“Welcome to the Hotel California
Such a lovely place, such a lovely place
Such a lovely face . . .”
I mouthed the words silently, then gave in and sang along in my assumed British baritone as I bolted my bedroom door firmly shut behind me. Radio Mirchi played the top charts every weeknight at 11 p.m. by which time my parents were comfortably ensconced in their beds and woe betide anybody who disturbed my mom’s slumber. She was always going on and on about how light a sleeper she was and any noise, a mouse scurrying over the floor boards; the clink of the glass Coca-Cola and Limca bottles as my brother yanked the refrigerator door open, looking for a midnight snack, jarred her awake.