It is late at night on a Friday. The street near the desolate office building is empty. This is the non-70-hour work week business district. Office workers have clocked out early, to get stuck with the thousands who also clocked out early, proving that Friday night traffic is governed by Game Theory. The security guards at the office gate — utilising the relative calm — are sharing banter with the housekeeping staff. One of them has cautiously lit up a beedi. At a distance, the designated chai tapri (tea stall) is winding up for the day. The tapriwaale bhaiya — that’s the trade-name — is unhooking the never-ending strips of gutka packets hanging over a thread. He still has to wait for his last customer — standing six feet away, in formal wear, uncomfortable-looking leather shoes and a blue lanyard around his neck with the plastic ID card safely tucked in his shirt’s front pocket. He’s smoking his bi-annual cigarette, alone, staring into nothingness, lost in thought — an island of storm in the surrounding calm. Something has gone wrong.

Bhaiya is used to this. He is the silent therapist for many such boardroom........

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