The small lights on the table flickered in the restaurant so full of people. Saturday night, the busiest night and Varun had just finished cooking for one hundred people, the curries and rice all had been cooked and served, it was the same routine night after night. He mopped his forehead with a dry tea towel. The cloth smelled of washing powder and garlic.

Through the other side of the kitchen doors was a parallel world. Customers had no idea as they ate and drank and sent back food that would have fed a large family in India. But that is why he had come here to Ireland, the land of hope and prosperity, to chase the Celtic-Indian tiger.

Looking back into the crammed restaurant, the candlelight flickering, the warm glow made him think of home, of Davali, the festival of lights, but he must not think of home now there was the clearing up to do.

Varun had been in Ireland for two years working in the restaurant as a chef, staying behind the scenes, not like the British chefs on the television who acted like gods and got treated accordingly, constantly shouting at their minions.

He must not think about shouting. His boss was always shouting. His boss, the restaurant owner, the man who held onto his work permit. The big boss who ordered Varun to call himself ‘John’ as Irish people would never remember his Indian name much less care about it. It’s easier for the delivery men, a name they could remember. Slaves like Varun came here not on boats but on low budget airlines.

When Varun complained about his working conditions he was told that he was just another ignorant bloody migrant and if he didn’t like it there were thousands more ignorant migrants like him. Varun had to remember that the boss held the work permits and by the way it would be a great disappointment to the family back in India if he had to return home.

His parents had been so proud that their son was going abroad. They were not really sure where Ireland was but they were educated enough to know it was part of the British Empire. Varun would do his duty, his younger brother was assured of an education. He could not let the family down by returning home in disgrace– his mother would never get over it.

Once, as a small boy he remembered his grandmother and his aunts coming to his house and he was told he was going to have a brother or sister. He was sent to his grandfather’s house and on returning his mother was lying in bed weak and not responding. There was no mention of a brother or sister. His mother lay down for a long time. If he disappointed his mother she might lay down again and like an elephant in childhood stories refuse to ever rise again. His mother was not old enough yet for the elephant graveyard.

His father was a quiet man who went off at every chance he got to the nearest town to the shop that sold televisions and drank tea and watched Bollywood movies. His father sold fabric in the local market so he insisted that he watched the movies just to see the latest fabric in the costumes.

His father would boast that his son would send money to buy him a shop instead of selling in the market.
Once, the restaurant had a flood, water gushing everywhere and the boss was behaving like a mad man and reluctantly he told them the restaurant had to be cleared, they could have the hours off but “don’t expect to get paid, no work, no pay.” Varun jumped on a bus, not knowing where it was going and ended up at the Zoo.

There, he spotted the tiger who paced up and down, beautiful but unhappy. Varun went home to his rooms that he shared with the waiters. He must not think of the tiger.

Once, he had picked up a free newspaper. He read an article about the Irish emigrants working illegally in America. Varun felt a glimmer of hope and phoned the journalist and left his name. The journalist was busy on a story: Three female students had handcuffed themselves to a lamppost outside the GPO. Women going on hunger strike demanding freedom for Tibet. Then an idea came to Varun. What if Gandhi were still alive and he wrote to him personally about his fellow countrymen and how they were being exploited. Would Gandhi come to Ireland? Would he be allowed on the plane or would he be perceived as a terrorist? Would Gandhi be allowed to bring his weaving loom? He liked to spin cloth whilst he was thinking. Would the loom be allowed on the plane or would he have to pay extra baggage?

He could see it now, Gandhi walking serenely down O’Connell Street with masses of restaurant workers. Gandhi would stand in front of the crowds greeting the marchers with “before we contemplate a single move what is in it for the poor man?”

Now Varun thought he must be going crazy. On his way to work he saw many down and outs and sometimes he gave them a few cents. In his own country beggars were making atonement for transgressions in a past life, but these ‘untouchables’ on O’Connell Street did not believe that. If Mother Teresa was here she would say “the poor are the blessed ones.”

When he got to the restaurant Mary was on duty working at the cash desk. Mary wore a white, crisp blouse as part of her uniform. He looked at Mary and he could see her curves through her white blouse.

He must not think of curves or Mary. His marriage was arranged. If his mother knew he had thoughts of a woman, divorced and with children, this would just add fuel to his mother’s funeral pyre. But what did Mary think of him? She had witnessed his humiliation as the boss had screamed in English at him. What must Mary think of this Asian excuse for manhood? He must be careful– the spies were everywhere, other workers writing letters home to India, letters full of scandal.

One Tuesday afternoon the restaurant was quiet and Varun was in the kitchen. Mary came in and spoke directly to Varun. “I found a lot of junk mail on the floor, it must have been posted through the restaurant door this morning.” Varun looked at her. Why was she telling him this?

Varun looked at the pile of mail. It was the usual, someone selling membership to a gym. Maybe she was hinting, she must think him fat, then under all the papers lay a leaflet with a notice: ‘Restaurant service workers. Are you being exploited? Are you living in fear? We can help you. Contact…’

“Thank you Mary,” he thought. “Thank you Gandhi.” And the tiger in the zoo was roaring even louder in his head. His hands shaking, he dialled the number and the person at the other end said “can you tell me your name please?” With one big breath, he answered, “My name is Varun and I am an exploited worker.”