Written by Sudha Subramanian
Celine Dion’s voice is like silk, cascading and rising.
“Room three—one—” Mike pauses, distracted by the Goddess-like figure in an ivory off-
shoulder dress on the screen.
“Nine,” I offer to draw his attention back to the key.
“Of course.” He shakes his head. “Such a great song!” He sighs.
I shiver under the thick layer of clothing.
“You don’t like the song?” Mike’s blue eyes narrow at me.
“It’s a lovely song,” I say, pursing my lips.
He grins, picks a pen and jots on a register. “The film is good too. Have you watched it?”
The movie was my first-weekend experience outside of India with friends.
I nod.
Mike chuckles. “Oh! Indians are always nodding.” He imitates, catching me by surprise.
The air around me thickens, and I exhale aloud.
“Are you enjoying your holiday?” Mike changes gears as if to please me. My palm is sticky
with sweat. Rob from the delivery team and I had argued over deadlines and reports
earlier that afternoon. I fiddle with the room key.
“I am here for work.” I want to end our conversation and half-turn to leave, but Mike is
relentless.
“Your first time in our country?”
The clings and clangs in my chest continue.
“Yes.” I stop myself from nodding.
He taps his pen on the counter. “I was in India last summer.”
“Nice,” I say, unsure of what else to add.
“It is a beautiful country. And the food?” He smiles, showing his perfect line of teeth.
“I am glad you liked it.” I take a step back. “Have a good day!”
“You too,” he says and adds, “your English is good.”
My brows knit. Heat rises in my gut, but my smile defies that churn in my pit. I wave.
In the room, I yank my shoes off at the door. The old Indian habit of not wearing footwear
indoors follows me thousands of miles away in a hotel room.
Good at English? I laugh aloud while my eyes dart to the stack of five books on the
bedside table. All in English.
The clock shows 6pm. Dim street lights plough through the darkness around the
neighbourhood. I catch the red and green blinking sign board of Caesar’s Delights from
my hotel window. Their food is not the best, but my growling stomach dictates my steps.
A sudden spell of rain has brought down the temperature by another notch. Whiffs of fog
float out of my mouth as I meander through the mine of water puddles on the pavement.
The restaurant is another fifty steps away, but my toes are already wet and numb.
A lady walks me to a corner table and hands me the menu. I read through the vegetarian
options for the fifth time with no luck when I see someone in a black apron from the corner
of my eye.
“Ready to order?” She’s cheery and young.
The only food I haven’t had in over a week is jacket potato. The salt and pepper shaker and
the Tabasco sauce on the table create an image of a potato tossed in red chilli flakes.
“I will have the Jacket Potato.”
I dream of hot and spicy pakoras and filter coffee in the cosy corner of Balaji Tiffin, my go-
to eatery in Chennai. It will be another month before I can taste it, unless I find an
authentic Indian restaurant to recreate the magic.
The waitress disappears inside, and a door closes behind her. A familiar voice descends,
replacing the metallic music. Celine Dion fills the screen across the room, holding her
heart, “Every night in my dreams, I see you, I feel you…”
I roll my eyes and am rearranging the fork and spoon on the table when the waitress arrives with
a plate of potato and some leaves on the side.
The tuber is ripped open in the middle with a gaping hole. A dollop of butter with fresh
herbs fills the crater. I dress up my food with pepper and salt before I dig in. My mouth
feels dry, and the mush refuses to slide down the gullet.
“Argh!” I grab the pepper shaker and that’s when I see it.
A thin gold thread, just like the one from Amma’s silk saree.
I poke around it with my fork and then stop when I see the woman in the black apron. Her
blond hair is pulled back and tied. A pool of saliva gathers under my tongue, and my
stomach churns. I want to leave without saying a word, but against all my instincts, I wipe
my mouth with the napkin and summon the waitress.
“Yes. Can I get you anything?” The cheery woman shows her plastered smile.
“There is something in here,” I tell her, avoiding the word.
Spotting a gold string in a pool of yellow butter and potato meat is impossible. She bends
over to look and gasps. She hurries behind the closed door and comes back with her
supervisor. Four pairs of eyes inspect my food. They exchange glances, and the one with
a supervisor badge speaks.
“We will replace it for you.” She slides the plate off the table.
The thought of another tuber is dreary. “No,” I cry in my head, but it doesn’t escape my
lips.
Minutes later, another potato appears.
I don’t know why I want to please a stranger, but I feel obliged to take a few bites even as
my gut refuses peace.
Celine Dion’s song continues to play at the back of my mind as I trace my steps back to
my hotel room, hugging my thin sweater and fighting my tears. No one was sorry and the
Queen on the crisp currency note had trembled in my grip. In Balaji Tiffin, the situation
would have played out differently. My chest heaves. I step inside the hotel. Mike waves
from his desk. I am careful not to nod and wave back before heading to my room.
The heater has worked its magic. I cuddle under the sheets, reach for the remote control
and click.
“Near, far, wherever you are…”
Not again! I grit and switch off the TV. But her voice follows me in the room’s silence. I shut
my eyes, close my ears, when I hear feet shuffle.
“Eh?” My mouth is open. I rub my eyes to check if it’s real or if the cold weather is causing
visual illusions.
A burly white man in a black waistcoat looks at me.
I don’t know what to say because I don’t know how he got in.
“Oh, Hello!”
My brows are knitted. He walks towards me to the side of the bed and places a small plate
with two chocolates and an apple.
“I wanted to get you these.” He bows. “Have a nice evening.” He smiles and walks to the
door. But he changes his mind, and he comes back.
“You see,” he begins, “when you are inside the room, you lock the door,” he looks at me as
if I am in a classroom taking down lecture notes.
“Can you come with me?” he asks, and I follow him. “By turning this knob to the right”—
he performs the action—“you can lock.” He smiles as if he has finished a great lesson.
“That way, we know you are in here; we don’t barge in.” His light eyes sparkle.
My brownness and years of grit to get to where I am claw their way to the tip of my tongue.
“Thank you,” my voice creaks. Every bone in my body screams in rage, and my knuckles
turn white.
“…there’s nothing I fear…” her voice continues to hum.
The man in the black waistcoat turns to leave.
“But—” My chest hurts, and a mallet smashes my temples.
He stops and turns.
His brow raises, and his eyes are unusually round.
He lets go of the door handle.
“I think”—My throat is parched, but I keep at it—“You should knock on the door before
coming in,” I finish. A weight lifts off my chest. The throb rests, and the smile returns.
The man is quiet. He stares. I stay my ground.
“Of course.” It is a whisper. “Sorry.” He reaches for the door handle.
Before he closes the door after him, he meets my eye. “Have a good evening, Ma’am.”
I reach for the water bottle and guzzle it down. The fog clears, my spirits lift. “My English is
good, and I am here for work,” I cackle, and begin to hum a Tamizh song, but I stop. The
lyrics dance and tease on the tip of my tongue, and I sing, “Every night in my dreams, I see
you…” I pick up the remote. It will be a great evening with chocolates, an apple, and
Celine Dion.
.
Sudha Subramanian lives in Dubai. She was a columnist at Gulf News for over fifteen years. Her words have appeared in newspapers, anthologies, and magazines. She is a tree hugger and an amateur birder. Connect with her on X @sudhasubraman or on Instagram @sudha_subraman