Elysium

 The room is the epitome of artistry and architecture, a perfect blend of both, just enough to provide an ethereal aura to it.

The king-size bed, soft as cotton, is covered in a nice rufous, silken sheet and the memory foam pillows, in their crimson-lighted covers, were ideal to provide the perfect sleep. The gleaming black headboard, with complicated filigrees of gold and silver twining, gives a touch of royalty to the bed. On the plumbeous-ashy walls hang paintings of the best artists from around the world. The infamous painting of the coral black hors on an ivory-white canvas by George Stubbs hangs above the votive lights placed on a mahogany table. The table in itself is a magnificent piece of art. With its curved knees and intricate carvings on its skirt, it defines grandeur. Just to the right of it is a glass door with white frames lading to the 200 squared-feet balcony. On the parapet, lying in neat rows, are the most beautiful flowers arranged in the perfect gradient. They start with primroses that remind one of the throbbing blues of Islam and blend into the chestnut purple clematis'. Painted the green of dragon wings, the grass provide a perfect border for the flowers. The rug is a plush rusty orange, with Dutch-madder-coloured borders. Your feet sink into the plumose Turkish rug and its feathers tickle your feet in the most oddly-satisfying way. A zephyr as cool as an ocean breeze and as soft as a baby’s breath ruffles your hair.

You admire the gentle lilt of the sea waves in the distance and fall in love with the orb of molten gold as it kisses the horizon, with a promise to be back the next day. As the light fades and the stars shimmer like fairy lights, the world around you comes to life. From the balcony below yours, launches a glissando of notes; the authentic German zither calms your soul and you watch the world come alive. The swimming pool lights up like a giant turquoise. A tiny figure somersaults into the pool with a splash. You take a deep breath and smell the ocean breeze, stronger than ever. Yet underneath it, you can faintly make out the faintest aroma of the delicacies being cooked in the restaurant. The licorice in the air is almost palpable and the giddy smell of sucreries pulls you towards them. You leave your room, as if pulled by some implacable force and advance towards the restaurant.

In the elevator the scent of mignonette envelops you, probably left by its previous occupant, it sticks to your body. The elevator opens with a characteristic ‘clink’ and the splendour of the restaurant before you blows your mind. You walk through the tantalizing smells of luscious marinated meats and zesty sauces. Tables to seat every number surround you and you find one in the corner for yourself. Even with the overpowering smell of the food, you can still detect the faint smell of wood and leather. You are served with every meal on the buffet, beginning with a perky kiwi juice and a fruit salad. Next come the peppery sauces with fried lotus stems; starchy, they spice up your taste buds. They are a perfect blend of spicy and sweet, with a tinge of lemony flavour to them. Crunchy at first and floppy later, they are heavenly with the sauces. Next comes the wild boar, fragrant and succulent. Along with it come three flavours of wine; Cabernet Franc, red as a chest of rubies, chortles out of the bottle. Gamay and Mourvèdre follow, with their tangy berry flavour. 

Even with your stomach full, you rejoice the arrival of the desserts: ambrosial cupcakes with corrugated fox-red icing on a pale café-au-lait base with butter blond sprinkles…You can never forget the feeling of the cupcake melting in your mouth, its powdery crumbs lining your lips… and the oddly satisfying feel as your fingers sink into the squishy cream as u take another bite… AHA!

With your stomach overflowing with delicacies, you walk along the garden. The air is thick with the saccharine scent of the night-blooming jasmines and the silvery glow of the moonlight. The brumous night is sanguine and beautiful; the silence is ruffled by the tinkle of the fountains; and the feathery whispers of the rustling leaves is faint like the sound of someone riffling through a pack of cards. You plop down on a bench and give yourself away to the night, and let the day, the hotel and the peace sink in.

-Heer Visaria