Underpaid, Overworked: My Silent Protest in Every Fast Food Order
The aroma of fried chicken and masala fries hangs heavy in the air, mixing with the cacophony of a typical evening rush. Orders scream from the kitchen, customers jostle at the counter, and the queue stretches out the door. It’s a scene you’re familiar with at any popular chain restaurant here in India. And this is where my confession begins.
When you order that bucket of chicken or a platter of pakoras, I want you to know something. During these crazy rushes, I rarely, if ever, accurately count each piece. My hands might scoop, my eyes might glance, but my mind is miles away, definitely not meticulously counting 6 pieces, then 7. Maybe you get five, maybe you get eight. Honestly, the restaurant has plenty of stock. It’s not about cheating you; it’s about a silent, desperate protest.
I don’t get paid enough for that kind of precision. My meager salary barely covers rent for my tiny room in a crowded chawl, let alone sending money back to my family in the village. This isn't my only job. Before sunrise, I'm driving an auto-rickshaw; after my shift here, I switch to food delivery until well past midnight. Three jobs, just to keep our heads above water in this unforgiving city.
So when you complain about a missing piece or expect perfect service, please understand. My exhaustion is real, my stress is immense. My overall worth isn't tied to counting chicken pieces. It's tied to survival, to feeding my loved ones. This uniform, this smile I put on, hides a daily battle against poverty and relentless demands. My mental energy is reserved for more critical counts: how many rupees are left, how many hours until my next shift. This small act of not counting is my tiny defiance, my quiet rebellion against a system that asks for everything while giving so little.
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