Harsh stares into the glaring screen, a neat black-and-white column of figures in the dark living-room, bright enough even at the lowest setting to burn a mocking, floating afterimage before him, wherever he turns his head or shuts his eyes. His almost-daily headache, starting as a twinge in the early evenings, is now a hard, pulsing beat.
He really ought to sleep, he knows – in a few hours he’s got to be up again, making a quick, quiet breakfast to avoid waking the baby, alert enough to manage the hour-long, terrifyingly fast, early-morning traffic through grey fog and wet roads, to work.
But he can’t look away. All the struggling, the effort, the sacrifice – it comes down to this little column.
That ‘big’ incoming one on top, which his friends back home translated with currency conversion rates and gave awed whistles, while he had grinned and nodded, saying nothing.
Then the slowly-shrinking numbers, marching down, as life happened. Rent. Credit cards. Mandatory insurance. Bills. Fuel. Food.
He remembers, once – surprisingly not that long ago – there was travel. Movies. Eating out. Gifts.
Sending money home.
Even saving.
It’s been almost two years since he saw his parents, face-to-face. To compensate, he’s tried the regular videocalling, but it would inevitably end with questions he couldn’t answer anymore, over and over. When are you coming? Why not?
He calls less and less these days, and he can feel the hurt across the ocean. What can he do, though?
The numbers get smaller and smaller. Pharmacy. Formula, diapers. Repairs.
He’s moved twice now, into poorer neighborhoods, smaller apartments, trying to stay ahead of the inevitable rent hikes, spending more and more time on the road, less at home. Weekends are an exhausting, empty space of staring blankly into the TV, or triggering the inevitable arguments.
Roshni has gone from bright vivacity to a shadow of herself, gaunt and quiet, and even their fights have slid from angry shouting, to bitter silences.
It’s better to pick up weekend Uber rides, or go to work instead – maybe that overtime will count towards the next promotion or raise. Even if it hasn’t, the last three years. This year could be the one.
Smaller. Late fees. Overdraft charges. A speeding ticket.
He can’t give up now. What was it all for? All the studying, the loans, the plans. Feels like a dream. Maybe this is the nightmare, and he’ll wake up soon. His visa renewal’s due, and there’s rumors of layoffs coming. If the worst happens… how’ll he look anyone in the face again?
The last number, this one stained red as the blood dripping from a thousand cuts. Negative. He has nothing left, less than nothing. Whatever he could do, he’s done.
But there’s always tomorrow.
He shuts the laptop, rubbing his eyes, and leans back in the dark. One exhausted tear trickles back into his early-greying hairline. A wordless prayer, to a nameless entity, hopelessly offered. A job offer, with sponsorship. A raise, a promotion.
Even a tip.
It could still all be ok.
Tomorrow.
Poll: What would you do, in Harsh’s place?
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Bad With Money 
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