Manuscript Monday: Accidental nudity

Here's a little story about my very first night in India, sleeping in a closet-sized "deluxe" room at the Hotel New Bengal in Mumbai. I spent weeks assembling puritanical traveling outfits to respect Indian cultural modesty, and then ended up flashing my junk to strangers within 24 hours of my arrival. Awesome.


I woke to find my door wide open. The light from the hallway framed the silhouette of a man standing in the threshold. Because my room was the size of a large walk-in closet, this also meant he was standing directly next to my bed.

“Excuse me, madam,” he said. I couldn't see his face, but his voice conveyed the undulating rhythms of an Indian accent. “Excuse me.”

I bolted upright in shock. Unfortunately my sarong, which had become entangled in my legs, did not follow.

My brain delivered conflicting instructions through jet-lagged panic: Turn on the light! Shove him out the door! Cover your boobs! Find a weapon! Secure your money belt! Cover your boobs! Remember that self-defense workshop in college! Scream for help! Dear God, cover your boobs!

I scrambled over the sleeping bag, tugging at the sarong in a vain effort at modesty, accidentally uncovering my rear as I pulled it off my feet while trying to hide my breasts. I’d awoken to find myself the lead actress in a terrible slapstick/porn hybrid.

“What are you… get the… out… shut the door!” I sputtered as I tied the sarong around my chest. I managed to cover my NC-17 parts, but remained scandalously underclad by Indian standards. I leapt off the bed and flipped on the light.

The man continued to stare without expression. “Excuse me, madam,” he said again, as if uncertain whether he had my attention.

“What is it?” I asked, attempting an authoritative tone I hoped conveyed a zero-tolerance policy towards rape and robbery.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought the room was vacant.”

I stared in disbelief. Even if he somehow failed to notice the “Do Not Disturb” sign as he moved it aside to open the door, the sight of me sleeping in bed should have confirmed occupancy.

“What is it?” I said again, as his eyes bounced back and forth from my bare shoulders to my naked thighs to my underwear drip-drying on the air conditioning unit.

“Water, madam,” he said, finally. He pointed down the hall. A puddle had formed in a shallow dent in the floor, clearly fed by a thin stream running out from under my door.

“Oh,” I said, with equal parts relief and confusion. I had no idea why my room was leaking, but I was delighted this man had a legitimate reason to wake me—other than a free international peep show.

I glanced in the bathroom. The faucets were off. Then I noticed my depression sweater drying on the back of the door. Its runoff had generated the hallway spring.

“I’m so sorry,” I told the man as I moved the sweater into the bathroom, which had a drain set in the tiled floor. “I’ll clean up the water in the hall.”

“No, no, no, madam,” he said. “Goodnight. And please lock your door.”

“I will,” I said, even though I thought I already had. I closed the door behind him and turned the lock until I heard it click. I contemplated getting dressed, but the room was uncomfortably hot. Besides, the door was definitely locked now. I laid the sarong over me like a sheet and stared at the whirring ceiling fan until I drifted back to sleep.

Thirty minutes later, I heard the sound of my doorknob turning. I sat up in bed, clutching the sarong to my chest and yelling, “No! No! Shut the door! Do not open the door!”

Light from the hallway flooded into the room. A different Indian man stood in my doorway, staring at me in bed.

“Excuse me, madam,” he said.

I leapt off the bed and slammed the door. He began knocking insistently. “Madam?” I could hear him calling from the other side.

“Hold on!” I yelled. I dug a pair of pants and a shirt from my backpack and got them on as quickly as I could. I reopened the door. The man still had his hand up, mid-knock. He lowered it quickly.

“Excuse me, madam. I thought no one was in the room.”

I stared at him.

“Water, madam,” he said, pointing at the puddle in the hallway. When the first man refused to let me clean it up, I’d assumed he meant he would do it. But there it was, glistening in the hallway with the same telltale trail leading to my door.

“Oh! Yes, I know,” I said to the man, who was staring at my drying bras and underwear. I fought off a deepening sense of déjà vu as I tried to explain. “My laundry was dripping, but it’s OK. I moved it. Another man was here and I thought he said he would clean the water in the hall.”

Nothing in this man’s expression indicated he was following me. “No problem.” I said slowly. “Clothes dry now.”

“OK, madam,” he said with several quick nods. “That is very good.”

“Goodbye,” I said, moving to shut the door.

“Excuse me, madam,” he said again.

I opened the door a crack. “Yes? What is it?”

“You must please lock your door.”

“Thank you,” I said and shut it firmly.

I listened to his footsteps click down the hallway and then I grabbed my towel from the rack in the bathroom. I hated to sacrifice it to the filthy hallway floor, but I was afraid that if I didn’t mop up the puddle, these visits would continue.

I stepped out into the hall, squatted down and sopped up the dirty water. The towel turned a dingy gray. Two Indian businessmen in slacks and button-up shirts passed by, laughing loudly. I wondered if they were laughing at me.

For the third time that night, I secured the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door, closed it and turned the lock until I heard it click. Then I pushed the door handle and watched the door swing open.

Great. Security at its finest.