It happens to me, when I travel abroad and am forced to stay in hotels, to dine alone. Partly because the weariness of the day has burdened my mind and constricted my heart, and partly because I seek to avoid eating with company whose revelry drives me to excesses and the vain, useless consumption of food and drink.

Usually, I eat fruit or some other small amount of dry food.

I have noticed, then, that when I engage in this process, I unconsciously take special care, for instance, in peeling an apple, to such an extent that the whole act turns into an almost complete ritual, an exceptionally solemn one at that. The way the fruit is meticulously washed and then wiped dry, the way it is sliced into small, equal pieces, and how its skin is removed becomes an almost religious ceremony.

I often wonder on those rare occasions when I am introspective why this happens to me, especially since I do not behave this way when I am in my own land and home.

After some time and much thought, I have come to the following conclusion.

The ritualistic process forces me to bestow a certain formality upon my movements, my body's posture, and the actions of my hands, and consequently compels me to feel as though I am in the presence of many other invisible people who are watching me sidelong perhaps, but with a scrutinizing gaze, as if ready to judge and condemn me at my very first slip.

And so, I eat my evening meals abroad with utmost formality. This tricks me into believing I have company. It eases my heavy burden of loneliness. It also softens the torment of nostalgia in my heart. This longing strikes when I remember my homeland and my loved ones. I even miss unfamiliar people from back home. They suddenly feel like my own family. This happens the moment I step into foreign, inhospitable lands.