Subah ke saat baje…?" he muttered, eyes still half closed. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. The phone slipped from his hand and fell on the floor near the palanquin (folded bed frame) leaning against the wall.
He blinked twice, fully awake now.
"Ab ye kya museebat hai aaj…" he said to himself, his tone half tired, half confused.
He pushed the blanket away and tried to get up, but his foot got tangled in it. Before he could balance, his leg slipped, and he fell face-first on the cold floor with a soft thud.
"Uth jaa yaar!" he shouted in frustration, rubbing his face with his hand. He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, before finally pulling himself up, still breathing heavily — the nightmare's echo lingering somewhere deep inside his mind.
Within an hour, Krishna got ready quickly. He wore his usual shirt, jeans, and the thin-framed glassesthat made him look a bit older than twenty-four. He ran his fingers through his messy hair, picked up his bag, and went toward the door.
The old wooden door creaked as he pulled it open. When he tried to close it, it got stuck midway, the latch refusing to fit in.
"Arre yaar…" he muttered under his breath and kicked it hard for into the bottom door. With a loud thak, the door finally shut.
Just then, a voice came from behind.
"Tu na subah sone nahi deta, raat sone nahi deta… arre bhai, ek din ke liye mujhe baksh de!"
Krishna froze for a second. He didn't even need to turn around. He already knew who it was.
He took a long, deep breath, eyes closing for a moment. The voice came again, slightly irritated but not angry.
"Sun raha hai na? Volume thoda kam kar le bas, main tujhe kuch nahi bolunga."
Slowly, Krishna turned around — and there he was — Uncle Shyam, his landlord. A man in his late fifties, with half-white hair, wearing an old vest and lungi, holding a cup of tea in one hand.
Krishna smiled awkwardly and scratched his head.
"Arey Uncle Shyam! Kaise ho aap? Main vada karta hoon, next time koi awaaz nahi aayegi."
Shyam folded his hands dramatically.
"Tu aur tere vada… kabhi sach nahi hote beta."
Krishna just smiled, a little embarrassed. His small rented room stood behind him — barely big enough to fit a bed, a small table, and one chair. The walls were covered with old posters and a few wires hanging loose. The place looked less like a room and more like a storage space someone decided to live in.
The house itself was simple — two floors, built close to the road. Each floor had small single rooms like Krishna's, with a tiny kitchen corner and a washroom outside near the backyard tap.
Krishna adjusted his glasses, picked up his bag again, and said softly,
"Main chal raha hoon Uncle… office ke liye late ho raha hoon."
Uncle Shyam just shook his head, sipping his tea, while Krishna walked down the narrow passage — ready to face another ordinary day.
Krishna was about to open the main gate and step out when suddenly—
Dhhaaaak!
A loud crash echoed behind him. He froze on the spot and slowly turned around. His eyes widened — the door of his room had completely broken off its hinges and fallen outside, lying flat on the ground.
For a moment, there was silence. Then, from inside the house, came the sound of footsteps. Uncle Shyam, who had been sitting in his living room just a minute ago, rushed out, holding his teacup mid-air.
His eyes went straight to the broken door. Then to Krishna. Back to the door. Back to Krishna again.
Krishna gulped. He didn't need anyone to explain — this was the fourth time it had happened.
Uncle Shyam's face turned red with anger. He didn't even say a word; he just stared at Krishna with that same "ab kya kar diya tune" look.
Krishna gave a nervous, fake smile. "Uh… Uncle… ye door khud hi—"
Before he could finish, Shyam's eyebrows went higher.
Krishna quickly turned around, pulled the gate closed, and ran away as fast as he could.
When the sound of Krishna's footsteps faded down the street, Uncle Shyam sighed, looked at the fallen door, and said softly to himself,
" Bas bhag jaa! Har baar yehi karta hai!"
He shook his head, took a sip of his tea, and went back inside, muttering under his breath.
Meanwhile, Krishna stopped at the end of the lane, leaned against a wall, breathing deeply with his eyes closed. Sweat rolled down his face as he whispered with a tired smile,
"Wah Krishna… subah ka start toh kamaal ka hua aaj."
On the other hand, Krishna worked in a publishing company, and it usually took him at least half an hour to reach the office. By the time he got there, he was already exhausted.
He stumbled at the entrance, almost losing his balance, his shirt sticking to his back with sweat. He pushed the glass door open, breathing heavily, and stepped inside. The cool air from the AC hit his face like a blessing.
At the reception, a girl sitting behind the counter looked at him with raised eyebrows — his messy hair, wrinkled clothes, and fogged-up glasses making him look like he had just run a marathon.
Krishna adjusted his glasses awkwardly and gave her a faint smile, pretending everything was normal. Then he went straight toward the biometric machine near the entrance.
He pressed his finger once.
Red light.
He wiped his hand on his shirt and tried again.
Red light.
"Arre yaar…" he muttered, shaking his hand and trying again. Red light. Again and again. He cleaned the glass with his sleeve, pressed harder, even changed fingers. Still red.
His patience broke.
"Jisne ye machine banayi hai na, usko main milun toh bataata hu… pura pagal bana diya hai mujhe!" he grumbled under his breath, glaring at the scanner like it was his enemy.
After the twelfth try, finally — beep! — a green light appeared.
Krishna let out a long sigh of relief and whispered, "Aakhir maan gaya…"
He walked toward the lift on the left side of the hallway, but just as he reached, his face dropped. A small white paper was taped to the wall:
"Notice: This lift is not working right now."
He stared at it for a few seconds, speechless. Then his lips twitched, and he whispered,
"Perfect… bas yehi baaki tha."
Krishna rubbed his face with both hands and looked up at the stairs. He already knew — his office was on the third floor. From the ground floor, that meant three long flights of stairs.
"Shuru karte hain, Krishna…" he muttered and started climbing slowly, each step heavier than the last. By the time he reached the top, his breath was uneven, and his hair was sticking to his forehead again.
He stood near the third-floor door, hands on his knees, whispering to himself with a tired smile,
"Pata nahin yah.., mere daily marathon hi karta hoon…"
Krishna finally reached his desk after climbing all those stairs, his legs trembling slightly. He dropped his bag on the floor and sat down on his chair with a heavy sigh.
He leaned back, breathing hard, his chest rising and falling fast. Sweat was still rolling down his face. After a few seconds, he pulled out his water bottle from his bag, opened the cap, and drank deeply. The cold water felt like heaven.
He placed the bottle back, closed his eyes, and muttered softly, "Bas do minute… do minute chain se baithne de."
He adjusted his glasses, stretched his arms, and was just about to rest his head on the table — finally ready to steal a few seconds of peace — when suddenly…
Tring Tring!
His phone started ringing loudly.
He groaned. "Ab kya ho gaya…"
He picked up the phone and looked at the screen. A name flashed on the caller ID, and the moment he saw it, his face fell completely.
It was his manager.
He stared at the phone as it kept ringing — one ring, two rings… seven rings — and finally stopped. He sighed in relief for a second, but before he could even take a breath — Tring Tring!— the phone started ringing again.
"Yaar… aaj toh kuch sahi hone hi nahi wala," he said to himself, rubbing his face.
He had no choice. He picked up the call and before he could say anything, a loud voice shouted from the other side —
"Tum abhi ke abhi mere cabin mein aa jao!"
Krishna closed his eyes, his shoulders dropping. All he wanted was just five minutes of peace, but luck clearly hated him.
He stood up slowly, adjusted his shirt, pushed his glasses up his nose, and muttered under his breath,
"Manager bhi timing choose karta hai…"
Feeling dejected and tired, Krishna grabbed his phone, took one last deep breath, and started walking toward his grumpy manager's cabin, already knowing that his day had officially gone from bad to worse.
When Krishna opened the cabin door, a sudden cool breeze hit his face. The AC inside was blasting at full speed, so cold that it almost felt like winter had arrived inside that small glass cabin.
For a second, Krishna just stood there, half amazed, half annoyed. Inside his mind, he was already grumbling,
"Wah manager sahab… yahan toh mini Kashmir bana rakha hai, aur hamare section mein toh ek table fan bhi dhang se nahi chalta."
He quietly stepped in, closing the door behind him. The difference in temperature almost made him shiver.
Across the room, sitting behind a big desk with files scattered everywhere, was his manager — eyes locked on Krishna like a hunter spotting his prey. His face was stiff, lips pressed tight, and there was that familiar red tint of anger on his cheeks.
Krishna's heart sank. He didn't need anyone to tell him what was coming next.
"Lagta hai aaj toh kaan pakke se garam hone wale hain," he thought silently, forcing a nervous smile.
The manager pointed at the chair. "Baitho," he said sharply.
As soon as Krishna sat down, the lecture began— and just like always, his manager's voice was louder than the office printer.
"Tumhe na time ki value hai, na kaam ki!" he shouted. "Jo kaam diya jaata hai, uska toh satyanash kar dete ho. Har report late, har file galat — kya karte ho din bhar?"
His voice echoed through the cabin walls. Even the people outside could hear every word clearly. Krishna sat silently, staring at the table, nodding at every sentence, thinking,
"Agar volume thoda aur badha de, toh pura building sun lega."
The manager didn't stop. He went on and on — about discipline, punctuality, responsibility — the whole speech that Krishna had already heard a hundred times before.
Krishna thought maybe after the usual five-minute lecture, the storm would calm down. But today was different.
The manager leaned forward, slammed a file on the desk, and said in a cold, serious tone,
"Krishna, I think you need a long break. From tomorrow, you don't have to come."
Krishna blinked, stunned. "Sir… aapka matlab—?"
The manager looked straight into his eyes.
"You're fired."
The words hit him like a slap. For a moment, everything went quiet — even the AC's humming seemed distant.
Krishna sat frozen, his mind blank, while his manager turned away, pretending to check another file.
Krishna sat there quietly for a few seconds, still shocked by the words echoing in his ears — "You're fired."His throat felt dry. He blinked twice, adjusted his glasses, and somehow managed to speak.
"Sir… sorry, it's my mistake. Aage se nahi hoga. Main admin staff se baat karke sab theek kar dunga," he said quickly, his voice trembling.
His manager looked up from the file and started laughing — a slow, mocking laugh. "Admin staff complaint kiya tha tumhare against, Krishna. Mujhe samajh aa gaya tha uska matlab kya hai — woh bhi yehi chahte hain ki tumhe nikaal diya jaaye."
Krishna's eyes widened in disbelief. He froze for a moment, his lips parted but no words came out. After a pause, he said softly, almost pleading,
"Sir, main Mumbai se bada sheher mein nahi reh sakta… yahan toh rehna mushkil hai, aur nayi job kaise milegi mujhe? Sir, mere paas zyada experience bhi nahi hai… please thoda time de dijiye, Sir."
The manager leaned back in his chair, still smirking. "Krishna, ye tumhara problem hai, mera nahi. Tumhe ye sab aane se pehle soch lena chahiye tha."
Krishna's shoulders dropped. His hands rested on his knees, fingers trembling slightly. The room felt colder than before, but his face was burning.
The manager signals him to fill the form quickly. "Yeh form bharo. HR ke paas jao, usse sign karao aur fir wapas mere paas leke aao. Uske baad sign karke seedha… company nikal jao yahan se."
Krishna stared at the paper for a second, his heart sinking.
"Ab jao!" the manager shouted, his voice so loud that people outside the cabin looked up.
Krishna quickly stood up, nodded silently, and walked out of the cabin, holding the form tightly in his hand. His mind was blank — all he could hear was the echo of his manager's voice.
END OF THE CHAPTER