"John, your order is already five minutes late. Why have you not delivered yet?" The sharp voice echoed through the small, stuffy kitchen of Pizza Flame. The man speaking was Mr. Ramesh, the restaurant's rotund and perpetually angry manager. His thick moustache twitched with irritation as beads of sweat glistened on his shiny forehead. The kitchen had gone quiet the moment he entered.
"Sir, the pizza was not cooked properly, so I had to recook it before I re-served it," said John timidly, avoiding eye contact. His hands still held the pizza cutter, trembling slightly.
"Not cooked properly?" the manager's tone rose an octave higher. "What's that supposed to mean? Are you slacking off again? How many times do I have to tell you to focus on your work?" He took a menacing step closer, his shadow swallowing John whole.
"I wasn't—" John began, but Ramesh cut him off.
"You know what, John? I've had enough of your excuses. Your salary has been cut by another ₹500 this month, effective from today." He spoke in a self-righteous tone, the kind that pretends to represent justice but hides corruption underneath.
A couple of workers exchanged disgusted looks but quickly turned away when Ramesh's eyes swept across the room. Everyone knew better than to speak up. At Pizza Flame, salaries were not directly credited to the workers. Instead, the owner had entrusted Ramesh to "evaluate" the team's performance and distribute their monthly pay. Supposedly, this system was designed to "reward excellence" — but in practice, it had become a gold mine for Ramesh's greed.
No one dared to complain openly. A few had tried. Those who filed grievances were either fired or mysteriously blacklisted from nearby eateries. Word spread fast in the restaurant world, and Ramesh had his ways of ensuring no one got another job easily. As a result, most employees stayed silent, swallowing their anger and pretending gratitude for whatever scraps they received.
On paper, every worker earned around ₹10,000 a month. In reality, after Ramesh's "performance deductions," most received barely ₹7,000 — sometimes less.
John wanted to argue that the oven had malfunctioned because of a brief power cut, but he knew exactly how that would go.
If he defended himself, Ramesh would snarl, "Are you talking back to your superior? I'll cut another ₹500 for insubordination."If he stayed silent, the manager would scoff, "Are you showing contempt by not answering me? Another ₹500 for misbehavior."
It was a trap no one could escape.
So, he did what he always did — lower his head and surrender. "Sorry, manager. I've learned my mistake. I'll work harder and won't disappoint you again," he said, bowing slightly, his voice trembling with practiced remorse.
The other employees, cleaning trays or chopping vegetables, silently mocked him in their heads. Nice bootlicking, John. Keep it up, one of them thought bitterly.
Ramesh smirked. He was disappointed not to get another excuse to reduce John's salary but still pleased by the submissive tone. He loved this — the power, the control, the way grown men feared him. It made his otherwise miserable life feel significant.
"Hmm," Ramesh said finally, pretending magnanimity. "As long as you understand your mistakes, I have no problem. Now—" his voice grew louder, "what are you all staring at? Do you think your salaries are too high?"
The room came alive instantly. Workers scrambled, clattering utensils, muttering "Yes, sir" and "No, sir" incoherently. The sound of the oven timer and sizzling oil filled the tense silence.
John gave a final nod of thanks and turned back to his work. His shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat. The fabric was faded and torn at the sleeves — the kind of shirt that had seen too many washes and too few replacements. His face was plain, forgettable, the kind you'd pass by in a crowd without noticing.
To him, flattering his superior wasn't shameful. It was survival. He had no illusions about fairness or justice. The world, he believed, was a place where only the flexible survived — those who could bend without breaking. Integrity, pride, dignity — those were luxuries for people who could afford them.
Hours later, after his shift ended, John walked out of Pizza Flame, the evening air cool against his face. The sun had just dipped behind the city skyline, painting the clouds in shades of orange and purple. He unlocked his old, squeaky bicycle — the kind that rattled with every pedal stroke — and prepared to leave.
But just as he swung his leg over the seat, laughter caught his attention. A group of people, dressed neatly, walked past the restaurant. They looked familiar — painfully familiar. His heart froze. His ex-classmates.
John's stomach twisted. For a brief moment, he hoped they wouldn't see him. But as they drew closer, he panicked. He dropped his bike and darted behind a tree near the parking lot.
His heart pounded like a drum. He could feel sweat trickling down his neck. His breathing grew shallow. He hated this feeling — the same suffocating shame that had haunted him for years.
He heard their voices clearly now. "Man, can you believe Rajesh got a job in the bank already?" "Yeah, and Ankit's in Dubai now!" "Remember that guy John? Wonder what happened to him."Their laughter stung. John's knees felt weak. He pressed his back harder against the tree, wishing it could swallow him whole.
Then, suddenly — a tap on his shoulder.
John nearly screamed, clamping his hand over his mouth just in time. He turned slowly, his face pale.
"Thank God! You nearly scared me to death!" he whispered hoarsely.
It was Peter, his coworker. A kind, middle-aged man with broad shoulders and a thick moustache, Peter was one of the few people in the restaurant who still had some humanity left in him. He blinked in surprise. "What on earth are you doing, John? Why are you hiding like that? Who are those people?"
John hesitated. How could he explain that he wasn't hiding from bullies, but from his own past? How could he tell Peter that he had been expelled from college for cheating on an exam? That his promising future had shattered overnight? No — he couldn't say that. The shame was too much.
"It's nothing, Uncle Peter," John lied softly. "Those people… they used to bully me in school. I just… don't feel comfortable around them."
Peter's eyes widened with pity. "Oh my… John, it must have been awful for you. You poor boy!" He clenched his fists, his face reddening. "Come on! I'll sort this out right now!"
"No, no, please!" he whispered urgently. "It's fine, really. I don't want to see them."
Peter stopped, confused but still fuming. "John, people like that shouldn't get away with it. You've got to stand up for yourself."
John was moved and also felt sad at the same time. He felt guilty lying to such an innocent man, but he strongly believed he didn't have a choice. The truth was far uglier than any lie he could conjure. Peter's kindness was genuine, and John couldn't bring himself to stain that with his past.
He already lied once, so he didn't hesitate to add one more.
"Uncle Peter, don't worry," John said, forcing a faint smile. "They'll go to hell eventually. Why should we bother? Moreover, it's been a long time. They might have forgotten and even changed."
He laughed nervously, hoping Peter wouldn't notice the cracks in his voice. The laughter died almost instantly as the anxiety returned. His palms grew clammy, and sweat started trickling down his temples again. It was as if his body had turned into a furnace of guilt and fear.
Peter thought for a while. His brows furrowed, then softened. He was a simple man — someone who valued loyalty and the words of people he trusted. John's words, though deceptive, were enough to calm him.
"Alright, John," Peter said finally, flexing his thick arms and cracking his knuckles with a grin. "Next time, if you ever face bullies again, make sure you notify me. I'll handle it."
He patted John's shoulder affectionately, the heavy hand almost knocking the wind out of him, before turning toward the restaurant. His large figure slowly disappeared behind the parked vehicles and glowing signboards.
John stood there for a moment, frozen. He felt like a massive weight had been lifted from his chest — and yet, another, heavier one took its place. The guilt of deceiving a kind soul gnawed at him. He wanted to tell Peter the truth — that there were no bullies, only mistakes; no villains, only his own cowardice. But the words wouldn't come.
He let out a long sigh and whispered, "Thank you, Uncle Peter," before hurrying toward his old bicycle. When he looked down the road, his ex-friends were gone. Relief washed over him like a cool breeze. He quickly hopped onto his bike and decided to take the longer route home — anything to avoid crossing paths with them again.
As he pedaled, the evening sky deepened into night. The streets of the city were buzzing — vendors shouting, dogs barking, vehicles honking in chaos. Streetlights flickered weakly, their glow bouncing off puddles from the earlier rain. The cool air brushed against John's face, but inside, his mind was heavy.