108) The receptionist

Tired after an eight hour bumpy road ride, I checked into this hotel at the city outskirts. That would help me avoid the incredibly voluminous morning traffic tomorrow – a big day for me. I will have to be at the TV studio by 9. 30 AM.

I turn on the hot water faucet and out jets a stream of biting chilly water!!!! Brrrrr…this is a cold place, and cold water isn’t too pleasant for a refreshing bath. I swore and stamped my feet in disgust and livid too.

I roar into the intercom at the reception counter and vent my steam.
“How could a hotel of this dimension not have 24 hour hot water”???

The lady receptionist tried to mollify my upset mood by offering a million excuses, none of which were either convincing or sane. My rage dissipated rapidly after the outburst with a steaming hot filter coffee.

I sat in the lounge flipping through the day’s newspapers and something made me feel sick inside. What could this poor lady managing the counter do? The maintenance department is to blame; the management was the culprit – she too, like me, worked for somebody – unfortunately on the frontline, always.

Trying to be pleasant, smiling, looking pretty all the time while hiding emotions to irate customers, raving drunks, nitpicking diners. Taking the rap from all and sundry, the lobby receptionist is a worst nightmare job.

I saw her picking up her things and leaving work. As she passed by, I stood up and said,
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have lost my temper on you”.

She smiled radiantly, and I continued “I was really tired”.
The woman was graceful,” Never mind, it was our mistake. We should be apologizing sir, and not you”.

She was not around early morning as I left for the studio. I returned after four hours, relieved of the mental tension about the interview, as the interview in BBC went off better than I had anticipated.

I packed and wanted to leave as fast as I could, in eight hours be back home. I needed a home made supper and a good night’s sleep. I picked up a few things for my wife who hands me these “must have” lists for the kitchen.

I left the hotel and ambled around the busy marketplace. Shopping over, and laden with one thousand things I’m sure were actually redundant in the kitchen, I stood at the wayside waiting to wave down a auto-rickshaw. Walking on the sidewalk, with a little four year old kid daughter was the receptionist.

I nodded and said, ‘Holiday?’
Yes sir,
Your kid?
Yes, this is Nayana…
Nayana, you want an ice cream?

The child’s face lit up and she tugged her mum’s hand, which in unspoken kid lingo means, say yes mamma. We walked up to an ice cream parlor a few yards off and the kid slurped her chocobar with much relish and drool, as I and her mother talked. What she poured out disturbed me to no end.

This was a battered house wife. Her no good husband abused and bashed her every night. A sot, who reeked of alcohol – a leech who grabbed every rupee she earned- a wastrel who lazed all day and boozed all night. She went on, and on, hoping for better times. He was her husband, and she’d married him for love, she said. The prop of a mangalsutra and a man in the house (no matter if he be a beast of a man) was social security in this big bad city. So she goes about, smiling at strangers in the hotel by day, and getting shoved, hurt and bad-mouthed come night.

The other side of society, she told me of, also disconcerted. She came from a scheduled caste background, she whispered across the table. The hotel is owned by a Lingayat (Veerashaiva) baron, and if he comes to know who I am, I will lose my job too. The job pays well and she is allowed to lunch there and even has permission to pack a few items for her family.

Ice cream over, the mother - daughter duo trudge back into the road, back home. If one can call it one. The child, her cheeks still sticky and wet, says ‘tata, uncle’.

I return to the room, and in twenty five minutes westbound on the National Highway, heading home. All along the ride, my mind replays the conversation with the receptionist and recalls her pained face. The pathos and poignancy with which people play out their assigned roles in the drama of life. The script writer has goofed up.

Wish you well, working woman. I hope someday you find peace and happiness and may your daughter be your strength and succor.