Delhi in mid February. The air still held a winter crispness, though the afternoons had begun to thaw. The sky, a pale, stretched-out blue, carried the remnants of last night’s cold, but the sun was patient. On my way to the India Habitat Centre, I saw that Shanti Path was lined with proud tulips, their soft, plump petals flaunting brilliant hues, almost taunting the roses – roses that had a whole day to their name just a week before. The bougainvilleas bloomed and bled bright pinks and cerise, spilling over walls and fences in unrestrained excess. Spring in Delhi. The nights were still too cold for my Deccan disposition, though not cruel. But the days were mild, the light golden.At the India International Centre, where IHC had booked me a room for the Samanvay 2025 festival, I walked up to the reception. The air inside was thick with old upholstery and polished wood, the scent of expensive aftershave and dry paper. The man at the reception looked at me with a question mark on his face, as if I had wandered into the wrong building, or worse, the wrong world.I smiled at him. He did not smile back.Beyond him, in the lounge, people sat in straight-backed chairs, staring into newspapers or into the distance, their faces frozen in practised seriousness. They looked like they had forgotten how to smile, or maybe had never learned.I turned back to the receptionist.“IHC booked a room for me. Samanvay festival. My name should be on the list.”He flipped through the papers, nodded, completed the formalities.Up in my room, I set my bag down and sat in the chair facing the large mirror. The room was impersonal – the kind of place meant to be passed through, not lived in. I looked at myself and called the organisers. “I’ve reached.”But the question mark face wouldn’t leave my mind. I stood up, walked to the mirror, and studied myself. My shirt was fine, my pants fit well. I looked like myself. What had he seen? Maybe it was the clothes. Maybe the sight of fabric that wasn’t dull and lifeless had unsettled him. Or maybe, after seeing the same uniform every day, my presence had flickered, just for a second, outside of what he expected.By afternoon, Delhi had turned dry and feverish. The sun leaned heavily against the buildings, heat pressing off the pavement. At 2:30 pm, I changed into fresh clothes and draped a Patti – a bright, embroidered mirror-work cloth with cowrie beads, a piece of Banjara tradition – around my neck. A quiet pleasure settled in me as I adjusted it.Lunch first, then the venue.The restaurant was dim, air-conditioned, cool against the city’s gathering heat. I approached the man at the computer.“I’d like to have lunch.”“All seats are occupied, sir. Please wait ten minutes.”But I could see them – empty tables with “Reserved” signs perched on their surfaces like silent gatekeepers.Ten minutes passed. Then 20. Finally, the man removed a “Reserved” board and gestured for me to sit.I ordered my food. The people around me – some in front, some beside – glanced at me, quick, darting looks that slid away when I met them.I knew what they were looking at. Patti.A small flicker of pride stirred in me. They’re seeing it. Maybe for the first time. But pride is a slippery thing. It sat uneasily next to something else – something tighter, something that made my shoulders stiffen. I ate quickly, signed the bill, stood up.As I was leaving, the man who had given me a seat stopped me.“Sir, this cloth – it looks extraordinary. Where is it from? Where can I get one?”I told him. He smiled, nodding appreciatively. A small moment, but I carried it with me.§Morning in Delhi. A sharp blue sky stretched over the city, the kind of blue that only lasts until noon, before the dust and heat rise to cloud it.By 9:30 am, the restaurant was packed, the hum of conversation thick in the air. I walked straight to the man holding a tablet, tapping briskly.“Sir, I’m from Room 13. Came to have breakfast.”He looked up, eyes moving from my face down to my feet.“Sorry, sir. You’re not allowed here.”I frowned. “I have a room here. You can check – Ramesh Karthik Nayak.”“Sorry, sir.”“But why?”“Chappals are not allowed.”For a moment, I thought I had misheard him. “What is allowed?”“Shoes. Or at least sandals.”I looked down. My chappals, the ones that had carried me through city streets and village roads, stood firmly against the polished floor.“I don’t have shoes. I always wear chappals.”“So sorry, sir.”“But I’m already here. Just two idlis. Let me eat and go.”“No, sir. Please leave.”I stepped back, looking around. The room was a sea of crisp shirts, stiff blazers, polished shoes – everything ironed into submission. Ekdam kadak.I was starving. My bowels growled, hollow and sharp, but his words cut deeper.“I have a room here. Please let me in.”“Sorry, sir.”“Where am I supposed to buy shoes now?”“Sorry, sir. Please leave.”I stood there, stomach twisting. A thought rose, uninvited – if my mother, a vegetable vendor, and my father, a farmer, had walked in with me, would they have even been acknowledged?The air in the room thickened.“I can’t go searching for hotels. I don’t know this area. Just let me eat.”“Sir, you can order food in your room.”“Then let me order here. You can send it to Room 13.”“No, sir. Please go and call from your room.”I stared at him. “Array bhai, I am here. Take my order. What’s the need for a phone?”His face twisted – disgust, irritation, a determination to be rid of me. But maybe he saw something in my face too, because reluctantly, he handed me the menu. Not to take my order, but to make me leave the space.I walked back to my room, my hunger now something knotted deeper than my stomach. Two idlis. That was all I had asked for. And yet, it had turned into something else. Something about being seen and being erased at the same time.Later, the organisers intervened, spoke to the manager. The issue was “resolved”.But my appetite never returned. I wanted to leave. I wanted to return to Hyderabad, to a place where my feet were not up for debate.Ramesh Karthik Nayak is the recipient of the Sahitya Akademi Yuva Puraskar in Telugu, making him the first tribal and youngest Telugu author to receive the honour at 26. A bilingual poet and short-story writer, he has six books to his credit, including a poetry collection in English.
