THE DOLPHIN HOTEL

I lie on the spring-foam mattress, waiting for the alarm to ring. Although it has only been three days, I have settled into a routine. I wake up at 7:30 AM, freshen up and head down for breakfast. I am supposed to be quarantining, and should technically stay in my room all day, but the hotel refuses to provide room service. The hum of the table fan I borrowed from reception fills the room, a sound I can fall asleep to, even after a night of passable slumber. I struggle to keep my eyes open, the urge to escape from reality by delving into dreams so strong that it appears I am fighting a physical entity.

My phone, kept right beside my pillow, starts to buzz and I keep tapping on the screen until the noise stops, only lifting it to text my mother that I am awake. I don’t move for a few more minutes. I feel tired by simply thinking of the journey I have to make downstairs and back up. Well, walking down four flights of stairs is not the problem, but coming back up, when I have virtually no stamina, is a task. Why a hotel wouldn’t install an elevator is beyond my understanding.

I pull my torso upright, staring out the window. There is a ledge right outside, where birds often rest after what I think is a long day of flying around. Their chirpiness lights up my mood, and not many things or people have been able to do that, these days. I walk to the bathroom, and soon after choke on the toothpaste, gagging everything out into the sink. I look up at the mirror, nodding to myself. Good morning to me. I try to wash away the dark circles using soap and water, but for some reason, they remain. It is almost as though the sleepless night are inked onto my skin. I switch off the fan and place it on the floor, next to the small work-table which doubles as a dining space. I examine myself in the bigger mirror they have placed in the middle of the room, wondering if I should change or even comb my hair, for the sake of presentability. The lack of motivation to do either overshadows all other thoughts in my head, and I head out with my phone and keycard in hand.

I have forgotten the keycard in the room twice already, and it has cost my dearly. To get the spare key, I have to go back downstairs and take it from reception, and then once I am in, go back again to return it. If I stay in this hotel for six months, my physical health would greatly improve, and my mental health would be at its worst. For now, I have to live out the next seven days without hurting myself or other people. The staircase is carpeted, with red fabric stretching out on all its bends and curves. I may or may not have slipped on it a couple of times, causing the carpet great injury. I reach the ground floor in less than three minutes, my hungry stomach making my feet move faster.

The corridor that leads to the front door, the very same I had walked through three days ago, is old-fashioned. Fancy rugs line the wooden floor, with Victorian-era paintings adorning the teak walls. There used to be a fireplace in this corridor at some point, which has been shut off and a table-top has been constructed on top, like a glass ledge, where tour guides and other papers informing visitors of London are kept. I had grabbed one when I first came here, and it is lying on top of my unopened suitcase now. There is a coat and umbrella rack right by the entrance and is completely empty. I suppose it is more a prop than anything of utility.

I peek into the reception, situated to the left of the stairs. The Indian man who checked me in is sitting behind the desk, reading something on his phone. I walk up to him, the spare key in hand. ‘I just wanted to return this. Thank you, and sorry for the trouble.’ He takes it from me, and says, ‘Why do the British apologize so much? It is annoying.’ I feel the need to point out to him that I’m not British and being polite is not the worst thing to be, but I can feel my blood sugar drop, so I scurry out after flashing an apologetic smile.

Once I am out the front door, I breathe in properly, relieved. The fresh air outside is the only break I get from being locked in a small room. Due to staff shortages during COVID, the hotel has merged breakfast with the hotel next door, and it is served in the basement of their building instead. I walk into The Shakespeare Hotel, and the scene in front of me is a mirror image of The Dolphin Hotel. I nod at the person guiding guests to the staircase that leads to the breakfast area. The winding staircase finally terminated in a room filled with tables and chefs preparing food. There are a few people already eating, and as I grab a plate, I wonder if there is anything good today, finally. On seeing nothing that appeases my taste buds, I take a bread roll and scrambled eggs that taste of only the salt and pepper I add to them. Deciding to sit in the inner room today, for a change of scenery, I carry the food over to a table right next to a window. I poke at the food for a good while before eating it properly. 

As I eat, I look over casually at the other guests in the room. There is an elderly couple and a middle-aged lady. I wonder where they are from and if they are just touring London. Having finished eating, I am getting ready to leave, when the lady calls out to me, ‘You are Indian, right? All alone? Why don’t you come and sit with me?’