There was no pale purple sign hanging on the door handle, the one that said ‘Do Not Disturb’ in English. He listened for a few minutes outside the door. There seemed to be no one there – unless, of course, they were asleep. He hesitated, knocked. Silence. He waited for a few seconds, opened the door and put the card in its slot. The exhaust in the bathroom came on with a loud wet gasp, and every single light in bedroom and bathroom in a luxury of excess. He turned everything off.
He remembered the lamp at home with its tall tapering glass chimney which turned sooty by bedtime. His mother would clean the chimney every morning, refill the glass base with kerosene, make sure the wick was adjusted to the right height. He drew back the heavy tapestry drapes, and then the sheers. Orange-white mid-morning sunlight flowed into the room like lava. When his gaze steadied, he could see the hard blue sea, visible like piping between the tall buildings that made up the Colombo skyline. He took a look around the room to assess the level of mess (medium) and went to get the cleaning things from the housekeeping trolley.
There was a certain rhythm to his job. Wipe off all surfaces, replace personal things in an orderly way close to where he found them. Vacuum the carpeted floor. Buff the mirrors. Change the sheets, plump up the pillows, spread that useless strip of cloth that matched the drapes where the feet would rest. Clean the bathroom, empty the trash. In the last year, he had got it down to a quick and efficient system so no thought was involved.
Thought – that thorn in the flesh of the mind.
His supervisor seemed to tolerate him, unconcerned about his lack of years, of English – of polish – in this burnished urban setting. Maybe a year from now he would make it to the next rung.
He noticed that the electric kettle was still plugged in, and a little too close to the TV. He put it away, replaced the cups that had dairy whitener and sugar sprinkled all over them, and the stained sticky spoons. How did people drink this stuff, without freshly brewed coffee or real milk? Riches and bad food seemed to go together.
There were a few things on the dressing table. A bottle shaped like a graceful, bowing swan gave off distant notes of jasmine and orange, and of something unknown but not unpleasant, perhaps the scent of cities. It was a woman’s perfume. Open next to it was a small make-up box with a palette of colours that reminded him of dawn breaking over a still sea. What kind of woman was this? Translucent with youth and beauty? Or just a warrior fighting an age-old battle with expensive weapons?
He remembered the laugh lines on his mother’s face, the clean smooth skin that knew only the vigour of daily life. He closed the make-up box, wiped off its top traces of colour. It bore a tiny embedded gold name in English. One day – soon – he would be able to read it. He placed close to the make-up box the tiny ruby ear-rings that the owner had presumably discarded in favour of the ones she was wearing (what would they be?). Who would be so careless with jewellery, not even bothering to put it in the safe in the room?
Someone in no doubt about her place in the world.
In the bathroom, there were stylish-looking bottles of shampoo and moisturizer and things he couldn’t name. The hair dryer rested in a wet patch. He wiped it off and put it back in its place. There was a long strand of glossy black hair on the floor. He picked it up, wound it round his finger. Smelt it on impulse. It reminded him of gardens by the sea.
Someone had used up the shower gel in its purple vase-like container. The hotel soaps lay untouched. On the damp white bathmat was a large-ish footprint. He hoped it wasn’t the woman’s. He was sure it wasn’t hers. Could someone who wore such small, elegant ear-rings have big, broad, coarse, size eleven feet like their neighbour, Uncle Ariyasiri?
He put away the extra pillows. There was a laundry bag with a ticked slip inside the closet. He took it out to the trolley. In the next, partially open closet with its light still on, he found hanging a couple of pairs of medium-sized dark trousers and pale shirts, and a blue-green raw silk dress that belonged to a small, slim person. She was young, she was beautiful, she was alive. He shut the door to switch off the closet light.
All that remained was to get rid of the trash, and he could go on to the next room. The waste paper basket in the bedroom had a couple of small empty plastic water bottles. At the bottom lay boarding passes, baggage tags and stapled papers. He emptied all of it into the trolley. A pale green ticket with a picture of a familiar-looking golden-roofed building fell to the floor.
He picked up the ticket, smoothed it out and gazed at the temple by the lake with its multiple pagoda roofs, slate grey, red-brown and gold. Under the golden roof lay the sacred tooth. It had been Amma’s wish to go there with him and Devika ever since he could remember. But for them it was a journey like crossing the sea. He hadn’t told his mother and his sister but he had planned to take them there when he had saved a little money so Amma could offer purple water-lilies and her own pure heart to Lord Buddha.
When the wave arrived, the children were playing on the beach maybe, their shrill voices mixing with the barking of the dogs that frisked about them, and the ritual chanting of the sea. Behind them, the sea bubbled like the vegetable stew his mother made for breakfast, the beach fragrant with spice and fresh air. And then the sea changed its murmur ever so lightly, the dogs barked differently, perhaps now trying to lead their young companions inland. The sea grew vertical. It came in, deliberate, implacable as a terrorist in daytime, its casual arms grabbing everything, people and houses and boats and cars and roads and fields. And then it was gone.
He had got to the village later that day, in possession of only a strange new word. It seemed he no longer needed to imagine Kalinga after the war from the stories Amma had told them growing up. It had been that all the way from Colombo to here: bodies oddly relaxed in death, the faint shapes of former houses, cars atop trees, homes filled with things the owners would not recognize, pools and ponds where there had stood houses and shops, boats where the roads had run, a train, the Queen of the Sea, from which people had been flushed out like so many brittle leaves.
He knew there was no reason to seek out his own house but he did anyway. There was nothing there but the frame of the front door, for the sea had come in, uninvited, through the back. He raced through the door and house out onto the backyard, fell to his knees, beat his head against the ground, got up and ran through the grove towards the water a hundred yards away. Something tiny and pink was stuck in a coconut frond lying on the sand. It was Devika’s doll. He pulled out his sister’s doll tenderly so as not to hurt her, and put her inside his shirt.
Someone came up behind him to the door of the room. It was a youngish woman, not very pretty, with long black hair tied up. “Are you done? Can you hurry up, Anura?” she said, noting his name on the tag and smiling in his general direction. “I really need to rest.”
“Yes, ma’am, done, ma’am,” he said in Sinhala, stammering a little, slipping the green ticket into his pocket.
Chitra Viraraghavan is the writer of The Americans: A Novel.
We welcome your comments at
letters@scroll.in.
He remembered the lamp at home with its tall tapering glass chimney which turned sooty by bedtime. His mother would clean the chimney every morning, refill the glass base with kerosene, make sure the wick was adjusted to the right height. He drew back the heavy tapestry drapes, and then the sheers. Orange-white mid-morning sunlight flowed into the room like lava. When his gaze steadied, he could see the hard blue sea, visible like piping between the tall buildings that made up the Colombo skyline. He took a look around the room to assess the level of mess (medium) and went to get the cleaning things from the housekeeping trolley.
There was a certain rhythm to his job. Wipe off all surfaces, replace personal things in an orderly way close to where he found them. Vacuum the carpeted floor. Buff the mirrors. Change the sheets, plump up the pillows, spread that useless strip of cloth that matched the drapes where the feet would rest. Clean the bathroom, empty the trash. In the last year, he had got it down to a quick and efficient system so no thought was involved.
Thought – that thorn in the flesh of the mind.
His supervisor seemed to tolerate him, unconcerned about his lack of years, of English – of polish – in this burnished urban setting. Maybe a year from now he would make it to the next rung.
He noticed that the electric kettle was still plugged in, and a little too close to the TV. He put it away, replaced the cups that had dairy whitener and sugar sprinkled all over them, and the stained sticky spoons. How did people drink this stuff, without freshly brewed coffee or real milk? Riches and bad food seemed to go together.
There were a few things on the dressing table. A bottle shaped like a graceful, bowing swan gave off distant notes of jasmine and orange, and of something unknown but not unpleasant, perhaps the scent of cities. It was a woman’s perfume. Open next to it was a small make-up box with a palette of colours that reminded him of dawn breaking over a still sea. What kind of woman was this? Translucent with youth and beauty? Or just a warrior fighting an age-old battle with expensive weapons?
He remembered the laugh lines on his mother’s face, the clean smooth skin that knew only the vigour of daily life. He closed the make-up box, wiped off its top traces of colour. It bore a tiny embedded gold name in English. One day – soon – he would be able to read it. He placed close to the make-up box the tiny ruby ear-rings that the owner had presumably discarded in favour of the ones she was wearing (what would they be?). Who would be so careless with jewellery, not even bothering to put it in the safe in the room?
Someone in no doubt about her place in the world.
In the bathroom, there were stylish-looking bottles of shampoo and moisturizer and things he couldn’t name. The hair dryer rested in a wet patch. He wiped it off and put it back in its place. There was a long strand of glossy black hair on the floor. He picked it up, wound it round his finger. Smelt it on impulse. It reminded him of gardens by the sea.
Someone had used up the shower gel in its purple vase-like container. The hotel soaps lay untouched. On the damp white bathmat was a large-ish footprint. He hoped it wasn’t the woman’s. He was sure it wasn’t hers. Could someone who wore such small, elegant ear-rings have big, broad, coarse, size eleven feet like their neighbour, Uncle Ariyasiri?
He put away the extra pillows. There was a laundry bag with a ticked slip inside the closet. He took it out to the trolley. In the next, partially open closet with its light still on, he found hanging a couple of pairs of medium-sized dark trousers and pale shirts, and a blue-green raw silk dress that belonged to a small, slim person. She was young, she was beautiful, she was alive. He shut the door to switch off the closet light.
All that remained was to get rid of the trash, and he could go on to the next room. The waste paper basket in the bedroom had a couple of small empty plastic water bottles. At the bottom lay boarding passes, baggage tags and stapled papers. He emptied all of it into the trolley. A pale green ticket with a picture of a familiar-looking golden-roofed building fell to the floor.
He picked up the ticket, smoothed it out and gazed at the temple by the lake with its multiple pagoda roofs, slate grey, red-brown and gold. Under the golden roof lay the sacred tooth. It had been Amma’s wish to go there with him and Devika ever since he could remember. But for them it was a journey like crossing the sea. He hadn’t told his mother and his sister but he had planned to take them there when he had saved a little money so Amma could offer purple water-lilies and her own pure heart to Lord Buddha.
When the wave arrived, the children were playing on the beach maybe, their shrill voices mixing with the barking of the dogs that frisked about them, and the ritual chanting of the sea. Behind them, the sea bubbled like the vegetable stew his mother made for breakfast, the beach fragrant with spice and fresh air. And then the sea changed its murmur ever so lightly, the dogs barked differently, perhaps now trying to lead their young companions inland. The sea grew vertical. It came in, deliberate, implacable as a terrorist in daytime, its casual arms grabbing everything, people and houses and boats and cars and roads and fields. And then it was gone.
He had got to the village later that day, in possession of only a strange new word. It seemed he no longer needed to imagine Kalinga after the war from the stories Amma had told them growing up. It had been that all the way from Colombo to here: bodies oddly relaxed in death, the faint shapes of former houses, cars atop trees, homes filled with things the owners would not recognize, pools and ponds where there had stood houses and shops, boats where the roads had run, a train, the Queen of the Sea, from which people had been flushed out like so many brittle leaves.
He knew there was no reason to seek out his own house but he did anyway. There was nothing there but the frame of the front door, for the sea had come in, uninvited, through the back. He raced through the door and house out onto the backyard, fell to his knees, beat his head against the ground, got up and ran through the grove towards the water a hundred yards away. Something tiny and pink was stuck in a coconut frond lying on the sand. It was Devika’s doll. He pulled out his sister’s doll tenderly so as not to hurt her, and put her inside his shirt.
Someone came up behind him to the door of the room. It was a youngish woman, not very pretty, with long black hair tied up. “Are you done? Can you hurry up, Anura?” she said, noting his name on the tag and smiling in his general direction. “I really need to rest.”
“Yes, ma’am, done, ma’am,” he said in Sinhala, stammering a little, slipping the green ticket into his pocket.
Chitra Viraraghavan is the writer of The Americans: A Novel.
