Lottery to Death

In the world of finance, the word "Lottery" usually conjures images of giant novelty checks and early retirement. In Kumar’s new office, however, the jackpot was a pine casket and a thirty-second moment of silence during the lunch break.

Kumar was a "glass-half-full" kind of banker—the type of man who smiled at spreadsheets and genuinely believed "synergy" was a real word. He was the perfect sacrificial lamb for the Sub-Urban Branch. This particular branch had a bit of a PR problem: specifically, a high turnover rate where three employees had turned over into their graves in just two years.

There was the clerk who choked on a samosa (death by snack), a "stout" cashier who was defeated by a rogue case of seasonal diarrhea (an undignified end for a man of his carriage), and a probationer who lasted exactly one week before deciding that a bad breakup was a perfectly valid reason to haunt the breakroom forever.

The previous manager hadn't merely requested a transfer; he had effectively ransomed his soul to a higher official to get out. Kumar was the replacement. When he walked in, the staff didn't give him a "Welcome" banner; they looked at him like they were judging the weight of his soul for a customized urn.

"I need leave," whispered Haldhar Shau, the Senior Clerk, on day one. He looked like he’d seen a ghost, or perhaps just his own reflection in a dusty computer monitor. "My family... the Baba in Kendrapada... he says I’m 'due' for a tragedy."

"Denied!" Kumar chirped, still blissfully unaware. "I need you to explain our assets."

"Sir," Haldhar pleaded, "if I stay, I’ll work so fast you’ll think I’m trying to finish my bucket list. I’ll stay late! I’ll work until I collapse!"

"No one works late on my watch," Kumar said firmly.

The staff exchanged looks. They weren't being "workaholics." They were trying to outrun the Reaper by looking busy.

Later, Kumar stumbled upon the "Dead Files."

"Where is Namita Madam?" he asked, pointing to a messy folder.

"Cremated, Sir," Haldhar replied, not looking up from his tea.

"And these other two?"

"Also underground, Sir. We have a very efficient local cemetery."

Kumar’s smile faltered. He realized his "promotion" was actually a death sentence with a slightly better travel allowance.

To boost "morale", Kumar took the staff to lunch on August 4th. The atmosphere was festive, until Bimasena started weeping into his butter chicken. "Who is next? Is it me? I haven't lived my life full. 

"Let’s have a lottery!" Sundar the peon suggested, pulling out a hat. "To see who the universe picks. It’s like a weather forecast, but with more sobbing."

Kumar, desperate to prove he wasn't scared, wrote his name down. He reached into the hat and pulled out a slip.

"Read it, Sundar," Kumar commanded.

Sundar’s face went pale. He looked at Bimasena, whose tears dried up instantly. "It’s you, Saare. Kumar!"

A wave of relief washed over the table. Bimasena actually started humming a jaunty tune.

"Well!" Kumar laughed, his voice cracking like a dry twig. "I guess I’m the VIP for the afterlife! Back to work!"

The next 365 days were a psychological horror show. Kumar didn't just become "sober"; he became a human bubble-wrap. He stopped eating solid food (choking hazard). He stopped crossing the street (car hazard). He developed Acousticophobia (fear of loud noises) and Xenophobia (fear of strangers, mostly because they looked like they might be carrying the plague).

Meanwhile, the staff was thriving. Bimasena went on a luxury hiking trip. Haldhar covered his desk in stickers of the Kendrapada Baba, the "11th incarnate of Vishnu." They treated Kumar like a man on death row—polite, but already eyeing his office chair to see if it would fit their own desks.

By August 4, 2015, Kumar was hiding in his house in Cuttack. He spent the day in a dark room, essentially waiting for a piano to fall on his head.

That evening, his wife brought him tea. Suddenly: "K-BOOM!! DHOOO%%@##$" Kumar let out a high-pitched shriek, launched his tea at his wife, and curled into a fetal ball, screaming, "NOT THE SAMOSA! NOT THE SAMOSA!"

"It’s a firecracker, you idiot!" his wife yelled, wiping Darjeeling off her sari.

Outside, people were cheering. They weren't celebrating Kumar’s survival; they were tearing down posters of the Kendrapada Baba. The news flashed on TV: “Self-Styled Godman Arrested for Massive Fraud and Tax Evasion.” The "miracle" was over. The Baba was in handcuffs.

Kumar began to laugh. He laughed until he turned purple, realizing he had spent a year living like a monk because a group of terrified bankers and a fraudulent monk told him he was "due."

The next day, Kumar strutted into the bank. He looked at Haldhar, who was frantically peeling stickers of the disgraced Baba off his computer.

"A year and a day, Haldhar!" Kumar roared. "I’m alive! And it looks like the 'fate' did transfer to someone nearby—your Baba is currently sharing a cell with a man named 'The Butcher.'"

He turned to Bimasena. "And you! No more crying! From now on, the only 'lottery' in this office is the one where the loser has to stay late and file the tax audits. And guess what?"

Kumar grinned, his old jovial (and slightly vengeful) self again. "I just drew your name. Happy August 5th!"