prashant srihari

Forward One of the TCS employee post : The Last Standup I never told anyone this, so I'm posting it here under a throwaway name. My name doesn't matter anyway. After 11 years in IT, I've learned that names don't matter much. Employee IDs do. Mine was 40318. Remember that number. I joined a mid-size services company in Pune in 2013. My father sold his wheat land in Bihar to pay for my engineering college. When I got my offer letter, he held it like it was a land deed. He couldn't read English well, but he kept touching the company logo with his thumb. "Beta, ab sab theek ho jayega," he said. Everything will be alright now. I believed him. Why wouldn't I? The Rise Those early years were beautiful. I worked nights, ate Maggi at 3 AM, and learned everything on the job. By 2018 I was a team lead. By 2021 I was managing 14 people, with a flat in Hinjewadi, an EMI I was proud of, and a Creta in the parking lot. My mother started telling relatives, "Mera beta MNC mein manager hai." I stopped calling my father on weekdays. Too busy, I'd say. Sprint deadlines, client escalations, a release at midnight. What I didn't say was that I'd started enjoying being needed. Every Slack ping felt like proof that I mattered. The First Crack Early 2023, a client asked us to "explore AI productivity." Management made it sound exciting. We ran a pilot where a few developers used AI coding assistants. Priya, one of my juniors, only three years in, finished a module in two days that I'd have estimated at two weeks. I stared at her screen and felt something cold in my stomach. I smiled and said, "Great work." Then I went to the washroom and stood there for ten minutes. That night I told my wife, Neha, "It's just a tool. Tools don't replace people." I said it with so much confidence that I almost convinced myself. The Slow Bleed In 2024, hiring froze quietly. Nobody announced it. Resignations just weren't backfilled. A team of 14 became 11, then 9. The client contracts changed too. They didn't want "30 resources" anymore. They wanted "outcomes." Fixed price, fewer people, faster delivery. In every town hall, the leadership slides said the same words: "AI-first. Reskill. Upskill. Adapt." I did the courses. I collected certificates like a man collecting lifeboats. Prompt engineering, cloud, GenAI fundamentals. I'd study at 1 AM after my daughter slept, and I'd think: I'm 34. When did I become someone who has to prove he's still useful? The Night I Won't Forget October 2024. My daughter Anaya, then 6, asked me to attend her school annual day. I said yes. Then a client call got scheduled for the same evening. A call about "team optimization," which any manager knows is code for headcount cuts. I chose the call. I told Anaya, "Papa will come next time." She didn't cry. She just nodded, in a way no six-year-old should. Like she'd already learned how this works. In that call, I was asked to rank my own team by "AI-replaceability." I sat there with 9 names in front of me. People whose weddings I'd attended. Rakesh, whose mother had cancer. Priya, who had trusted me as her mentor. I did the ranking. I'm not proud of it. I told myself that if I didn't, someone else would, and they'd do it worse. At 9:40 PM I closed my laptop. Anaya was already asleep, still in her little dance costume, the glitter on her cheeks half rubbed off. Her teacher had sent a video. I watched it alone in the dark. She was on stage, scanning the audience for someone, and then her face just went quiet. I cried in the car for an hour. In the parking lot. Like a coward. The Fall In March 2025, they called it a "role realignment." A Teams invite titled "Quick sync." 15 minutes. HR, my director, and a stranger from "People Transition Services." My director couldn't meet my eyes. I'd worked under him for 8 years. He'd once driven me to a hospital at 4 AM when Neha went into labour. "Your role is being impacted," he said. Impacted. Like I was a village hit by a flood.