The Ceiling Fan

“This my house”, said the middle-aged man. It was an old colonial house in the district of Sao Tomé, dating back to the time Goa was still Portuguese. I looked up to the interesting façade. The large wooden front door stood wide open. “This my mother”, pointed to the left as we entered the house. ”She eighty”. I greeted the old woman who sat hunched on a single bed with a nod and a smile. It was unlikely she would understand English. “My mother and I live downstairs” the man said. “Guest room upstairs very, big, you see, only 250 rupees. I have nice letter from New Zealand lady, I show you. Here toilet, very clean”. I nodded in agreement it was indeed the cleanest squat toilet I had seen in India.

The man gestured me to go ahead and climb the rickety stairs that lead straight to the bedroom door. It was a huge room with two narrow metal-framed single beds that looked like hospital beds from of a World War I movie set. A ceiling fan hung overhead. I pushed with my hand on the mattress, checking its comfort. There was no give left. A small TV stood triumphant on a small table in the centre of the room as evidence that modernity had arrived.

“No door”, said the man pointing at the empty doorframe. I hadn’t noticed yet and was glad he pointed it out. It meant that the room was in open connection with the downstairs where the man and his old mother lived, slept and most likely snored. The man noticed my puzzled look and turned around to look up to the ceiling fan. “No door ‘coz then people not hang themselves from fan” he explained. My hand instinctively rushed to my mouth to contain my laughter. “Thank you”, I said politely once I had composed myself. “ I want to check out some other rooms, maybe I come back”.