Ocean in a bowl

I have always pondered over aquariums. The transparent surface, the glossy exterior and the clear waters.
The bottom is covered with a layer of golden sand and variegated pebbles.
Often tiny weeds are planted on the sand and they float around precariously in the pristine water.
It is as if there is no layer between the eye and the water.
My existence as such had been a lonely one.

I was trapped in the monotony of life that prevented me from connecting to the outside world. I was limited to living my life in a matchbox-sized apartment, eating meals from a box and typing furiously on the laptop all day.
My talks were restricted to colleagues, a pleasant smile in case I bumped into my neighbour at the gate and talking once a day to my parents about the routine everyday stuff.

Nothing ever transpired to make my life more exciting.
It was an automated clockwork that ran its course the same way.
My weekends were interspersed with the same activities except for some activities taking a bigger share of time.
A sliver of my time was spent in the dissection of my feelings.

I had forgotten to care for anyone around me. It was as if I developed this hardened exterior and could take no nonsense from anyone.

One fine evening, my thoughts reverted to my aquarium.
What if I chose to bring home a tiny fish? Would that be symbolical of my ray of hope? Could I attach my feelings to this speck of a fish that roamed inside the aquarium?
I played with this idea for a while. Was this a good idea to introduce a fish into my ecosystem? I was practically not programmed to handle another life that needed attention and care.
My constitution didn't support frivolity.
But this was my last straw of humanity.
This would mean that I could care for something, feed a mouth, watch it wade through the waters.

I spent more than three hours in the pet shop looking for my perfect companion. I chose a small aquarium and two guppies.
I picked up some filters, weed, sand, coloured stones and everything else the shopkeeper deemed necessary for their survival and well being.
He marketed it so well that for a minute I was gleaming with pride that I made them feel at home.
Armed with my supplies, I reached home.
I cleaned my side table and carefully set up the aquarium. I also placed a warm lamp by the side to give my aquarium a cosy feeling.
I was satisfied with my effort.
I kicked back to see the tiny fish swimming in the waters.
I had put in two pellets of fish food which were floating on top.

What a set life I wondered. These fish were merely used as a bait to end up in someone's home like mine. They were placed in well-lit bowls and taken care of meticulously so that they could be sold to a customer.
No worry about whether they could survive in these cramped glass jails.

The enormity of the ocean was something that could never taste. Their lives were lived in the shackles of these transparent prisons.

Often they become the centre of attention only when they were referenced to as on object of beauty.
They were the jewel in the crown of my loneliness.
I just needed that fish to knock some sanity into my perturbed mind.
I needed some validation from the society that I wasn't alone.

What about them? They are fed at the right time, their filters are cleaned regularly, the weed is trimmed to make enough swimming room,
The oxygen levels are checked and water is changed when it gets filthy.
I mean life is handed to them on a platter.
All they had to do was swim around in circles to keep their sanity.
They would be as lonely, ignored, probably die without ever feeling the brine ocean waters.
They would never break free from these glass walls into the wild when they are adorning our lives.

At this point, who gives whom a better chance at life?
Are we doing the right thing by capturing them from their homes to fill our lives or saving their chance of becoming shark food?
The answer is tricky.
Whatever it may be, whose life is defined by whose presence?
Is my life better because I have a fish to take care of? Or is the fish lucky that he landed up with someone who can take care of him preciously?

I'm a waitress

 I adjusted my apron for the hundredth time today. I straightened out some loose strands of hair by bounding it close with a bobby pin. I had to reapply my lipstick.
Sprayed some fragrance. This was my job.
I had to look extremely appealing to the customer. I stood tirelessly in my stilettos and hobbled across the smooth floor. I smiled while the customer took ages to decide between whether to order dessert or stick to a salad. I waited while the kids played with the menu card and the parents were glued to their mobile screens confused on whether or what to order. I had seen customers leave after gulping four glasses of water. Often due to their fickle mindedness,
I was under the radar getting reprimanded for not attending to them quicker or looking prim.

 I mean what’s a waitress right? She brings you food and drinks smiles at you while you eat and then you think it’s because she wants to get tipped. Well, guess what we aren’t paid so well. A lot of what we earn is through generous customers. The coffee I brought you is exorbitantly priced. Probably half my wages.

But if you don’t tip me because of the poor taste or ridiculous pricing, you see my reputation is at stake. Because I work in an upscale restaurant, my pay isn’t proportional to what you spend on a cup of coffee. What you are paying is for the air conditioning, clean cutlery, blaring music and the assurance that you won’t be asked to leave despite the whole table sharing a measly drink.
 I have had to work two shifts covering up for a fellow worker when she was ill. My weekends aren’t really for kicking back and sauntering around the house in comfortable pyjamas. My time offs are erratic. I may or not get one.

 If I voluntarily choose to take one, It may get deducted from my base wage. I have stood taking orders the whole evening. I have walked on these mirror-like floors in pointy heels. Stood in the kitchen in the heat, grime and smoke when people complained that their food was taking too long to arrive. Carrying tall glasses of hot coffee on glass trays, almost jogging lest the customer crib that the taste was lost in the transit. Carried extra packets of sugar, milk, coffee powder, salt, pepper, chilli flakes and whatever else they deemed imperative to accentuate the taste of the dish.

 No one has ever blamed the customer. For us, you are the source of income and therefore you automatically fall in the god-like status. Some of you think it’s a favour that you are doing by tipping us. Well, no. You see I don’t have to go beyond my job description to get penalised because the soup was too watery or the dessert was too sweet. But my stakes are high. If I don’t go back to the kitchen and arrive with a replacement or persuade you that the chef is new, my tips are automatically deducted.

 Some of you are smarter. Pay by card or those fancy apps that you can leave without leaving me anything.
After seventeen hours of standing, carrying food, taking orders, my face starts to show signs of tiredness too. I have always asked you if your food is good. How many times have you asked if I’ve eaten? I’m supposed to take a break when the customer stream is sparse. Nobody decides on what’s that number. My eyes are always on the lookout for when a customer would walk in, see that there’s no one to attend to them and decide to just leave.

Mostly I’m hungry when I take your orders. When I bring your drink, I wish I could pause for a drink of water. When I watch you eat and wait for you to spit more instructions, I wish I could sit and breathe. When I watch you waste food, it pains me to see that what I cannot afford, you are squandering.

 See, my face is allowed to be tired, stomach to feel ravenous, legs to ache and feet to swell up after incessant usage of shiny stilettos. My hair is allowed to be astray. My lipstick is allowed to bleed after being subjected to the barbecue smoke.

My eyes can look like a raccoon after being sleep deprived for days. I still have to muster the courage to apply a pancake layer of makeup and smile. None of my frivolity is what you have signed up for. My job is to take that all with a smiling stride.

Bring you the food and dessert, vouch for dishes that I would never order even if I could afford it, serve you with utmost grace. Pray that the food is delectable and wait for you to leave so that I can flip the menu card hoping for some tips. It is that on this tipping scale of balance that my life hangs. I pray for you to like me so that I can bring food to my table. Ironical and sad.

Food critic

I opened a new cafe in 12th avenue. It was my dream. The whole place reeked of incense sticks and potpourri.

Balloons and streamers adorned the doorways. It was well lit. It looked enticing. 

Brand new furniture, spotless floor and gleaming chandeliers.

The aroma of freshly baked bread wafted through the kitchen.

People had already lined up outside to get a share of the goodies. The store marketing team had done a good job announcing the inauguration through colourful hoardings.

Customers had also been promised a hefty discount on their first purchase.

I  wanted customers to return for the taste. I  was fervently praying that once the promotion reached the end of its life, it didn't claim customers with it.

I also knew the importance of good publicity. Most people already frequented restaurants that they were familiar with. Since it was also about appealing to the niche area of taste, the chef had to have an edge over the other eateries that prompted customers to halt here.

It also meant that they had to outweigh price with taste and stopped by even if the prices were exorbitant.

More often than not, judgement is made in case of doubt through online reviews

.

 Public figures, celebrities, influencers or even a common man who posts experiences online or in a reading medium provokes the shy one to take a bite.

Most people get influenced by positive reviews, food photos that look delectable or the quaint ambience.

Few people care about the food if the other criterion is satisfied.

It takes humungous effort to drag an accustomed to a different restaurant customer without the discount or positive reviews.

I engaged Manohar to write his review. 

I had ordered my chefs to prepare their best dishes. 

A slice of red velvet cake smeared with cheesecake frosting, a dark chocolate muffin filled with the warm gooey blueberry jam and a tall glass of piping hot chocolate with chocolate sprinkles and a twirly straw stood to wait. 

The chair had a comfortable leather cushion, the table was arranged to face the window. Soft piano music filled the room. 

The lights were dimmed. 

The air smelt strongly of freshly baked cakes. The ambience was perfect.

All Manohar had to do was to describe the experience in exaggerated words. 

Praise the food to the sky and compliment the hospitality.

He also the job of subtly mentioning that this place was expensive, but taste surpassed the hole it drilled into your pockets.

Manohar was a ruthless critic. 

His reviews often resulted in restaurants being shut down overnight. 

He brought the food to life through his pen. 

He knew the exact words to describe the taste. Many a reader could feel the taste reaching them. It often left them dissatisfied or craving.

His words could result in the restaurant gaining stardom overnight or shut down to shambles. To get him to say a positive word was a herculean task. 

Even for a cup of tea, Manohar shredded it to basic elements such as temperature, sweetness, quantity, value for money, the cup it came in and the taste. He described exactly how he felt on drinking it, what it lacked and where it could have done more than being a nonchalant cup of tea.

Manohar arrived at the cafe. He pushed the cold handle and exhaled sharply. 

This is what he was used to doing. Arrive at restaurants, sample a few dishes, take copious notes and publish it in a forum.

The few minutes he spent in the restaurant decided its lifeline. 

It was almost impossible to get his approval once he wrote scathing remarks. 

Manohar knew no second chances. Once a restaurant was deemed unfit, it had to disappear from the locality.

He took a quick look around at the ambience. 

The cafe was sparsely crowded. There was only an old couple who shared a latte between them.

The wall was adorned with posters of yesteryear movie stars. A few quirky quotes caught his 

attention. 

The day's specials were announced to him on a whiteboard in scrambled writing.

Tiny lights hung from the ceiling. He inched closer to his designated table. The store minions hovered around him.

He patted the chair and settled into it. The assortment of food items on his table stared at him invitingly.

He picked up a fork and stared at it for two seconds. 

It gleamed in the warm yellow light. He cut off a sliver of the red velvet cake. 

He poked at it with his fork. He sniffed it, stared at it for a while and took a dubious bite. He paused and wrote extensive notes on his notepad. He then attacked the chocolate muffin. He touched it, felt its texture and ripped it open to let the blueberry jam flow into the plate.

He stopped and took notes again. His expression was grim. He pursed his lips together as if he wanted to say something. The minions bent forward to hear his query. He dismissed them with the 

wave of his hand. He then took a sip of the cocoa. 

His opinion was already formed. He wrote detailed notes and stood up to leave.

I was burning with anticipation. 

Manohar had not uttered a word. 

He took one final look at the cafe and proceeded towards the exit.

I  stopped him.

"So?"I asked. I wanted to hear his experiences first hand.

"Well, clearly you have not done your homework" Manohar snapped.

"What seems to be the issue, Sir"

"I have detailed notes of every single thing that could have made my experience much better here"

"Well, I'm nothing if not open to feedback. Please enlighten me"I  was livid.

Manohar gave a defeated sigh.

"Well, you chose to hear about it rather than reading. Let me explain."He sunk into the cozy leather cushion and started

"Who is this cafe for? Is it for people who have a lot of money and time? 

Or is it for people who have to save up even for a cup of coffee here that they think it is daylight robbery? Is it a networking hub or a forum of sorts for movie buffs, bibliophiles or art lovers to catch up?"

"I do not really.."I began.

"I'm not done yet."He snapped

"Definitely you have marketed this place through the city with colourful hoardings. Your staff has paraded around with infographic flyers, but you don't know who should be picking up the flyer. 

Now coming to the ambience, this place is well lit with fancy lighting what is the ambience you are aiming for? Is it for a quiet evening, a romantic one or a hangout place? Can I work in peace? 

Can I host an interview or catch up with a friend? 

With your extensive menu, what kind of food are you targeting? Do you serve the main course, starters, dessert or drinks or all? Should people host their luncheons here? Should people stop here for a snack or eat a full course meal?"

"We have everything on the menu.."

"Well, I cannot judge the quality of the main course based on the dessert you served me. What picture is it trying to portray? Should people order just dessert? Or is the main course a sham?

Your walls are filled with posters. I'm no movie buff. These posters mean nothing to me. Am I your audience? Should I still come here? The quirky posts are just rip-offs from the internet. I mean you can do a decent job there at least? The menu on the board is illegible. Should I squint my eyes each time I'm here trying to decipher what it means. If I ignore all this the food was nothing unique. It was the same as everywhere else.No unique presentation or taste. The red velvet was still warm that the fork went right through it. Maybe wait for it to cool down. You cocoa was a standard powder blended with milk. The blueberry chocolate muffin was no prize either. The jam I presume is from a local store? And..."

I had heard enough.I was furious.

"What do you know about running a restaurant Mr Manohar? My staff has kept this place pristine for you. They were waiting like slaves till you finished eating so that they could cater to your every whim.

My marketers have worked arduously day in and day out to ensure that the news of our cafe reaches the radius of a wider audience. In this location, do you know how much rent I have to pay?

Do you know how much I have to pay the chef? For your information, the main course chef is different from the baker. Have you done any course in culinary sciences? What do you know about presentation and innovation? Red velvet has to taste the same as everywhere. If I add in something new, will that still be called red velvet? Won't you then say that is should use the correct recipe and stick to my basics? Can you bake something that you have described?"

"See, you are taking this personally. I was invited by you to write a review. This is my view of the experience. If people take offence or form a decision based on my words, that is in return what you are expecting too, is it not? I can never run a cafe or bake a cake. I have no experience in culinary sciences. I don't have extensive knowledge on how to market or promote my product. All I know is my pen."

He stood up to leave.

I stood in wonderment. Was I not the one who chased this food critic to his office and waited at his door for a whole day?

Who was this guy? He who just knew superfluous words was judging the profession of my chef who toiled his way in hotel management course.His taste who could never be satiated gashed out an innocuous soul who spent hours sweating in the kitchen. Still, there were flaws, his presentation, innovation and everything outside of his job description was under the radar.

What are we looking at? Why does someone with good language, strong words get to repress the simple hard worker?

How was it fair that his judgement played a key role in my revenue generation?

These questions, I could never answer.