I have always wondered how nice it would be to paint sound. Or empty a palette with memories. Would you believe that I am a fast-food dispenser? Well, no. I am the one who takes the orders, punches the codes and sends the alert for the delivery. I smile unwittingly each time I greet a customer, and keep wishing that I were an author instead -- trying to capture the emotions with which they come in and ask for food. What, you thought there were no stories there? Let me take you through.
17.06.2016, counter number 4 observations:-
Order no. 2138996530: A confident man, guilty of having to have his breakfast on burgers smartly called for his choice. He didn't even consult the menu -- which means he is habituated to such a living. I asked him, as was protocol, if he would consider 'upping' the drink for some more money, which would save him some more. He waved his hand, collected his bill, and sat down at a morose corner. The cleaning was still in process, yet, had it not been too, I am quite assured he would have gone on to sit there. It was more like his personal throne. In sometime he came up and took his tray, munching on some fries as he took his seat. Now this man, clad in a sober blue shirt and a grey trouser, accompanied by his inevitable laptop bag took a bite of his burger. While at home he would have perhaps bit on a toast and looked into the headlines, here he opened his phone. And he furiously typed. The burger went soggy. I almost for bad for him. He was clearly having a fight. What could have brought that about? He wanted children and may be his wife did not? Stories are same whether from highrises or huts. Perhaps he was running away from a deadline which he could not abide by? My next order was on the way.
Order no. 2138996723: This was a clear case-study. Not very rich students, a boy and a girl here, bunked their classes, removed their ties and carefully studied the menu, as if inside a classroom they were conducting an experiment. They whispered, and pulled out individual contributions before they asked for a meal and two drinks. Time -- that is what they essentially bought. When the actual amount was declared, they countered me on why the price was higher than printed. I patiently, or, like a parrot, explained about the taxes. The boy was willing to cancel an item, but the girl silently held his arm, and like the Queen of Egypt took out a secret note from somewhere and pursued with the order, head held high. I thanked them as they went for the most invisible corner. As they left I could hear faint debating over expenditure. And then, once their tray arrived, they disappeared into what they wanted most -- a meal in each other.
Order no. 2138996875: Miss Malini and company have arrived! I mean, the typical gang of growing wives, whose husbands leave them the day and after they are (oh so) tired of holding paper packets, they dump them at the centre round sofa, some gossipping away, others giggling, while a couple of them come up for the order. "Any deal of the day?" I smile and tell them the extra-large combos and they get happier at the calculating their extra-large savings. They request a service on the table and are happy that it would be delightfully catered to. The two of them join the Miss Malini gang with additives of their savings victory. Must be discussing sex-positions they fantasize about, in real-life tales, over chicken legs.
Order no. 2138997214: Here is finally the fat-boy who loves to grub on any and everything. I often wonder how his parents never notice the subtle red sauce mark that inevitably falls on his shirt pocket. Love is really, really, just a mere four letter word. For me it is the ping of the sms which declares that salary has come in, for him it is the ping which displays the number assigned to his order of pure fat. He eats, chews, gulps, licks, repeats. Not just with his mouth, his eyes function too. I quite like him -- the fat-boy, whwo enjoys his food. There is an utter simplicity about him, a selfishness which is unapologetic to declare that he doesn't want anyone to share his food. Possesive, yes, that is the word. It is a marvel to watch him eat, yet.
Order no. 2138997536: And finally, the order which makes me happy. Someone who surrenders as to what I would suggest. These are the people I like. I have the choice in my hands to serve them, like hospitality. Here is a girl, smart one, with probably her boyfriend, who comes up and asked, "What should we eat? We are very, very hungry. You say." Boyfriend nods. I request her to look into the menu, as per my job demands, and thereafter too, she insists I do the choosing. "Veg or non-veg" I customarily ask. "Non-veg," she replies. I give them the best combo deal, and ask them if it is enough. "Sounds yum, go ahead" she says. I ask her again, "Coffee or Coke?" She asks back her boyfriend and they agree with the Coke. They pay, sit at any available seat, wait. They come over with a smile to collect the tray, say a "Thank-you" and move on with the eating. Nice, clean, happy. They seem the kind who indulge in such food when the day is longer at the mall and a healthier option doesn't suffice to their time availibility.
Order no. 2138997724: I am bored informing you about the range of people already, if you aren't yet. This one is a mother and daughter, who come over to the mall like they have come to explore Mars. My colleagues smirk when these kinds are around, I don't. I take up their order and try to guide them through. Well in Mars, nothing can be much known, can it? You need help. So the mother is scandalized when a cup of tea costs what it does, and the daughter assures her that it is fine by her budget. Mother tries to cut down on the exorbitant menu, while daughter insists she knows what she is doing. Who knows if she does, or she is just trying to pay-back her mother with some sort of adventure, like she did when she was taken to a joy-ride, ten, may be fifteen years ago. The daughter knows Mars, but behaves she does not, just to accompany her mother in the novelty of the information. She shares the love. Or atleast pretends to.
My day, on the other hand gets more and more hectic with the static punching and repeating. In the meagre breaks that we are given, I sip on the same sugar-syrupped coffee and sit with my back resting against a cupboard stacking papercups for employees. I think that is why the customer pays so much for beverage -- they pay for us too. It gets very tiring, the shifts and the vast change in discussion. Inside it is just a poor Miss Malini gang, all they speak of is sex and porn, and attempt funny metaphors out of the menu.
I am only surviving all this because I need the money badly to pay for the applications abroad. They had told me I was over-qualified for the job, I agree. None of this makes sense. I want to leave the puppets of people I see everyday and unfold new ones elsewhere. But I know it will be the same in other skin colours. Moulds do not change often, uppers do. Souls remain the same, while faces change. My break is over, and I am pushing myself to go to the counter.
If only Elsewhere was a place where one could sit, write and earn one's own coffee.
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