In a slow afternoon at a tea room, a visitor speaks about knowing the truth and choosing not to say it. Not out of fear, not out of remorse, but because it felt easier, more peaceful, and more sensible. A Spill the Tea story about emotional cowardice, the weight of unspoken truth, and the subtle pull of comfort that keeps harm unchallenged.
--------------------------------------------------
The Engel Tea Room is never empty, but it is rarely loud.
It has learned how to hold conversations without amplifying them. The ceiling fans move with a steady rhythm, not fast enough to cool the room, just enough to make the air circulate. The walls carry framed botanical prints that have faded at the corners. Names of plants written in thin cursive beneath them. Fern. Camellia. Hibiscus.
I arrive before four, when the afternoon has begun to flatten.
Sulemani tea is placed in front of me in a clear glass cup. No milk. A thin slice of lemon floats near the surface, shifting slightly each time the fan moves overhead. I wait before drinking it.
A square of mava cake sits on a small white plate. The edges are darker than the centre. I break off a piece and eat it while it is still soft.
The door opens with a mild metallic sound.
He steps in and pauses just inside the entrance. Not searching. Assessing.
Early thirties. Pale blue shirt, sleeves rolled once, evenly. Dark trousers. Laptop bag slung across his shoulder. The kind issued during onboarding.
His eyes move across the room once. Then settle.
He approaches, but not directly. There is a slight arc in his path, as though he is giving himself room to turn back.
“You write Spill the Tea?” he asks.
His voice is moderate. Neither hesitant nor confident. Simply measured.
“Yes.”
He nods once. A small confirmation to himself.
“I thought so,” he says. “I saw you on that podcast clip. The live session.”
I remember the session. A microphone angled too high. The host speaking more than necessary. A comment section that moved slowly. Maybe a dozen or less people saw that episode.
“You said something there,” he continues. “About not interrupting people’s sentences.”
He does not sit yet.
“Tea?”
I gesture toward the chair opposite me.
He places his laptop bag carefully down. He does not lean back. His posture remains slightly forward, as if he may need to leave quickly.
The server approaches without hurry.
Kaniraj orders without looking at the menu.
“Cutting chai,” he says to the server. “Masala.”
She waits.
“And bun maska.”
He glances at my plate.
“And mava cake.” “Whatever’s fresh," he adds.
She nods, already moving away. He watches her go, then looks around the room as if seeing it for the first time. The walls. The fans. The slow confidence of the place.
He places his phone face down on the table. His fingers rest on it for a moment before withdrawing.
“I follow the series,” he says. “Not in order. Just when it appears.”
I take a sip of tea. It is still warm.
He said he had read Sex Without Intimacy once, late at night, the one about proximity without wanting it.
He doesn’t explain further. He assumes recognition.
“That piece was uncomfortable,” he adds. “In a quiet way.”
The bun maska arrives. Butter already beginning to dissolve into the bread. The chai is placed in a small glass that holds the heat longer than it should. Steam lifts briefly, then disappears.
He thanks the server and waits until she walks away before touching anything.
“I almost didn’t come over,”
He shrugs lightly.
He lifts the glass of chai and immediately lowers it again. Too hot.
“I don’t usually approach people,” he says.
There is no admiration in his tone. Just fact.
“But your work doesn’t feel… guarded.”
He searches for the right word and settles on none.
I move the lemon slice gently with my spoon. It circles once and rests near the rim.
“I read enough online,” he continues. “Everyone wants a conclusion. Or a correction.”
He breaks the bun into two halves. Butter stretches thin between them before separating.
“You don’t offer either.”
He takes a small bite. Chews fully.
“That’s useful.”
The room hums at its steady level. Two students near the window share something on a phone screen. A man in the corner folds his newspaper with unnecessary precision.
His phone lights up briefly. He flips it face down without looking.
“I didn’t want advice,” he says.
I nod once.
“I just needed somewhere that wouldn’t turn into a debate.”
He eats another piece of bun. Slower this time.
“In the podcast,” he continues, “someone asked you what people expect when they approach you.”
I remember the question.
“You said they expect you not to intervene.”
He looks at me then.
“That stayed.”
There is no admiration in it. Only assessment.
The mava cake between us remains untouched. He nudges the plate slightly closer but does not take a piece.
“You don’t make people villains,” he says.
He pauses.
“And you don’t make them heroes either.”
Outside, a scooter passes. Inside, the door opens and closes again.
He wipes his fingers on a tissue and folds it once, neatly.
“I think that’s why I felt safe walking over,” he says.
Safe is said plainly.
He leans back a fraction now, testing the chair.
“I didn’t want to be told what the right thing was,” he says.
The chai has cooled enough. He takes a careful sip.
“I just wanted to say it somewhere neutral.”
The word neutral sits longer than the others.
He places both palms flat on the table. Grounds himself.
The fan continues its steady rotation.
“I won’t take much of your time,” he says.
His foot taps once beneath the table. He stops it.
“I just needed a table where nothing would be escalated.”
The tea cools further. The lemon slice drifts.
He inhales lightly.
He notices the book beside my cup.
“Nobody’s Girl,” he says quietly. “Virginia Giuffre.”
I nod.
“I read parts of it when the Jeffery Epstein case came back into the news,” he says. “When the documents resurfaced.”
He does not lower his voice. The name is said plainly.
“It’s strange,” he continues, fingers resting on the table, “how many people were adjacent.”
Adjacent is said with precision.
“Not perpetrators,” he adds quickly. “Just present. Around. In rooms.”
He lifts his chai and takes a sip.
“Everyone focuses on the central figure,” he says. “But what stays with me are the people who knew something small.”
He looks at the lemon slice drifting in my tea.
“Enough to feel it,” he says.
He doesn’t look at me when he continues.
“I’m not comparing anything,” he adds. “Obviously.”
The addition arrives quickly.
“I just think about that sometimes. How situations build around what isn’t said.”
He breaks the bun maska carefully in half.
“The world runs on people deciding not to interfere.”
He takes a bite.
“Sometimes that’s stability,” he says.
Then he wipes his fingers and exhales lightly.
“There was something at work,” he says.
The server returns with a steel jug and refills his water without asking.
“Thank you,” he says immediately, moving his phone aside to make space.
He shifts the glass a little to the right so it aligns with the edge of the table. Not perfectly. Just enough to look considered.
The bun maska sits between us, butter thinning into the bread. He adjusts the plate so it doesn’t overlap with mine. There is ample space already.
“Is it always this calm?” he asks, glancing around.
“Mostly.”
He nods as if approving a design choice.
“It feels… unchanged,” he says. “Like it doesn’t update itself.”
The word update sounds borrowed from another room.
He takes off his watch and places it beside his phone. The watch face is clean. No scratches. He rotates it so it faces him.
The chai has settled enough to drink. He lifts the glass with both hands at first, then corrects himself and holds it with one.
“It’s good,” he says after the first sip. “Not too strong.”
He places the glass down gently, though the table does not require gentleness.
“You’ve been coming here long?” he asks.
“Long enough.”
He nods.
“Places like this survive because they don’t take sides,” he says lightly.
He said he kept thinking about the high-functioning emptiness in Noor’s story, how competence can sit beside something hollow.
He breaks the bun in half. The butter stretches thin and then parts. He does not eat immediately. He studies the inside for a second, as if checking something.
“I appreciate that,” he adds.
He offers the second half toward me.
“You should take some.”
“I’m fine.”
He withdraws it without insisting.
Politeness stays between us like a third chair.
He eats carefully, tearing smaller pieces rather than biting directly. Crumbs gather near his plate. He gathers them with his finger and presses them together before wiping them onto the tissue.
His bag rests upright against his calf. He nudges it closer when someone passes behind him, as if making sure it doesn’t inconvenience anyone.
“Offices aren’t like this,” he says.
I wait.
“They look calm,” he corrects. “But it’s different.”
He adjusts his sleeve again. The fabric at the elbow has faint crease lines from desk edges.
“In an office, calm is managed,” he says.
He pauses, then softens it.
“Here it just exists.”
The server passes again, checking other tables. He raises his hand slightly, not to call her, just to acknowledge her presence. She nods back.
“You come alone?” he asks.
“Usually.”
He nods again, as though that matches his expectation.
“I don’t mind sitting alone,” he says. “People assume it’s uncomfortable.”
He wipes his fingers once more, even though they are clean.
A couple at the next table begins discussing train timings. The man pulls out a folded sheet of paper. The woman traces a line with her nail. Their voices remain low.
Kaniraj glances at them briefly and then returns his gaze to the table.
“I prefer structured spaces,” he says.
He rotates his watch slightly so the dial is perfectly straight now.
“Menus. Order. Receipts.”
He taps the bill holder with his fingertip though it is empty.
“Everything accounted for.”
He lifts the chai again. Slower this time.
“When something is unclear,” he says, “it creates friction.”
He looks at me, as if checking whether that sounds excessive.
“I don’t like friction.”
The statement is simple.
He shifts in his seat, finally leaning back a little. His shoulders relax for a second before tightening again.
“I noticed in your podcast,” he says, “you didn’t interrupt even when the host tried to steer you.”
He smiles faintly.
“You just let him finish.”
I do not respond.
“That’s a skill,” he says. “Letting things complete themselves.”
He reaches for the mava cake and breaks off a small piece. He eats it slowly.
“It’s good,” he says. “Not too sweet.”
He brushes crumbs from the table into his palm and transfers them to the tissue. The table was clean. The crumbs were barely visible.
The door opens again. A group of three enters and hesitates before choosing a table. One of them drags the chair loudly. Everyone looks up for a moment and then looks away.
Kaniraj watches the small disruption settle.
He takes another sip of chai.
He glances toward the counter where the cashier is counting change.
“I think that’s why I came here,” he says. “It’s a place that absorbs.”
“I don’t like being the person who changes the temperature of a room,” he says.
He smiles lightly, as if making a self-deprecating remark.
“It’s unnecessary most of the time.”
His phone lights up again. This time he flips it over and reads the notification. His jaw tightens slightly. He locks the screen and places it face down once more.
“Work,” he says, though I did not ask.
He straightens the plate so it aligns with the grain of the wood.
“In meetings,” he continues, “there’s always someone who complicates things.”
He says complicates with restraint, not annoyance.
“Asks for clarifications. Adds context. Extends the timeline.”
He takes another bite of cake.
“Sometimes that’s important,” he adds quickly.
He swallows.
“But often it just delays resolution.”
He rests both hands on the table again. Palms down. Steady.
“I prefer when things move cleanly,” he says.
A spoon clinks against porcelain somewhere behind us.
He looks toward the sound, waits until it stops, and then continues.
“It’s not about avoiding truth,” he says.
He pauses.
“It’s about choosing the right moment.”
He nods once to himself.
“You don’t rush into situations,” he says, glancing at my untouched tea. “You let them sit.”
The observation is neutral.
He finishes the last of the bun and gathers the crumbs again, though there are almost none left.
“Politeness matters,” he says quietly.
He folds the final tissue and places it under the empty plate, as if anchoring it.
“It keeps rooms intact.”
Outside, a car horn sounds briefly. Inside, the fans continue their slow rotation.
He takes the last sip of chai and places the glass down carefully.
For a moment, he says nothing.
Then he adjusts his bag strap with both hands, though he is not leaving.
“In the office,” he says, voice steady, “something happened.”
He does not rush the sentence.
“It began very calmly.”
The server returns to clear the empty bun maska plate. She moves without sound, stacking dishes with a familiarity that suggests repetition. He lifts his glass slightly so she can wipe the ring beneath it.
“Thank you,” he says again.
She nods and leaves.
He watches her walk back toward the counter before speaking.
“It’s strange,” he says, eyes still in that direction, “how often things are discussed as if they exist in isolation.”
He turns back to the table.
“Take Jeffrey Epstein,” he says.
The name is spoken evenly. No lowering of voice. No drama attached to it.
“When the documents came out again, everyone focused on him.”
He rests his forearms on the table now. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled evenly, the fold crisp.
“Jeffrey Epstein,” he repeats, as if clarifying for accuracy. “And the names connected to him.”
“I read parts of it,” he continues. “Not all at once. Just sections.”
He taps the edge of the table lightly with his finger.
“What stays with me is not the centre,” he says. “It’s the perimeter.”
He adjusts his watch again, though it hasn’t moved.
“The people in the room,” he says. “The people on the plane. The people at the parties.”
His voice remains steady.
“They weren’t all predators.”
He pauses.
“But they were present.”
The word present sits flat.
“And most of them,” he continues, “probably told themselves the same thing.”
He does not elaborate on what that thing is.
He leans back slightly.
“Large situations are rarely held up by one person,” he says. “They’re sustained.”
He lifts his empty chai glass and tilts it, watching the thin line at the bottom slide and settle again.
“By people who choose not to alter the direction.”
A couple at the next table begins discussing school admissions. Their conversation rises briefly before lowering again.
Kaniraj’s gaze shifts toward them and then returns.
“I’m not comparing scales,” he says. “Obviously.”
The addition comes quickly.
“But the mechanism is similar.”
He places the glass back down.
“In offices,” he continues, “there’s always a structure already in motion.”
He folds his hands together.
“By the time something becomes visible, it’s already framed.”
Framed is said with mild approval.
“Emails drafted. Meetings scheduled. Language selected.”
He glances at my tea.
“Words matter,” he says. “The first version often stays.”
He picks up the mava cake plate and rotates it slightly before setting it back down.
“I think about adjacency,” he says.
The word sits between us.
“People adjacent to harm.”
He scratches lightly at a crumb that is no longer there.
“They’re not the source.”
He looks up.
“They’re just near it.”
The fan hums overhead.
“Sometimes proximity is accidental,” he continues. “You’re in a corridor. You’re copied on an email. You’re in a meeting where something is said.”
He presses his thumb into his palm.
“And then you become part of the record.”
He does not look at me when he adds, “Or you choose not to.”
His phone lights up again. He turns it face down without reading this time.
“Collectively,” he says, “people prefer stability.”
He speaks in plural now.
“Everyone wants to believe the system functions.”
He gestures lightly toward the room.
“Like this place. Orders come. Tea arrives. Bills are paid.”
He smiles faintly.
“No one flips the table.”
The metaphor is brief. He does not linger on it.
“In the Epstein case,” he continues, “there were so many who knew something small.”
He keeps his tone neutral.
“Not enough to indict. Enough to suspect.”
He taps the table once.
“But suspicion requires action.”
He pauses.
“And action changes things.”
A spoon falls somewhere near the counter. A short clatter. Then quiet again.
Kaniraj watches until the sound disappears.
“Most people,” he says, “are not built to disrupt.”
He smooths his sleeve again, though it is already smooth.
“They are built to maintain.”
He shifts in his seat.
He lifts the empty chai glass again, then remembers it is empty and sets it down.
“In offices,” he says, “phrases like ‘let’s not escalate’ carry weight.”
He nods slightly.
“Escalation implies danger.”
He leans forward now, elbows on the table.
“And no one wants to be the reason something escalates.”
He pauses.
“Even if they are not the cause.”
He looks at the lemon slice drifting in my cup.
“You understand that, right?” he asks.
I take a sip of tea.
He exhales softly, as if satisfied with the non-answer.
“I’m not talking about criminals,” he says.
He adjusts his tone.
“I’m talking about ordinary people.”
The word ordinary is steady.
“People who attend meetings. Send emails. Pay EMIs.”
He folds his hands together again.
“They’re not villains.”
He lets that sentence stand.
“They’re just careful.”
Outside, a scooter slows near the curb and then moves on.
He glances toward the door and then back at me.
“In large scandals, everyone asks how so many could stay silent,” he says.
He presses his lips together briefly.
“ Silence is just the absence of interruption.”
He sits back.
“And absence is easy to justify.”
The room continues its low hum. No one is listening to us.
He rests both palms on the table once more, grounding himself.
“In the end,” he says, “it’s rarely one decision.”
He looks down at his hands.
“It’s a series of small non-decisions.”
He lifts his eyes again.
“Most of them look reasonable.”
The fans continue their slow, steady circles overhead.
He does not begin immediately.
He finishes the remaining half of his bun first. Wipes his fingers carefully. Takes one last sip of chai, though the glass is nearly empty. The delay is practical. It does not look rehearsed.
“I work in an office,” he says.
The sentence is flat. Administrative.
“Compliance,” he adds. “Mid-level.”
He glances at me as if to confirm that the word carries the right amount of neutrality. It does.
“Policies. Internal reviews. Documentation.”
The room hums at the same volume. A spoon strikes porcelain somewhere behind him. A chair shifts. No one here is waiting for his next sentence.
“There was a complaint last quarter,” he says.
He places both palms on the table again. Not gripping. Just resting.
“Sexual harassment.”
He does not lower his voice.
The word enters the space and settles without disturbing anything around us. A server passes with a tray of tea glasses. The door opens and closes.
“It was filed by a woman on our team,” he continues. “About a senior associate.”
He pauses to adjust his sleeve, though it has not moved.
“Comments. Tone. Messages sent late at night.”
His eyes remain on the table now.
“I was present for one of the incidents that became central.”
The mava cake sits between us. He does not reach for it.
“They said he cornered her in the corridor after a meeting,” he says. “Blocked her way. Suggested they get drinks. Implied something.”
He draws an invisible line across the table with his finger, as if mapping the corridor.
“I was there,” he says.
The statement lands differently from the rest.
“I had stepped out to take a call. I was near the water dispenser.”
His jaw tightens, just slightly.
“I heard the entire conversation.”
He inhales through his nose and continues in the same tone.
“He asked if she was joining the team for drinks. Everyone had been invited. She said she couldn’t. He said that’s fine.”
He looks up at me for the first time since beginning this part.
“That was it.”
The fan above us makes a small clicking sound before settling back into rhythm.
“When the complaint came in, the description was different,” he says.
His fingers press into the edge of the table.
“She said he stepped into her space. That he wouldn’t move. That she had to push past him.”
He pauses.
“That did not happen.”
His voice remains steady.
“I knew at the time.”
There is no hesitation around the sentence. No qualification.
“I remember thinking it was awkward,” he adds. “But not predatory. Not coercive.”
He swallows.
“The late-night messages were screenshots,” he continues. “Work-related. He was finishing a client draft. She had responded earlier in the thread.”
He lifts his hand, then sets it down again.
“It was after nine,” he says. “That’s late. But we have deadlines.”
He does not defend the timing. He just states it.
“I knew the corridor version wasn’t accurate,” he repeats, quieter.
The mava cake remains untouched. He finally breaks off a small piece but does not eat it. It rests between his fingers.
“In the first meeting, HR read out the summary,” he says. “Very structured. Very clear.”
He mimics the cadence without changing his voice.
“Unwanted proximity. Persistent suggestion. Power imbalance.”
He places the piece of cake back on the plate.
“I felt something then,” he says.
He does not name it.
“Not outrage. Not disbelief.”
He looks at the lemon slice floating in my tea.
“Recognition.”
His foot begins tapping under the table again. A quick, contained rhythm.
“They asked if anyone had observations,” he says.
The tapping continues.
“It was open to the room.”
He lifts his gaze to mine.
“I could have said I was there.”
The tapping stops.
“I knew at the time that the corridor detail was wrong.”
He leans back slightly, as if to create space between himself and the memory.
“But I didn’t speak.”
He does not rush the next sentence.
“I let the version stand.”
Around us, Engel remains even. A couple near the window laughs at something on a phone screen. The server refills water at another table.
He folds the tissue in front of him into a smaller square.
“I remember thinking,” he says slowly, “that it wasn’t my place to correct her.”
He looks down at his hands.
“And I remember knowing that if I didn’t, no one else would.”
The words are simple. They do not rise.
“I knew at the time,” he says again.
He meets my eyes and holds them for a second longer than before.
“That he was not guilty of what she described.”
The statement is precise.
His shoulders remain squared. His breathing steady.
He does not reach for the cake again.
Truth sits between us now, fully formed.
He does not touch it.
“He wasn’t my senior,” Kaniraj says.
“We were at the same level.”
He rubs his thumb against the edge of the table. A small repetitive motion. The skin near his nail is slightly raw.
“It wasn’t a power imbalance in hierarchy,” he adds. “Only in perception.”
The chai glass in front of him is empty now. He rotates it slowly, watching the thin line of tea slide along the bottom.
“I had access to the message logs,” he says. “Compliance does.”
He does not look at me.
“The timestamps. The full threads. Not just the screenshots.”
He inhales lightly.
“The messages were part of a larger chain. Fourteen emails before that. She had replied to him at 8:47 p.m. He responded at 9:12.”
His tone is steady. Measured. As if reading numbers from a report.
“There was no follow-up after she stopped responding.”
He places the glass back down exactly where it was.
“And the corridor,” he says. “There’s CCTV in that section.”
He pauses.
“It doesn’t record audio. But it records space.”
He draws a small rectangle on the table with his finger.
“They were standing apart. Not close enough to block.”
He presses his lips together briefly.
“I checked.”
The words are simple.
“I told myself I was just verifying the file.”
He lifts his shoulders slightly and lets them fall.
“In the second meeting, they presented their findings,” he says. “Condensed. Clean.”
He looks at the cake but does not reach for it.
“They didn’t include the camera stills.”
He swallows.
“They said corroboration supported the complainant’s account.”
His foot begins tapping again, slower this time.
“I had the footage saved on my system,” he says. “A copy.”
He corrects himself.
“Not officially saved. Just… accessible.”
He folds the tissue again, reducing it to a narrow strip.
“That evening, I opened a new email.”
He does not look at me while saying it.
“I addressed it to HR.”
His voice does not change.
“I typed something.”
He stops there.
The fan above us clicks once.
“I reread it,” he says.
He glances toward the door as someone enters, then back at the table.
“I thought about tone.”
He straightens the edge of the plate with two fingers.
“I thought about how it would be received.”
His phone vibrates briefly against the wood. He ignores it.
“I didn’t send it.”
He breathes out through his nose.
“I saved it.”
The word saved is quiet.
“In drafts.”
He rests both hands flat again, mirroring the position from earlier.
“I told myself I would revisit it in the morning.”
He nods slightly, as if that decision had logic.
“Morning feels more objective.”
The mava cake has begun to harden at the edges.
“In the morning, there were new emails,” he says. “A summary. A recommendation.”
He lifts the empty glass and sets it down again, though there is nothing left inside.
“It moved quickly.”
His jaw tightens, then relaxes.
“I thought about replying then.”
He pauses.
“But by then, it would look reactive.”
He presses his thumb into his palm.
“I didn’t want it to seem personal.”
The tissue strip tears slightly in his fingers.
“So I waited.”
He says it plainly.
“Until things were clearer.”
He looks at me briefly.
“They became clear.”
He nods once.
“They decided to terminate.”
He adjusts the strap of his bag with one hand, though he is still seated.
“I opened the draft once more,” he says.
His voice is even.
“I read it.”
He smooths the torn edge of the tissue.
“And then I closed it.”
He does not dramatize the moment. He does not describe the screen.
“I thought,” he says slowly, “that intervening at that stage would only complicate his exit.”
His foot taps once. Stops.
“I told myself there would be another time to speak.”
He looks at the table, at the untouched cake between us.
“There wasn’t.”
The sentence sits there without force.
He does not reach for his phone.
He does not look away.
“I kept the draft for a week,” he says. “Then I deleted it.”
Around us, the tea room continues at the same volume.
Delay settles into the space between us, solid and ordinary.
“They handled it carefully,” Kaniraj says.
The word carefully is spoken with approval.
He finally reaches for the last piece of mava cake and breaks it in half. He eats one portion, leaves the other on the plate.
“HR kept repeating that the priority was a safe environment,” he says. “Stability. Trust.”
He nods faintly.
“No one raised their voice. No one accused him directly in the room.”
He looks toward the counter where the staff move without hurry.
“It was all very composed.”
His fingers trace the rim of the empty chai glass.
“They used words like perception,” he continues. “Impact. Tone.”
He says them evenly, as if listing items from memory.
“It wasn’t about intent. It was about how it was received.”
He adjusts his sleeve again.
“I can understand that.”
The fan above us makes its steady rotation. A new tray of cups is placed near the register.
“They said that even if there was no deliberate misconduct, discomfort had been created,” he says. “And that matters.”
He sits straighter now, as if inside that meeting again.
“The emphasis was on moving forward,” he adds. “Resolving internally. Avoiding escalation.”
He glances at me briefly.
“That’s important for an organisation.”
He does not sound defensive. Only aligned.
“I didn’t contradict anything,” he says.
He presses his palms against his knees.
“I also didn’t add anything.”
The second half of the cake remains untouched.
“I stayed within my role,” he says.
The sentence comes cleanly, like something rehearsed but believed.
“In compliance, your job is not to destabilise outcomes. It’s to ensure they follow structure.”
He pauses.
“I followed the room.”
The phrase is quiet.
“They had already reached consensus.”
He looks down at his hands.
“I didn’t lie.”
His foot begins tapping again, lightly.
“I wasn’t asked directly whether I witnessed the corridor conversation.”
He swallows.
“If they had asked me point-blank, I would have answered.”
He leaves the sentence there.
The door opens. A group of three enters and scans for a table. The volume in the room rises slightly, then settles again.
“When he resigned,” Kaniraj says, shifting forward, “I messaged him.”
He picks up his phone, turns it over in his hands, then places it back down.
“I wrote that if he wanted to talk, I was available.”
He smooths the edge of the plate with his thumb.
“I suggested we get a drink. Just to clear the air.”
He nods once, as if confirming the memory.
“It felt appropriate.”
He looks at the chair across from him, then back at me.
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
“Not warm.”
He rubs his hands together lightly, as if recalling the texture of the table there.
“I told him I was sorry things unfolded the way they did.”
He presses his lips together.
“He looked at me for a long moment.”
Kaniraj’s foot stops tapping.
“And then he said, ‘You were there.’”
The sentence rests between us.
He nods faintly.
Kaniraj’s gaze shifts to the window.
“I told him I stayed within my role.”
He does not add tone to the quote.
His fingers tighten briefly around the edge of his bag strap.
“He just nodded.”
Kaniraj exhales softly.
“I thought offering to meet was the decent thing.”
He looks back at me.
“I wanted him to know there were no hard feelings.”
The room remains calm. Cups are lifted. Bills are paid.
“He hasn’t replied to my messages since,” Kaniraj says.
He does not sound surprised.
“I believe I handled it professionally.”
The word professionally sits where something else might have been.
“I didn’t escalate. I didn’t interfere.”
He rests both hands on the table once more.
“I kept the peace.”
He says it plainly.
Neutrality settles around him like something earned.
“It was described as mutual,” Kaniraj says.
He does not smile when he says it.
“An internal note went out the next morning. ‘Parting ways by agreement.’ Standard wording.”
He reaches for the last untouched half of the cake and breaks it again, though he does not eat it.
“There was no announcement.”
He glances toward the counter where the staff stack cups.
“His access card stopped working by afternoon.”
The sentence is plain.
“He cleared his desk quietly. I wasn’t there when he packed.”
Kaniraj rubs his thumb against the seam of the table.
“I saw the empty space the next day.”
He nods once, as if confirming the memory.
“They reassigned his clients. Divided the workload.”
He shrugs lightly.
“Deadlines continued.”
The door opens and closes again. Someone laughs near the entrance.
“In the system, it looked clean,” he says. “No pending action items.”
He finally eats the small piece of cake in his hand.
“I texted him that evening.”
His phone remains face down.
“I wrote that if he wanted to step out for a drink, I was around.”
He adjusts the strap of his bag, though it is still on the floor.
“He replied the next day. One line. ‘Sure.’”
Kaniraj inhales slowly.
“We met at a place near the metro.”
He does not describe it.
His fingers press into his knee briefly.
“I told him it was unfortunate how things unfolded.”
He keeps his gaze on the table.
“He listened.”
A small pause.
“I asked how his family was managing.”
His jaw tightens, then relaxes.
“He said they were adjusting.”
Kaniraj nods faintly.
“I mentioned that the company had to prioritise perception.”
He lifts his shoulders slightly.
“That these situations become complicated.”
His foot taps once under the table.
“He looked at me,” Kaniraj says.
Kaniraj swallows.
“He just said, ‘You were there.’”
The words settle again.
“I said yes.”
He exhales. Kaniraj’s fingers curl inward.
“I said I stayed within my role.”
There is no emphasis in the repetition.
“He nodded.”
Kaniraj’s eyes drift toward the window.
“After that, the conversation thinned.”
He presses his lips together.
“When we left, he shook my hand.”
A slight pause.
“It felt formal.”
The tea room remains steady around us.
“He hasn’t responded to any messages since,” Kaniraj says.
He does not check his phone.
“At work, things stabilised.”
He straightens in his chair.
“No one mentioned it again.”
He nods once.
“My appraisal went through last month.”
The statement arrives without pride.
“No complications.”
He places both hands flat on the table.
“I continue in the same role.”
The fan turns above us. The clock remains five minutes slow.
“Everything is normal,” he says.
His voice is even.
Comfort sits intact around him.
Nothing in his life has been disturbed.
“He left on a Friday,” Kaniraj says.
The sentence is simple. Administrative.
“The email said mutual separation. Effective immediately.”
He does not comment on the phrasing.
“I saw the message around 10:15 a.m.,” he adds. “I was in a review call.”
He folds the tissue in front of him into smaller and smaller squares.
“I texted him that evening.”
He looks at the table, not at me.
“Just wrote that I hoped he was doing okay.”
He shrugs lightly.
“I said if he wanted to step out for a drink, I was around.”
The invitation sits between us.
“I thought it was the decent thing.”
He reaches for his empty chai glass and turns it once, then sets it back exactly where it had been.
“No response.”
He says it without irritation.
“I assumed he was busy.”
His foot taps once under the table. Stops.
“I sent another message a few days later. Nothing heavy. Just checking in.”
He presses his lips together.
“Still nothing.”
The room hums on. A server clears a nearby table. The sound of crockery touching crockery is brief and contained.
“I didn’t want to crowd him,” Kaniraj says.
He adjusts the strap of his bag even though it is still on the floor.
“So I left it.”
A pause.
“A week later, I saw him outside the office building.”
He does not describe the building. He does not need to.
“He was with a cardboard box.”
Kaniraj’s fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the table.
“I walked toward him.”
He swallows.
“I said hello.”
His voice remains steady.
“He looked at me.”
A small pause.
“He nodded.”
Kaniraj nods once now, echoing it.
“I said I had messaged him.”
He inhales.
“He said he saw.”
The words are repeated exactly, without decoration.
“I asked if he wanted to grab that drink sometime.”
Kaniraj’s jaw shifts slightly to one side.
“He said he’d let me know.”
Another pause.
“He didn’t.”
Kaniraj does not look wounded. He looks puzzled.
“I don’t understand the distance,” he says.
The statement is factual, not emotional.
“I wasn’t the one who filed the complaint.”
He glances up at me briefly.
“I didn’t contribute to it.”
He places both palms flat on the table again.
“I didn’t say anything against him.”
The fan above us rotates, patient and steady.
“I thought reaching out would show there were no hard feelings.”
He presses his thumb into his palm.
“I even mentioned that these things become complicated at work. That sometimes it’s about perception.”
He nods, as if that explanation was reasonable.
Kaniraj swallows.
“After that, he stopped replying.”
“I don’t think I did anything hostile,” he says.
His voice does not rise.
“I stayed professional.”
He looks around the tea room again, taking in the steady movement, the contained noise.
“I was trying to be kind.”
The word lands softly.
“I didn’t avoid him.”
He shakes his head slightly.
“I offered support.”
A beat.
“He never responded.”
Kaniraj’s foot begins tapping again, quicker this time. He stops it.
“I suppose he needed space.”
He nods to himself.
“That makes sense.”
Outside, a bus slows at the traffic signal. Inside, someone asks for extra sugar.
“I don’t see why he would hold anything against me,” Kaniraj says.
The sentence is measured.
“I followed the structure that was already there.”
He rests his hands flat once more, grounding himself.
“I didn’t disrupt anything.”
He looks at me, searching not for approval but for confirmation of order.
“I thought keeping things calm was better for everyone.”
The tea in my cup has gone cold.
Kaniraj sits upright, composed.
“I don’t know what else I was supposed to do,” he says.
He does not say it defensively.
He says it like a genuine question.
But he does not wait for an answer.
Kaniraj checks the time but does not reach for his bag yet.
He says it almost apologetically, though there is no apology in his posture.
“These things happen in offices.”
He adjusts his sleeve again, smoothing a crease that is no longer there.
“You can’t respond emotionally to every situation.”
The statement is delivered like policy.
He glances at my cup.
“You’d never get anything done.”
A server passes behind him carrying a tray of fresh glasses. The air smells briefly of cardamom and fried bread.
He does not look at me while saying it.
“Knowing when not to insert yourself.”
His hands are calm now. No tapping.
“In college, maybe I would have reacted,” he says.
He lifts one shoulder.
“But workplaces aren’t built for that.”
He rests his forearms lightly on the table.
“You have to consider the larger environment.”
He does not elaborate.
“I didn’t create the complaint,” he repeats.
He says it as a settled fact, not a defence.
“And I didn’t exaggerate anything.”
A pause.
“I stayed within my role.”
The phrase sounds final now, not exploratory.
“I think that’s what professionalism is,” he says.
He looks around the tea room again, at the tables, the steady movement, the unhurried staff.
His gaze returns to me.
“Not everything needs intervention.”
He follows my glance toward it.
He does not laugh. The comparison sits unexamined.
“At the end of the day,” he adds, “the company is functioning. The team is intact.”
He straightens his back.
“My appraisal went through. Projects are on schedule.”
He nods once.
“Life continues.”
The words are not triumphant. Just accurate.
“I don’t think about it often,” he says.
He looks down at his phone but does not unlock it.
“There’s no point revisiting closed matters.”
He presses his lips together.
“If I had spoken, maybe it would have dragged on. Maybe it would have become adversarial.”
He shakes his head slightly.
“That wouldn’t have helped anyone.”
He stands this time without hesitation.
He says it the way someone states their designation. He leaves the other half of the bun on the plate.
The butter has cooled. The bread has gone dry.
I nod once.
He waits, perhaps expecting a question.
I do not offer one.
He adjusts the strap on his shoulder and steps away from the table.
The door opens and closes behind him.
His chai glass remains where he left it, a thin amber line at the bottom. The mava cake plate carries shallow fork marks.
The fan continues its wide rotation.
A server approaches, lifts the glass, wipes the table in a single practiced motion. The crumbs disappear into the cloth.
My tea is finished.
The lemon slice has sunk to the bottom of the cup.
Around me, Engel continues. Cups cleared. New orders placed.
Outside, traffic moves in measured bursts. Inside, orders are taken. Cups are placed down. Conversations lower themselves without instruction.
At the table where he sat, nothing appears unsettled.
The clock above the counter remains five minutes slow.
No one corrects it.
I think about how often silence is mistaken for restraint.
How often neutrality is treated like wisdom.
How easily comfort convinces itself it chose correctly.
We talked for a long time.
Nothing was said that hadn’t already been decided.
About Spill the Tea
Spill the Tea is a commemorative fiction series marking twenty years of this blog, which began in 2006. Over two decades, the world has changed, the internet has changed, and so have the ways we speak about life, love, loneliness, ambition, and regret. This series returns to the simplest place of all: people sitting together, sharing food or tea, and finally saying the things they usually keep to themselves. Spill the Tea is not about answers. It is about listening, remembering, and honouring the quiet emotional lives that have unfolded here for twenty years.
About the Author
Tushar Mangl writes contemporary literary fiction that examines emotional restraint, relational ambiguity, and modern interior lives. Through the Spill the Tea series, he explores the quiet tensions that shape ordinary conversations.
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