I WENT TO A FIVE STAR HOTEL

I went for dinner yesterday, where I was served a platter of artichoke, lettuce, cherry tomato and something else I could not pronounce. There was slow music and rich people in their best dresses. Waiters holding on to bottles of water, to be served at tables at a finger's call. Bottles of water that would cost me eight decent meals from a local hotel. There was hardly any noise of cutlery chafing against each other, or of  mouths chewing in hunger and hurry. Instead, there was a kind of silence that made me want to straighten my middle-class kurta. Swallow leaves and greens like it belonged in my belly. A pretend play where I knew where my hands and elbows were meant to be rested. Knew how to order food with a lilt. Knew how to be composed when the zeroes in the bill huddled to the right. I went to a five star hotel and I lost my money and almost, myself.