When I walked into the community kitchen for the first time, my hands wouldn’t stop trembling. My resume—a single, wrinkled sheet of paper with barely anything on it—felt like a cruel joke. I was from an academic background with a deep love for cooking, and I had no formal culinary training, just years of cooking for my family in India. But I clung to one thought: I can do this.
Jeff, the manager, greeted me with a big smile. His handshake was firm, his voice warm. “So, Swa,” he said, flipping through my pitiful resume, “what’s your specialty?” I had been prepared for this question. Pulling out the container I had brought , I opened it to reveal fresh, golden-brown aloo parathas. Jeff took one bite, and his eyes lit up. “These are incredible,” he said. “You’re hired.”I walked home that day with my heart soaring. After months of rejection, I finally had a job. More than that, I had a purpose.
Finding My Place
The community kitchen buzzed with noise and activity. Maria, a single mom juggling two kids, managed the salad station. Carlos, a chef with a booming laugh, prepared the hot dishes. And then there was me, stumbling through my broken English but determined to prove myself.
The first week was tough. I burned the rice, spilled a vat of soup, and accidentally dropped a stack of plates. But Maria patted my back and said, “Don’t worry, girl. We’ve all been there.”
By the second week, I found my rhythm. I introduced dishes from my homeland—spicy chana masala, crispy samosas, and creamy kheer. The kitchen smelled like home, and the clients loved it. One woman hugged me, saying my food reminded her of her grandmother’s cooking. I felt like I belonged for the first time since I arrived in Canada.
The Fall
Then it all came crashing down.
It was a Friday morning, and the kitchen smelled of roasted garlic and cumin. I was chopping onions when Jeff called me into his office. My heart raced. Maybe he would thank me for my hard work or give me a raise.
Instead, he avoided my eyes. “Swa, we have to let you go,” he said, his voice flat. For a moment, I thought I had misheard him. “Let me go?” I echoed. “But…why?”
A taste of hope
He shuffled some papers on his desk, stalling. “Budget cuts,” he muttered. Budget cuts? That didn’t make sense. The kitchen was busier than ever. I had seen the donation reports myself—they were overflowing with funds.
“But…Jeff,” I stammered, “I don’t understand. I work hard. I never miss a shift. Is there something I did wrong?” He sighed, rubbing his temples. “It’s not about you, Swa. It’s just…the way things are.”
His words felt like a slap. I walked out of his office in a daze, my chest tightening with every step. Maria and Carlos stared at me, their eyes full of questions. I couldn’t bring myself to answer them. I thought of leaving the place where I came with lots of hope, but I will still be here with a Ray of Hope.
The Weight of Injustice
I sat at my tiny kitchen table that night, staring at the stack of unpaid bills. Tears burned my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I thought of all the hours I had poured into that job—the early mornings, the late nights, the aching feet. I had given them everything. And for what? To be thrown out like I didn’t matter? It wasn’t just the loss of the job that hurt. It was a betrayal. I had trusted Jeff and the kitchen to be a safe place. Now, all I could feel was anger.
Fighting Back
A few days later, I stumbled across a flyer for a workshop on workers’ rights. The room was filled with women like me—immigrants who had been taken advantage of, fired without reason, or forced to work under terrible conditions.
Amara, the organizer, was a fierce woman with sharp eyes and a voice that could command a room. When I told her my story, she leaned forward, her expression serious.
“Swa, what they did to you isn’t just wrong—it’s illegal,” she said. “You have a right to fight back.” Her words lit a fire in me. Together, we filed a formal complaint against the kitchen. It wasn’t easy. There were meetings, and moments where I wanted to give up. But every time I felt like quitting, I thought of the people who had eaten my food, who had smiled and said, “Thank you.” The next step to my journey is a new start with sunny days and white clouds to create my food boutique.
