The Porter Who Carries Silence

The monsoon had softened into a drizzle, the kind that left the air heavy with salt and jasmine. Outside the magnificent five-star hotel, The Imperial Lotus, the Arabian Sea murmured against the stone promenade, and the Gateway Of India stood like a half-forgotten promise. Inside the hotel, the marble gleamed. Chandeliers hung like frozen rain. The scent of sandalwood polish and imported lilies floated through the lobby.

Shankar More stood by the brass luggage cart, spine straight, eyes lowered—not out of shame, but habit. His uniform was crisp: navy blue with gold piping, a name tag that read “S. More,” and shoes polished to a mirror. He was now in his mid-forties and had worked here for seventeen years. Long enough to know which guests tipped in dollars, which in rupees, and which in silence.

A white couple in their thirties entered — from their accent, likely from America, he thought. The woman wore a linen jumpsuit, white as coconut flesh, and oversized sunglasses that made her look like a film poster. The man had a blazer slung over his shoulder, his shirt open at the collar, revealing a gold chain and a sunburn. They didn’t look at Shankar. Their eyes scanned the lobby like it was a museum, and he was part of the architecture.

Shankar wheeled their Louis Vuitton suitcases toward the elevator, careful not to let the wheels squeak. The lift attendant, Rafiq, nodded at him—a gesture that meant nothing and everything. In the mirrored elevator, Shankar caught his own reflection: thinning hair, a crease between his brows that hadn’t been there when he started. He looked like a man who had waited too long for something unnamed.

On the twelfth floor, the couple stepped out. The woman asked, “Is there a good place for cocktails?” Her voice was smooth, rehearsed.

Shankar replied in English, “The Sea Lounge, ma’am. Overlooking the harbour.” She smiled, briefly. It was not for him.

He returned to the lobby. A businessman from Delhi was arguing with the concierge about a late checkout. His voice was sharp, like broken glass. Shankar had carried his bags earlier—heavy, leather, the kind that smelled of power. The man had not acknowledged him. He had been on a call, discussing an IPO and board meetings, his words full of acronyms that meant nothing to Shankar.

At 3:15, she entered. She wore a Kanjeevaram saree the colour of monsoon clouds, her silver hair pulled into a low bun. Her bangles sang gently as she walked. Shankar recognized her instantly—Mrs. Sunanda Gokhale. She was a regular for many years. She had been coming to The Imperial Lotus every week since her husband passed away. Not as a guest, but to sit in the Sea Lounge, sip filter coffee, and watch the sea.

Years ago, she had asked Shankar about his family. Not out of politeness, but genuine interest. When she learned his son was preparing for his SSC exams, she had sent a stack of old textbooks through the concierge. No note. Just kindness.

“Namaskar Shankar,” she said, her voice soft but steady.

Shankar bowed slightly. “Namaskar, madam.”

She smiled, and for a moment, the cold lobby felt warmer. She walked toward the lounge, her steps slow but deliberate.

At 4:00, the rain returned—harder this time. Guests rushed in, umbrellas dripping, voices raised. Shankar stood by the door, offering towels, opening umbrellas, receiving wet gratitude. A child handed him a half-eaten éclair. He smiled and took it, though he would not eat it.

He watched the sea through the glass. It was grey, restless. Like something remembering its own sorrow.

His thoughts drifted to his last trip to Konkan, two years ago. The train had rattled through mango orchards and rice paddies, and when he arrived, his mother had made Solkadhi and Bhakri. That evening, he had sat by the well with his childhood friend Ravi, watching fireflies blink like forgotten stars. They had laughed about school days, about the time they’d stolen mangoes from the temple priest’s garden and been chased barefoot through the mud.

The memory made him smile. But then he remembered the next morning—his father, thinner than before, coughing into a handkerchief, refusing to see a doctor. “It’s just age,” he had said. But Shankar had seen the fear in his eyes. He had left the village with a promise to return soon. He hadn’t.

A car pulled up. Shankar came back from his thoughts in to the present. A guest stepped out—tall, impatient, in a tailored suit that repelled the rain. Shankar straightened, pushed aside the ache in his chest, and opened the umbrella.

“Welcome to The Imperial Lotus, sir,” he said.

At 6:30, his shift ended. He didn’t leave through the grand lobby, where the chandeliers glowed and the guests lingered over wine. He walked to the rear of the hotel, through the staff corridor where the walls were plain and the air smelled of starch and soap.

Outside, the rain had stopped. The pavement steamed. He walked past the kitchens, past the laundry room, past the staff gate where the guard nodded without seeing.

He took the train from Churchgate for the hour long trip back home, standing by the door, letting the wind slap his face. The day raced through his mind - He thought of Mrs. Gokhale, of the child with the éclair, of the couple who hadn’t seen him. He thought of the hotel, glowing behind him like a palace of forgetting.

And he thought, not for the first time, that he was a shadow stitched to the edge of someone else’s dream—a quiet seam that held the silk together, never seen, never named. Tomorrow he would be back again, standing by the cart, smiling at strangers, lifting bags heavier than his own worries.

Tonight, he would reach home, eat quietly, and rest his feet. There was nothing to look forward to except EMIs, school fees, the rising price of onions, and the polite nods exchanged with guests who never asked his name. His life moved like the local train—predictable, crowded, and always running. But for now, he let the wind carry his thoughts, just for a few stops, before the cycle began again.

He walks the edge of others’ grace,
A nameless thread in silken space.
No dreams await, just debts and rain
A smile, a nod, then back again.