It was during this time that I had gotten used to attending social gatherings and family functions all by my lonesome. My relatives would hurl queries to which I’d rhetorically reply, “He’s at the hospital and is busy saving lives.” My practised response would explain his absence. The mundane rut kept on going till there was a conference or seminar and my husband would ensure we accompanied him as a family.
It was one of our first experiences, staying at one of the swankiest hotels in India. Giddy visions of free champagne in tulip glasses, Cuban period furniture, celebrities, bathtubs the size of swimming pools and fluffy bunny slippers placed discreetly beside the bed began to jostle for space in my mind. I’d spent childhood family vacations in reasonably-priced hotels where the fare lacked too many zeroes, where food prices on the menu restrict themselves to delicious and two digits, where a friendly shout across the corridor could get you a fresh towel or a change of sheets.
The memories are blurred but I can vividly recall wall-to-wall fountains, pillows so soft they threatened to suffocate you and a mini-fridge stuffed with so many foreign brands I could’ve learnt French just by studying the labels. Entering the room, I paused at the threshold in reverential silence. No, there were no champagne-filled glasses but a gleaming wooden floor done in Edwardian aesthetics, a family-sized bed and a glass-walled shower cabinet; the kind made popular by James Bond and his many maidens. This, I thought, was the way to live.
It was when I tried to snuggle into the cozy sheets that the first problem arose. They’d been packed too tight. What started as experimental little tugs soon developed into a wrestling match between me and bedding until finally, with an almighty roar, the mass of sheets broke free from the edges of the bed and submerged me. I surfaced after a while and drifted off to sleep.
Next morning dawned bright and after sipping smooth Arabica coffee, I glided to the sweet-smelling bathroom. Fondly surveying all luxury, I noticed the absence of a fundamental component, a bucket. I dialled room service and asked for one. “You want a bucket?” said a voice sounding doubtful. “And a mug too!” I chirped. The silence grew. “Well, okay,” went the uncertain voice. Only when I got the bucket I realised why the person had sounded incredulous. There was no tap in the bathroom.
I started tapping the wall panels hoping to unearth a concealed faucet or at least a dead body or two but, alas, to no avail. I will not embarrass myself by narrating how I ended up washing clothes with a showerhead that amused itself by disgorging water in differing intensities.
There were other fateful encounters too—when I took one look at the laundry rates and fainted, hunted for the power switch on the TV before discovering it could be operated only by remote or when I was so busy making funny faces at the mirror inside the elevator that I didn’t notice the doors had slid open and a huge wedding party was watching me with horror. Overall, the experience was one of a kind—living life king size.