Counting Chicken? I’m Busy Counting My EMIs On This Salary.
Every day, the queue stretches, faces impatient, demands instant gratification. "Bhaiya, make sure it's 6 pieces!" they insist, peering into the box as I hand over their order. And honestly? Most days, especially during the lunch or dinner rush, I don't count. Not meticulously, not piece by painstaking piece. Because, how can I, when my mind is busy counting other things?
I’m thinking about the rent for my tiny room, the EMIs for the scooter that gets me between my three jobs, the school fees for my younger sister. This counter job at the fried chicken place? It's just one cog in a desperate machine trying to keep my family afloat. The salary they pay us barely covers my transport, let alone putting food on the table, or buying a new uniform.
People look at me, at us, serving their cheap meals, and they see minimum wage workers. They often treat us with a casual disregard, sometimes even a sneer. "Just a fast-food job," they think. But this "just a job" is my fight for survival. When someone questions a missing piece or demands extra sauce, it feels like they're questioning my worth, my struggle.
So, no, I don't count every piece of fried chicken for you. Not when the manager is breathing down my neck, the orders are piling up, and my legs are aching from an 8-hour shift that’s only the first part of my day. There's always plenty of chicken in the fryer, trust me. It’s not malice; it's just that my mental calculator is already maxed out, wrestling with the numbers that truly matter in my life, the ones that decide if we eat tonight or not. It’s my small, silent rebellion against a system that pays me so little for so much effort.
Anonymous confession. Share yours at Tell It There.
