In April, Priya’s shoebox of tax receipts held its first staff meeting. The oldest receipt, from a printer purchase, chaired the session. A faded restaurant bill asked for a promotion because it had survived three house moves and a monsoon.
The receipts reviewed Priya’s tax-saving plan. One investment proof was missing. The insurance premium receipt was crumpled into the shape of a samosa. A rent receipt had somehow collected a tiny coffee stain and a large sense of importance.
“Let’s be organized this year,” Priya told them. She bought a folder labelled TAX DOCUMENTS. The receipts cheered. She created sections for insurance, rent, and investments. The folder looked so professional that she took a photo and sent it to her accountant.
Two days later, Priya found a new receipt at the bottom of her handbag: a snack purchase from last summer. It had no relevance to taxes, but it had excellent paper quality. The receipt demanded entry into the folder. Priya refused. It lodged an appeal under “miscellaneous.”
At filing time, every important document was neatly arranged. The snack receipt remained outside, sulking. Priya’s accountant praised her organization. The receipt heard the compliment and applied for a promotion to “Chief of Snacks.” Priya gave it the job. It was the only one that had never gone missing.