My heart has a terrible backache.
***The room he’s currently checked in has a really creaky bed, with two bolts missing from its front leg. The wood is old and cracked, and flakes of rotten oak chip out from underneath its body.
It wasn’t a big deal the first night. My heart thought he’d get used to it. But after a few days of awkwardly sleeping on one side of the face and not moving an inch, afraid that even a slight movement to his right would cause the same annoying noise that woke up the neighbours on the floor below yesterday, he has had enough.
“At least it doesn’t reek of moth balls,” he says, thinking of that time he received a room that could have easily passed off as a naphthalene storage. The room was all cramped up and had no ventilation except for a circular hole that was created in the front wall so that the rusty, senile and often non-functioning exhaust fan could be fitted inside.
My heart has gone places, checking in different rooms all around the world. He isn’t the staying-at-one-place-and-following-a-routine kinda guy. He loves to travel, and even if there’s nothing worthwhile to visit in a city, he checks in a hotel because he enjoys the novelty that comes with it.
He loves living in hotel rooms so much that he hasn’t come back home and lived inside me for the past five years.
Every suite has its own ambience, its own aroma. Every bed is different, and every blanket is unique. Every room has a carpeting of its own that makes it stand apart from the others. And my heart loves the sheer feeling of hospitality and homeliness that the elaborate silk curtains and the exotic torchiere lamps bring with them.
It’s 3 in the night and the backache is not letting him sleep. So he opens the side drawer and takes out his travel journal.
‘MY ROOMS’ - He moves his hand on the cover and remembers writing the title with the best attempt at calligraphy he has ever made. The M in ‘ROOMS’ seems a bit off - there’s a blot on it but he doesn’t recall spilling water on the cover page.
He opens the journal and proceeds to turn over the pages slowly, taking time in seeping in the memories that all the hotel suites in his life brought with them -
The Room With The Lilac Walls.
The Room With The Mahogany Furniture.
The Room With The Maple-Printed Mattresses.
The Room With The Gothic Chandeliers.
The Room With The Purple Satin Curtains.
My heart freezes all of a sudden.
The Room With The Purple Satin Curtains.
These words tear open a gunny bag worth millions of emotions in my heart.
Three years ago, my heart had meandered a little too far away from the countryside and was lost in an unknown city. Hoping to explore further, he decided to book a cottage there. The room welcomed him with the warmth of flames that rose from the mantelpiece. It was a white-brick fireplace that somehow seemed to fit perfectly with the boho-style bedroom.
And then, his eyes fell on the purple satin curtains.
They had been drawn in, concealing the window behind them. There was something about the curtains that made him want to keep them that way.
He was unable to understand what it was that made living in the room with the curtains drawn in so damn satisfying. Was it the material? The colour? The texture? The feel of it? The vibe?
Every day after waking up, he would sit in his bed for a while and gaze at the curtains. It was as if he was trapped by the weave of the fabric, and he couldn’t get his eyes off the unparalleled work of art. At times, he would go up to the curtains and caress the satin with his fingers, thinking about the view outside the window.
But he was so enamoured by the warmth and bliss the curtains gave him that he was unable to bring himself to spread them apart and see what was beyond that sprawling, purple veil.
After two months of patiently and unquestioningly suppressing the impulse, he eventually went to the curtains and pulled them aside.
It took him a while to fixate his eye on what was happening outside because the scene was doused in thick, dense, ash-black clouds of smoke spewing out from the three factories that constituted the backdrop of the landscape. After an entire minute, he finally set his eyes on a butcher’s shop that was arranged right in the middle of his field of vision.
In front of the shop was a line of bare-chested men waiting for their turn. He could see the butcher sitting inside through the window of the shop. After a while, the butcher called for the next customer - a decrepit old man with a hunchback, who entered inside and sat opposite the butcher, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.
What my heart saw next would scar him for life.
The butcher took his cimeter knife and buried it into the abdomen of the man. He squirmed as he watched a lush, red shower spurting out of the man’s belly. The butcher later dug his hands deep inside the man, slowly disemboweling him, pulling out his guts loop by loop with his eyes squeezed as his face was eventually drenched in red.
My heart could feel the puke rushing up to his mouth upon witnessing the harrowing scene, but he gulped it down and hastily closed the curtains. He froze, staring at the curtains with eyes almost breaking out of his head that was jammed by a storm of thoughts.
Why?
Why was all this happening?
How was it that the most beautiful curtains he had ever set his eyes on hid something so depraved, so vile, so horrifying to look at?
How was it possible that something that brought him so much joy for such a long time would be a cover for something so despicable to be witnessed by one’s own eyes?
And why did it take him so long to open the curtains and look at the reality in front of him?
It was too late.
He could not bring himself to love the curtains again.
And yet, he could not bring himself to unlove them.
Perhaps he was better off had he not known the truth the curtains hid from him.
“At least it doesn’t reek of moth balls,” he says, thinking of that time he received a room that could have easily passed off as a naphthalene storage. The room was all cramped up and had no ventilation except for a circular hole that was created in the front wall so that the rusty, senile and often non-functioning exhaust fan could be fitted inside.
My heart has gone places, checking in different rooms all around the world. He isn’t the staying-at-one-place-and-following-a-routine kinda guy. He loves to travel, and even if there’s nothing worthwhile to visit in a city, he checks in a hotel because he enjoys the novelty that comes with it.
He loves living in hotel rooms so much that he hasn’t come back home and lived inside me for the past five years.
Every suite has its own ambience, its own aroma. Every bed is different, and every blanket is unique. Every room has a carpeting of its own that makes it stand apart from the others. And my heart loves the sheer feeling of hospitality and homeliness that the elaborate silk curtains and the exotic torchiere lamps bring with them.
It’s 3 in the night and the backache is not letting him sleep. So he opens the side drawer and takes out his travel journal.
‘MY ROOMS’ - He moves his hand on the cover and remembers writing the title with the best attempt at calligraphy he has ever made. The M in ‘ROOMS’ seems a bit off - there’s a blot on it but he doesn’t recall spilling water on the cover page.
He opens the journal and proceeds to turn over the pages slowly, taking time in seeping in the memories that all the hotel suites in his life brought with them -
The Room With The Lilac Walls.
The Room With The Mahogany Furniture.
The Room With The Maple-Printed Mattresses.
The Room With The Gothic Chandeliers.
The Room With The Purple Satin Curtains.
My heart freezes all of a sudden.
The Room With The Purple Satin Curtains.
These words tear open a gunny bag worth millions of emotions in my heart.
Three years ago, my heart had meandered a little too far away from the countryside and was lost in an unknown city. Hoping to explore further, he decided to book a cottage there. The room welcomed him with the warmth of flames that rose from the mantelpiece. It was a white-brick fireplace that somehow seemed to fit perfectly with the boho-style bedroom.
And then, his eyes fell on the purple satin curtains.
They had been drawn in, concealing the window behind them. There was something about the curtains that made him want to keep them that way.
He was unable to understand what it was that made living in the room with the curtains drawn in so damn satisfying. Was it the material? The colour? The texture? The feel of it? The vibe?
Every day after waking up, he would sit in his bed for a while and gaze at the curtains. It was as if he was trapped by the weave of the fabric, and he couldn’t get his eyes off the unparalleled work of art. At times, he would go up to the curtains and caress the satin with his fingers, thinking about the view outside the window.
But he was so enamoured by the warmth and bliss the curtains gave him that he was unable to bring himself to spread them apart and see what was beyond that sprawling, purple veil.
After two months of patiently and unquestioningly suppressing the impulse, he eventually went to the curtains and pulled them aside.
It took him a while to fixate his eye on what was happening outside because the scene was doused in thick, dense, ash-black clouds of smoke spewing out from the three factories that constituted the backdrop of the landscape. After an entire minute, he finally set his eyes on a butcher’s shop that was arranged right in the middle of his field of vision.
In front of the shop was a line of bare-chested men waiting for their turn. He could see the butcher sitting inside through the window of the shop. After a while, the butcher called for the next customer - a decrepit old man with a hunchback, who entered inside and sat opposite the butcher, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.
What my heart saw next would scar him for life.
The butcher took his cimeter knife and buried it into the abdomen of the man. He squirmed as he watched a lush, red shower spurting out of the man’s belly. The butcher later dug his hands deep inside the man, slowly disemboweling him, pulling out his guts loop by loop with his eyes squeezed as his face was eventually drenched in red.
My heart could feel the puke rushing up to his mouth upon witnessing the harrowing scene, but he gulped it down and hastily closed the curtains. He froze, staring at the curtains with eyes almost breaking out of his head that was jammed by a storm of thoughts.
Why?
Why was all this happening?
How was it that the most beautiful curtains he had ever set his eyes on hid something so depraved, so vile, so horrifying to look at?
How was it possible that something that brought him so much joy for such a long time would be a cover for something so despicable to be witnessed by one’s own eyes?
And why did it take him so long to open the curtains and look at the reality in front of him?
It was too late.
He could not bring himself to love the curtains again.
And yet, he could not bring himself to unlove them.
Perhaps he was better off had he not known the truth the curtains hid from him.
***
He closes the journal shut, his eyes red with equal parts anger, angst and anguish. A tear drop trickles down his left eye, leaves his face and lands on the second O in ‘ROOMS’.
‘MY ROOMS’ now has two blots.
He wipes his eyes and sniffs back the lump of sorrow that was clogging his airway. He has made up his mind.
No deluxe suite is perfect for him.
No five-star lounge can ever make him feel whole.
No hotel can ever provide him with the right room.
Because there never was a right room outside of home.
There never was a room righter than home.
He has decided to check out of the hotel in the morning.
He is tired of travelling.
He has decided to return.
He has decided to come back home, after so long.
And I shall wait with my doors open to welcome him back.
He closes the journal shut, his eyes red with equal parts anger, angst and anguish. A tear drop trickles down his left eye, leaves his face and lands on the second O in ‘ROOMS’.
‘MY ROOMS’ now has two blots.
He wipes his eyes and sniffs back the lump of sorrow that was clogging his airway. He has made up his mind.
No deluxe suite is perfect for him.
No five-star lounge can ever make him feel whole.
No hotel can ever provide him with the right room.
Because there never was a right room outside of home.
There never was a room righter than home.
He has decided to check out of the hotel in the morning.
He is tired of travelling.
He has decided to return.
He has decided to come back home, after so long.
And I shall wait with my doors open to welcome him back.
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