Slowly, my things will fold themselves into neat stacks and will scurry around till they form a tight little circle on the bed.

My socks and the sweatshirt that smells of hay will dart out of the wooden cupboard. The soap jar with its interesting blue bubbles and the bag of toothpaste and sunscreen will edge towards each other.

While I sleep in the middle of white blankets, my things will murmur about their past week away from home. They'll move away from new places, which had begun to grow on them, to the comfort of familiarity.

Tomorrow morning I'll wake up and go, taking my neatly packed things with me. The room will be left behind, bearing no traces of my time there.

There are warm white towels all lined up in the closet. The room smells of lemons and flowers.

The clothes are ironed and left on the table, crisp and in brown paper bags.

There's a ash tray on the table, with a match box and a stubby candle. It's quite the nifty little package. In the dark powerless room, people smoke cigarettes and light candles to make shadow animals on the wall.

There's always a sound in quiet rooms, like that of a faraway train. It doesn't intrude into your thoughts. It just melts away into the background of your space, watching you just be. It speaks only when spoken to.

The marble floor sees an upside down version of my day. It looks at me walk back and forth; first a little gingerly because of the cold tiles and then more confidently. It watches me look happier and shinier than I might be feeling. It's probably from the glow of the yellow lights. Either way it isn't a bad thing.

White washed hotel rooms that make no sound except for the dull hum of the air conditioning.

Last night, I woke up and the room was freezing. I jumped around for a while trying to figure out the AC control and the fan switches. It's a cruel hotel room trick when the switch of the fan is hidden behind the TV. I woke up this morning and realized that there was a swan shaped towel at the foot of the bed that I hadn't noticed before. The head of the swan appeared dislocated.

I lie under the multi coloured blankets for a while, willing myself to get up and face the day. I bury my face deeper into a sea of pillows and ignore the alarm that dutifully makes the bed quake.

There is a hush outside even though it isn't very early, and I look out and see a few children going to school; girls with oiled plaits and checked skirts. They link their arms through each other's and chirp loudly. If I was in a cheesy TV show, I would have waved at them and they would have grinned and cheered and waved back. They'd also be rosy cheeked and this would be Sikkim, but it isn't.

I sit on my bed and collect my thoughts but as of this minute they are all blurred because of sleep and the idea of a trying day.

The alarm goes off for the third time and the towel swan stirs in an uneasy quiver.