1
The day you ate our Deliveroo delivery we’d ordered Indian food from Chachi’s Kitchen for four people. You knocked on our door and said, “I ate your food.” We looked you straight in the eye and saw that you did not look sorry. Instead, you looked defiant.
We wondered what kind of person you were to do such a thing. We did not know who you were, where you were from, where you’d been, or what you’d done, but now you were here, standing on our front step, while it was pouring with rain, with your belly bursting with our special order of Indian food. The inconvenience of you and your story was too much to bear.
“What?” we said, because we wanted to hear you say it again, that you had done something wrong to us.
You said, “I was hungry.”
“But that was food for four people,” we said.
You looked down at your wet shoes.
The rain pelted down.
We tried to imagine you eating eight vegetable samosas, two plates of malai chicken, four butter naans, two plates of vegetable biriyani, raita, papadums and four gulab jamuns. Your hunger bewildered us. You frightened us. We wondered what else you could do if you were that desperate.
We decided to play it safe and tried to keep our tone conversational and light. The only topic that came to our mind was Gaza.
“So, do you know what else happened today?” we said.
“No,” you said, and your face was miserable.
“Another baby was buried under the rubble in Gaza. Not one, not two, maybe three or four or five. We don’t know how many. We have lost count.”
Your expression relaxed. We saw how you thought we were crazy.
You said, “That’s true. No one knows how many. Not even God.”
We wondered why you mentioned God when you don’t even have a conscience and have just eaten our food. But we pointed to the black bag you were holding and said, “What’s inside that?”
You extended your arm. “The empty containers.”
We took the bag. You waited for a few moments. Then we reached into our pockets and gave you twenty pounds.
“Why?” you said.
We replied, “The truth is we don’t know. We don’t understand anything, anymore. So it is better you do not ask, because we will not be able to explain even if you do.”
Before 2019, Shaffi earned £1,000 a week, with one platform offering a £7 hourly wage rate, and an additional £1 for every drop, with an additional 50p if it was raining. But in 2023, after working for 12 hours, he earned only £80, which was half of the hourly minimum wage. He must work between 80 and 110 hours a week to survive. Shaffi recalls how he once rode 19 miles in 12 hours with few breaks and made only £44. He received no tips.
Shaffi often delivers food when he is hungry.
2
The day you ate our Deliveroo delivery we had ordered Indian food from Chachi’s Kitchen for four people. You knocked on our door and said, “I ate your food.”
You stared at us accusingly, as if it was all our fault.
“I couldn’t help myself,” you said. “I thought I would eat just two samosas, but once I started eating, I couldn’t stop. I just kept swallowing one thing after another, and it was as if I was tasting everything for the first time and had never eaten Indian food before. But . . . ” and you added, as if it made any difference at all, “I used to work in an Indian restaurant.”
“What’s your name?” we said.
“Shaffi.”
We thought of your name and our names, and you and ourselves and how our dinner party was going to be delayed because of you. And we realised it did not matter. In fact, nothing mattered at all. Except you and us, standing on our doorstep, while it was pouring with rain, wondering about the consequences of eating samosas and biriyani, which we were supposed to have enjoyed but you’d eaten instead. And we recalled how our mother had once explained the idea of “rozi”—a Persian word. Rozi was the notion that every grain of rice had its own will and destiny. Every grain came with a name etched on it, and this enabled it to find its way to the person who was meant to ingest it. Nothing and no one could ever intervene in its fate. Our mother would have said, rozi is God’s will, and it is this which decided the grain’s destiny.
“Are you going to report me?” you said.
“No,” we said. “No.”
Your face was wet with tears or rain, we couldn’t tell which.
We stood on the doorstep after you left, waiting and waiting.
And waiting.
Waiting until the rain stopped.
Maybe waiting for something to change so that you’d never be that hungry, ever again.
Once a customer tried to hit Shaffi because he asked if he was old enough to receive alcohol. On another occasion, a gang threatened him with a knife, stole his delivery bag and bike, abused him with racist slurs, and sexually assaulted him.
3
The day you ate our Deliveroo delivery we had ordered Indian food from Chachi’s Kitchen for four people.
You knocked on our door and said, “I ate your food.”
We were annoyed. It must’ve shown on our faces because even though we said nothing, you kept repeating the word, “Sorry.”
We tried to ignore you, your pleading voice, your desperate face, the whole problem of you eating our dinner and apologising.
It would’ve been easier if you hadn’t come and tried to explain. We wished you had stayed away and not owned up, because now we were forced to look at you and listen. There was you and there was us.
And we didn’t want to know about you. Not on that day, when it was raining, and we’d been looking forward to our dinner party. Not on any day, really. But you were there, on our doorstep, and you’d eaten our delivery and we had to think about what you’d done and what it meant to us.
The truth is, we had never really thought about you. We had never given you a second thought. You, in your baseball cap and uniform, who delivered food on your bike, in the rain, in the freezing cold, while your belly was growling.
You and us.
And now, suddenly, it dawned on us; you were a person just like us, unstable and unpredictable, with cravings you couldn’t control. With a job that you were trying to hold. With a family somewhere who relied on you. With friends who maybe did not trust you. And now, we had to deal with the bother of acknowledging you and all those like you, who were in fact like us.
We told you that we could report you to the company if we wanted. We told you that gobbling down other people’s food without their permission was stealing. We gave you a lecture on good morals, emphasising words like wrong, unforgivable, unethical, illegal and bad, as if you didn’t know what you had done.
We decided it was necessary for us to educate you. It was for your own good. It made us feel better. We thought it might stop you from doing it again. We didn’t know what we were saying but we felt our tone and approach were appropriate and saintly.
But the real problem is this: We don’t understand you. We can’t comprehend your world. We can’t grasp your hunger. Or appreciate who you are.
And now that you’ve gone, ridden away on your bike into the rain, leaving us with a bag with empty food containers, we are thinking of your eyes, which were dark brown, or almost black, and told us nothing about you.
Absolutely, nothing at all.
When he first started doing deliveries, Shaffi thought it was his dream job, being paid to cycle around London.
4
The day you ate our Deliveroo delivery we had ordered Indian food from Chachi’s Kitchen for four people. You knocked on our door and said, “I ate your food.”
“Where?” we said. “Where exactly did you eat it?”
You looked at us like we were mad and said, “In Russell Square. I sat on a bench in Russell Square opposite the fountain.”
We imagined you. You sitting there on the bench, dipping your fingers into the containers, biting into our samosa, chewing, hardly tasting, swallowing, and taking another, not uncaring about the consequences for us.
“What kind of person are you?” we said. “What kind of person sits on a bench in the rain and eats our food?”
“I’m sorry,” you blubbered. “I could’ve lied and said I was in an accident. I could’ve pretended I dropped it. I could’ve said I’d been mugged . . . ”
But we were not listening to you. We were far away in our own thoughts thinking, thinking about the stupid, stupid world we live in, where a person like you is hungry enough to eat his work, which is our food.
“What a disaster,” we said.
You looked away at the rain. “I couldn’t control myself,” you said. “I was starving.”
“Starving?” We had not felt that in a long time. It made us want to ask you your name, and know about your life and what made you so hungry and when was the last time you were happy.
But instead, we said, “Come to think of it, we much prefer Chinese food. What about you?”
You looked at us, miserable. “My favourite is actually pizza.”
We thought of your family far away. We imagined your mother in another country, where it was not raining and the sun was shining and there were green fields for miles around. And we pictured her blaming herself if you told her you ate our Deliveroo delivery. And we almost heard her shouting, “But why? Why? You don’t even like samosas. You hate biriyani. What’s the matter with you? Have you lost your mind?”
Or maybe she would have cried and just thanked her stars that even if you were starving and stealing our food, you were still alive and breathing.
Shaffi often jumps red lights, rides on pavements, and ducks between buses because of the pressure of the gig economy. He frequently faces road rage from drivers in cars because he is distracted by the app pinging with orders. He was once punched in the face and knocked off his moped when a driver in a car tried to overtake him.
5
The day you ate our Deliveroo delivery we’d ordered Indian food from Chachi’s Kitchen. This is our favourite place to eat, and we had planned a special dinner. We were excited and when you knocked on our door and said, “I ate your food,” we looked at you like you were mad.
“Do you do this kind of thing often?” we said.
“No, never. I don’t know what happened . . . .” You looked embarrassed.
“If you don’t know, then who does?” we said. We now knew you had lost your mind. Only a crazy person would do a thing like that to us. Us, who have never harmed a soul in the world. Us, who live in our little bubble, doing our own thing, just focussed on ourselves.
“Could I compensate you for it?” You put your hand into your pocket and pulled out some crumpled notes. The rain was coming down in sheets and now your money was all wet. “Take all of it,” you said. “I’ve added some extra money for the inconvenience. I’ve given you all my tips.”
We were confused. “Are you offering to reimburse us in the hope that we will just allow it and order some more food?”
“Yes.”
In that moment you looked like you might cry.
Or laugh.
We did not know what to do either.
But we wanted to cry.
Cry for you.
But mainly for us because our bubble had been burst forever.
For Shaffi, the real toll of his job is its effect on his mental health. “I’m usually a confident person. But nowadays, I feel worthless. It’s hard to hold your head high. Most customers are fine, but some treat you like their personal servant. They don’t even look at you when they take their food. It’s had an impact on my esteem—I’ve lost respect for myself . . . ”
6
The day you ate our Deliveroo delivery we had ordered Indian food from Chachi’s Kitchen for four people for dinner. You knocked on our door and said, “I ate your food. I’m very sorry.”
Your face had an expression which told us you did not like us. You thought we hated your guts not only because of what you did, but also for the mere fact of who you were. Us and you. You. Us.
But we are not thinking of you at all. We are focussed on ourselves, wondering, trying to imagine if we could ever do such a thing or feel hungry enough to steal a stranger’s food. And to tell you the truth, we can’t recall ever feeling so human in that particular way. To feel your hunger, to walk in your shoes, to stand in the rain, to say sorry.
You opened your mouth and started speaking.
We stopped thinking and tried to pay attention to your words. We are not used to listening to people like you. We don’t ever notice you. Now we are looking at you and listening.
“Report me,” you said. “Tell Deliveroo I’m a bad person. Tell them all immigrants are criminals and should be sent back to their countries . . . .” You started swearing at us, the government, God, cursing your bad luck, your life, your body which gets hungry, your destiny that led you to experience your hunger.
“Pretend it never happened,” we said and crumpled the receipt which you had given us.
You looked at us, swore, turned and sprinted to your bike.
We stood there, holding the bag of empty containers and watching the rain, thinking of nothing except you. And us. Mostly you. And your destiny which brought you to our doorstep.
There are parts of the job that Shaffi enjoys. “I like riding my bike, especially along the river, and it’s great to have the freedom of no boss breathing down my neck. Sometimes, I’ll stop for ten minutes and admire the London skyline. But when I’m there, I’m usually thinking: “When’s my next order going to be?”
7
The day you ate our Deliveroo delivery we had ordered Indian food for four people. You knocked on our door and said, “I ate your food. Here’s the receipt.”
We took the bag with empty containers from you.
“We are going to report you,” we said. “This is completely unacceptable.”
We shut the door before you said anything.
We did not ask you why you did what you did. We did not ask you who you were and what your name was.
Later, we tried to look for you on the Deliveroo app. And as we were scrolling through all our deliveries, we realised it was too late. Already too late to change anything. For you or us.
You were probably far away, supplying another order. And we were already thinking of what to order next from Deliveroo.
#tasty #heretodeliver #onelifeliveit
