An hour and a half since I ordered food — and my hunger had already turned into anger. The clock hands moved lazily, mocking me. My stomach had given up growling, too tired of waiting.
When I placed the order, the app had promised a neat little “20 minutes.” Twenty minutes — that magical number that always feels believable. But now, ninety long minutes later, I was sitting on the edge of hunger and rage, staring at the blinking chat window of the delivery support team.
They had just called me. “Sir, there’s a delay from the restaurant. The food is on the way.”
I had snapped at them — not because they were rude, but because I was starving and their voices sounded like scripts. “We sincerely apologize, sir.” “We regret the inconvenience.” Every sentence was dipped in politeness and emptiness.
If it had been any other time, I might have laughed it off. But tonight, the kitchen was bare. No leftovers, no snacks, not even a biscuit crumb to trick my hunger. The support team kept promising, “ten minutes more,” “just five minutes,” “another fifteen,” until the numbers themselves lost meaning.
There’s a limit to how long patience can pretend to exist.
“Let me get you the latest update, sir. We’ll call you back,” they said — and hung up.
That was it. I didn’t care anymore. Let the food rot on the way, I thought. I’ll make sure they get a taste of my fury on Google Reviews. They had even charged me seventy rupees for delivery — seventy! — for what now felt like a test of endurance.
Just then, my phone buzzed. MyGate Alert: Delivery Boy at the Gate.
I hit Approve Entry.
“Let him come,” I muttered, already rehearsing the lecture I’d deliver when he arrived.
But ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. No one came. The food that was supposed to reach me long ago was now somewhere between impatience and mystery.
Then the phone rang again.
“Sir,” said a new voice, “the security guys are not allowing my bike inside the gate. Delivery bikes are allowed only till the gate.”
I closed my eyes, gripping the phone tighter. “And what do you expect me to do about that? Keep the bike at the gate and bring the food to the door. I can’t change society rules for you.”
“Sir, can you please come to the gate and collect the food?”
That was it. The dam burst.
“My dear sir,” I said, the sarcasm slipping through every word, “I’ve paid seventy rupees for door delivery. If you can’t do that, just leave. I know what to do.”
He tried to say something, but I cut the call. I was done.
Whether he came or not didn’t matter anymore. Hunger had turned into something darker — frustration that leaves a bitter taste even before the food arrives.
Ten minutes later, the doorbell rang.
I stormed toward the door, rehearsing my anger again. I opened it sharply — it slammed against the wall.
He stood there — a man of about thirty-five, maybe thirty-eight. He didn’t say a word. He simply held out the food bag, his eyes calm and quiet. I grabbed it, ready to speak — but then I noticed his right arm, twisted slightly, and his leg dragging as he turned away.
He was limping.
A disability.
My throat went dry. The anger drained out like air from a punctured balloon. I wanted to say something, anything — but the words wouldn’t come.
Finally, I managed, “Sorry, brother… I didn’t know you’re not well.”
He turned with a small, tired smile. “It’s okay, sir. The security guys saw me clearly but still didn’t let me bring the bike inside…”
He stopped midway, maybe deciding there was no point in finishing. Then he turned again and walked away, limping down the corridor under the yellow light.
I stood there, frozen. The food in my hand had lost all its meaning. My throat tightened, and guilt wrapped around me like smoke.
A few minutes later, I ran out, hoping to catch him before he left — but the corridor was empty. He was gone.
Back in my room, I opened the delivery app, desperate for a way to reach him. But the order was already marked “Delivered.”
There was no option to connect back to delivery executive. The chat window opened — another polite voice appeared.
“Hello sir, we sincerely apologize for the inconvenience caused. As a token of apology, we’ve refunded thirty percent of your amount to the original payment method. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Yes,” I typed. “Can you please share the delivery person’s contact number?”
“I’m sorry, sir. For security reasons, we can’t share that information. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Is there a way to send him a tip now?”
“Sorry, sir. Since the order is complete, and you hadn’t selected that option earlier, it isn’t possible.”
I stared at the screen, feeling hollow.
“I don’t want the refund. Can you cancel it?”
“I’m really sorry, sir. We can’t cancel a refund once it’s initiated. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
It took me a long time to type my last message.
“No. Thank you.”
I set the phone aside and leaned back on the bed. The room was silent except for the ceiling fan that sounded like a sigh.
The food sat untouched on the table. My throat is still dry — and now, the throat has started hurting too.
A faint buzz broke the silence.
The phone screen lit up.
New SMS:
“Apologies for the inconvenience caused. ₹70 has been credited back to your bank account. It will reflect in 3–4 working days.”