t h e   s h e r a t o n

Millions long for immortality who don't know what to do on a rainy afternoon
Susan Ertz

We sit under 4 fake palms in a sort of cross between 5-star hotel coffee shop and Kubla Khan atrium. The ITC Grand Maratha Sheraton is big, cold and expensive, just as the name suggests. I presume the only reason people come here is its proximity to the international airport (just opposite) and the fact that it is impersonal enough to keep one away from the reality of street urchins and potholes and muck that start at the gates and will, I promise, pursue you through your journeys around the city.

In some time the Lebanese belly dancer makes her appearance. I've never seen a performance before, and I presume thats what the hotel was banking on anyway. What could have been one of the more erotic dances of the exotic east has been reduced to a smiling white insepid girl with a sort of Tutankhamen meets biblical shepherd staff in her hand and streaks of pink in her hair.

Trailing red, she dutifully engages the men at each table. Theres a hushed silence to my left: six pairs of beady Arab eyes ignore their muttabbal and stare; the Indian in front waves his arms and curls his wrists skywards; and the inevitable Japanese up ahead pop out a point-and-shoot and a flash goes off, again.

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