A Proposal
It was business as usual in the office of “Afale Infographics”, a commercial communications firm on the 14th floor of a new skyscraper that has come up only about a few months ago.
There were people working in cubicles. Some were being served tea. On the far end from entrance were the two conference rooms and cabins of senior officers. Further up was the largest and most beautifully decorated cabin of Ms. Nita Afale, Managing Director of the company.
In one of the cubicles nearer the door, Mr. Amit Kulkarni was engrossed in his work. A large LED screen seen in his front.
The time was exactly 4:17 PM. All of a sudden an e-mail flashed on Amit’s screen. He immediately saw it and not believing his eyes read it three times. The mail said
Subject: Meeting - 4:20 PM - My Cabin
To: Amit Kulkarni
Please report to my cabin at 4:20 PM. No one else will be present.
No agenda. No “regards.” Just MD Nita’s initials.
His cubicle goes quiet when he stands up.
“You got called?” Sathe whispers. “What for? New client?”
“Dunno,” Amit mumbles. Shirt already sticking to his back.
“Don’t screw up,” Rane from accounts says, half-joking. “She fired that media guy without blinking.”
He walks. The corridor feels longer than usual. Glass cabins on both sides. He keeps his eyes on the grey carpet. Heart pounding, hands trembling. The bank notice from last week flashes in his mind.
Nita’s cabin door is half glass, frosted from waist down. Through the clear top half, he sees her. lone. No one else.
All the cabins are soundproof. You could scream and the next room wouldn’t hear. But they’re glass. Anyone walking past can see.
He knocks. Two soft taps. “Come in,” Nita’s voice. He pushes the door. It closes behind him with a soft click. Soundproof seal. The AC is colder in here.
And then — Nita smiles.
It throws him. In two years, he’s seen her smile maybe twice. At client wins. Never in a closed-door meeting. Never at him.
“Sit, Amit.” Her tone is softer than he expected. She gestures to the chair.
He sits. Edge of the chair still, but less rigid now. Confused.
Nita reaches for the small fridge under her side table — the one she uses for client meetings. She takes out a bottle of chilled water, pours it into a glass. Slides it across the desk to him.
“Drink. You look like you ran here.”
“Th-thank you, ma’am.” He takes it. The glass is cold. His hands are still shaking, but the gesture, the smile — it scrambles his fear. Is this good news?
Nita waits till he takes a sip. She leans back. There is a blue folder near her, closed, but she doesn’t touch it yet.
“Amit, what we’re going to discuss now…” She pauses, makes eye contact. Voice drops, even though the room is soundproof. “This is for your ears only. Not a word to absolutely no one. Not Sathe. Not your mother. No one. Can you do that?”
He puts the glass down. Nods quickly. “Yes, ma’am. I won’t say anything.”
“Good.” Nita’s smile is gone now. Business face back. “Because if this leaks, it becomes a problem for both of us.”
He swallows. The water suddenly feels heavy in his stomach.
“Now,” Nita continues, “if anyone asks why you were called here — and they will — you tell them this.” She taps the desk once. “My grandfather has a new idea. A personal project. He wants you to work on it. Secretly. No official records, no email trail, no timesheet. He remembered you from when he hired you.”
Amit blinks. That’s true. He was one of the last people Ajoba hired before he retired from day-to-day work three years ago. The old man had interviewed him personally, asked about Wai- his hometown, about his father. He had said, “You have an honest face. We need that here.”
“Ajoba has a good opinion of you,” Nita says. “He thinks you’re trustworthy. So that’s the cover. A secret assignment from the founder. Everyone in office will buy that.
Old man gets ideas, doesn’t trust email. ”Amit nods, slowly. It makes sense. The founder still drops in once a month, scribbles taglines on paper, asks for “young blood” to execute.
“Is… is that what this is about, ma’am? A campaign?”
Nita looks at him for a long second. Through the glass, Rane walks past again, slower this time. Nita doesn’t care.
“No,” she says quietly. “That’s what you tell people, Amit.
You’re wondering why I called you,” she says. It’s not a question.
He nods. Throat dry. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ve been watching your work.” Pause. “The Malhar Tea campaign. The packaging rebrand for Deshpande Pickles. You brought us three new accounts this quarter.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” His voice cracks. Is this about a promotion? No. You don’t promote someone like this. Alone. No HR.
“Your father,” Nita says. Amit’s stomach drops.“I know about the debt.”
The AC feels like ice now. His file. She knows. How?
“I know about your mother. The house in Wai. The room you rent in Thakurdwar. The scooter from 2011.”
Each word lands like a stone. She’s done homework. Passport. That “foreign shoot” last month — she said it was for a Singapore client pitch. He’d given her everything. Photos, addresses, mother’s name.
“Ma’am, I—”
“I also know you can act,” she cuts in. “The office annual day. You played that husband in the skit. Very convincing.”
He doesn’t understand. Is she going to fire him for the debt? For lying? But he never lied.
She opens the blue folder. Turns it around. Slides it across the desk.
His name is already on it. Amit Kulkarni.
“…is something else entirely.”
Inside, one page. Typed. Not on letterhead. No company logo.
The first line: AGREEMENT FOR CONTRACTUAL MARRIAGE
Amit stops breathing.
Nita’s voice is calm. “Like I said. For your ears only.”
His heart pounds again — different rhythm this time. Not fear of being fired. Something heavier.
Amit pulls the single page closer. The AC hums. Nita says nothing, just watches him read.
AGREEMENT FOR CONTRACTUAL MARRIAGE
1. The First Party (Amit Kulkarni) agrees to marry the Second Party (Nita Afale) on a date to be fixed later, at the office of the Marriage Registrar, as done in the normal course by two consenting adult individuals.
2. Both Parties agree to jointly file for divorce by mutual consent after completion of six (6) months from the date of marriage.
3. Upon completion of the period of six months from date of marriage, the Second Party shall pay the First Party a sum of Rupees Four Crore (Rs. 4,00,00,000/-) only.
4. The First Party shall...
There are clauses 5 through 11. Confidentiality. No claims on property. No public statements. Conduct during the term. He skims them. They don’t matter. Only three things matter: marriage, six months, four Crore.
He looks up. Stunned. The glass of water is still half full. His mouth is dry again.
“Ma’am…” His voice is barely there. He clears his throat. Gathers whatever courage is left in his 65-kilo frame. “Why me? And why… why now?”
Nita’s tone has shifted. The MD steel is gone. It’s milder now, almost tired. She leans back, folds her hands. For the first time, she looks 29, not 30-going-on-50.
“Because I’m running out of time, Amit.” She says it plainly. “I have eight, nine months before I turn thirty. My grandfather — you met him when he hired you — built this firm from nothing. His condition is that I stay MD only if I’m married by thirty. And the marriage has to last six months. He thinks marriage will ‘tame’ me. Make me family oriented.”
Amit listens. This is not the Nita who tore apart a client’s pitch last week.
“I don’t have time for love stories,” she continues. “And I can’t bring a stranger home who might want my chair later. I need someone I… know. Someone who won’t play games. Your work is clean. Your life is…” She searches for the word. “Simple. You have debts. You love your mother. You don’t want drama. You can act when needed.”
She doesn’t say submissive. She doesn’t say desperate. But he hears it.
The full impact hits him. This isn’t a project. This is his life. A legal wife. Divorce. Four Crore.
He blurts it before he can stop himself. “Would… would it mean I have to share a room with you?”
Nita smiles. Not the corporate smile from earlier. Something smaller, wry.
“My grandmother, Amit,” she says, “is a very suspicious lady. She can smell a rat from miles away. She raised two generations in that flat.” A pause. “Not only would you have to share the bedroom. You’d have to share the bed also.”
His face goes hot. Then cold.
Seeing his expression, Nita’s voice softens further. Almost conciliatory. “I’m not a tigress, Amit. I’m also human. I don’t bite. I’ll make sure you don’t suffer. You’ll have your space, your no in dignity. This is a business arrangement. I keep my word.”
She closes the folder and takes it back.
Amit nods. He doesn’t trust his voice. He stands. Legs feel detached.
“Relax. Take your time. Think. No one knows. No one will.” She glances at the glass wall. “Come tomorrow, same time. One-to-one. That will be the last meeting either way. You say yes, we proceed. You say no, you walk out, forget this conversation existed. No repercussions at work. I promise.”
Amit nods. He doesn’t trust his voice. He stands. Legs feel detached. His hands are empty — no folder, no paper. The contract stays with Nita Afale.
“Remember,” Nita says as he reaches the door, “Grandfather’s secret project. That’s all.”
After the meeting his boss and people around are very curious as expected. But when they heard that no one has been fired and meeting was about ex-MD’s secret project, everyone loses interest
After the office, Amit reached home. Having engrossed in thoughts, he did not even feel like eating. But being a trained guy, he soon decided to separate pros and cons.
Pros: If he said yes, all his financial woes would come to an end. He could pay off the loans, clear his father's medical dues, and start life again without that crushing weight. A clean slate.
Cons: He would be stamped as a divorcee in six months. Society never forgets that label. But the toughest minus was the idea of sharing a bed for six months with a voluptuous young woman, under full celibacy. That would be the ultimate test of his mind and will. To add to that, he would have to act as a caring and loving husband under the CID eyes of grandma. One slip, and the whole deal collapses.
He weighed all aspects again and again. The ceiling fan whirred, sleep stayed away, and somewhere near dawn he finally took his decision. It would be yes. But with three minor preconditions.
He got up rather late but managed to reach office in time. The day dragged, meetings blurred, yet his mind stayed sharp on one track. At 4:30 pm on the dot, the email appeared on his screen asking him to report to the MD.
The cabin door was ajar. Nita looked up from her desk, unreadable as always. The real conversation was about to begin.
As Amit entered, Nita motioned him to sit down. She was not the boss at this time. The MD's chair, the glass walls, the authority – none of it mattered now. She was almost begging her future from this man.
She offered him cold water with hands that trembled just a little, and then with teary eyes asked him, "Have you thought about it, Amit?"
Amit was no longer nervous. The power had shifted the moment he made his decision at dawn. He knew that he was in command now. On the opposite side of the table sat a woman with all her pride gone, waiting for his verdict.
He took a sip of water, set the glass down, and looked straight at her.
"Answer is yes, ma'am. But with three preconditions."
Nita’s face turned anxious again. "Conditions? What are they?"
"Nothing great, ma'am. Just three modest requests."
She leaned forward, waiting.
"Firstly, till our contract ends and I get my reward, I would be on special duty. My full salary being paid, but no regular work. I can't pretend to be your husband at home and chase sales targets in the office by day."
Nita nodded slowly. "Okay. And second?"
"Secondly, after our marriage, I should be allowed one weekend a month. I would be on leave from my contract then. I need to visit my mother. She’s alone in Wai, and I won’t lie to her about where I am for six months straight."
Her lips pressed together. That one would be tricky with grandma, but she said, "We’ll manage it. The last?"
"Lastly, I should be given a small office by you. Where I can spend the day when you go to work. I need no staff or facilities. Just a little space of my own. If I’m going to live in your world, I can’t be underfoot 24 hours. I need to breathe."
Silence hung between them. Nita studied him. These weren’t demands of a greedy man. They were the terms of a man trying to keep his dignity intact.
She exhaled. "Is that all?"
"That’s all, ma’am."
Nita’s face calmed down. Here was a straight, honest man. No hidden agenda, no greed in his eyes. Just three terms to keep his self-respect alive. With great effort she stopped tears from rolling down her eyes.
Then she said "Amitji" for the first time. The formality cracked, and something real slipped through.
She scribbled a number on her personal letterhead and slid it across the table. "This is my personal mobile. Don’t call the office line for this matter again."
He took it. The paper felt heavier than it looked.
She told him that she would ask her personal lawyer to draft all legal documents and the divorce papers. He would be called on this number. No office channel would be used further. This was between them now, not MD and employee.
Then she stopped, and with the slightest tilt of her head, gestured him to go. Amit understood. Words would cheapen the moment.
He left, silently, his face blank. He walked past the reception, past colleagues, past the glass cabins. Today nobody asked him anything. Maybe they saw it on his face – a man who had just signed away six months of his life and bought back his future. Without asking anyone he just left office. He wanted to be alone.
The elevator doors closed. Only then did he exhale. Outside, the city was still loud. Inside Amit, everything had gone quiet
(To be continued)
----------