Mohan Lodge

It was one fine morning when I woke up and decided to visit my birthplace. No one in my relation or acquaintances lived there anymore, but this fact was of no significance to me when the desire was so strong that it reminded me of The Beatles’ I Want You. Then I got ready and went to work. My work involved nothing more than making presentation and number files whose significance was so short lived that even a bug’s life would seem like a decade in front of it.

– My pet Dog in my hometown died yesterday. I need to take leave for 7 days.
– Okay. When do you leave?
– Tomorrow.
– Okay. Make the presentation today.
– Okay.

I did not make the presentation. Also, just in case you are wondering, Dog did not die. It was safe and sound. It was a dog whose name was Dog.

I packed my bags, logged on to the Indian Railways Online Ticketing Facility, did not get the ticket and therefore, unpacked my bags and went to work the next day.

– You are supposed to be on leave.
– I did not make the presentation. I will prepare it today.
– Okay.
– I am leaving tomorrow.
– Okay. Send me the number file today.

I packed my bags, logged on to the Indian Railways Online Ticketing Facility, did not get the ticket and therefore went to work the next day.

– You are supposed to be on leave.
– I did not make the number file. I will prepare it today.
– Okay.
– I am leaving tomorrow.
– Okay. Send me the report of the number file.
– Okay.

I did not pack my bags because they were already packed, logged on to the Indian Railways Online Ticketing Facility, got the ticket and therefore went to the railways station the next day.

It was an overnight journey and I was sharing the Side Lower Window Seat with a fat man with a fat book and a fat moustache with no hair on the head. While sleeping, he kicked my face. I sat up, took his book, went to the end of the aisle and into the WC, dropped it in toilet, walked back sleepily to the seat, and slept.

The train reached the town. It was a small dry town in the dry state of Chhattisgarh. I asked a cycle-rickshaw person to take me to a good hotel. He took me to Mohan Lodge. There was an old man in a yellow vest with holes sitting at the reception. Behind him, on the wall, was written in golden letters

WE COME TO M HAN HOTEL

– What is that?
– Welcome to Mohan Hotel.
– The name outside is Mohan Lodge.
– Did you ever see Hotel California written anywhere in any of the stage performances by Eagles?
– No.

He knew about Eagles – This old man in an old tattered vest running a lodge in a secluded town where the most English song you would hear would be the FIFA World Cup theme song by Ricky Martin.

– Do you want a room or not?
– Yes.
– Are you alone?
– Yes.
– Okay. One single room on the 1st floor. Fill this register. No girls allowed.
– Yes Sir.
– Why did you call me Sir?
– Just like that.
– Do I look like someone whom you can call anything just like that?
– Sorry.

In the register, instead of the usual Name, Address, From, Where, No. of Persons and Signature, there was this –

Surprisingly, it was written in my hand-writing. I wrote these –

The Old Man took the register, looked at it, looked at me and gave me the key to Room No. 1101.

– But you said on 1st floor. The no. indicates 11th.
– Did you see how many floors are there while entering?
– No.
– (He snatched the key and) Go out, look at the building and come back again.

The building had just 1 floor above the ground one. I came back.

– But then the no. could have been 101.
– A lot of things could have been a lot different than how they are. When you decide to live somewhere, first look at it deeply, understand it, get sensitized about it and then give yourself to it – whether that ‘it’ is a hotel or a person’s memory – and when you have done so, do not question about how it should have been.
– Key?
– Take.

When I opened the old withered door, a strong cold wind blew into the face. It was not a cool breeze but a cold wind. There was snow all over the floor. It was a large, very large room with Victorian wood-work and high-rise chairs. I immediately stepped out of it and went to the reception. There was no one. I came out of the hotel and looked around. Not a single soul in the vicinity. With no other option at hand except the key, I went back to the room and was again greeted by the cold wind.

On the right yellow-ish wall, in big blue letters, were written these words –

I stared at the wall for a while when something sharp touched my feet. Something actually pecked. I looked down to find a little four-legged bird with a sharp beak. It was actually a small version of Buckbeak – a creature in the Harry Potter series. I picked him up and petted it before it spread its wide wings and flew away and around the room.

The room was extremely cold and I had a sudden urge to pee. So I went to the washroom and as I lifted the toilet seat, I found a book lying there in the water. I peed anyway and flushed it. The book went into the hole and then re-emerged within seconds.

On the bed were kept three white canvas sheets, oil colors, paint-brushes, oil palette, an easel and a wooden board. I washed my face and went out to search for the hospital. Still no one was there at the reception. There was a cycle-rickshaw standing outside. I went to the rickshaw-puller and before I could say anything, he

– You want to go to Bhadoria Hospital?
– Yes. How do you know?
– Hop in.

He took me to an old yellow colored dilapidated building with trees growing out of its wall.

– Go inside. I will wait.
– Where? This is in ruins.
– Go inside, Sir.

He emphasized on the ‘Sir’. I opened the iron grill and went inside. It was completely dark when suddenly something hit me on the back of my head. When I woke up, I was lying next to my mother on a hospital bed. I tried to get up but could not. Then came a nurse and she picked me up. She,

– It was good that you were near the hospital. Who goes out in procession in the last month of pregnancy? And that too a communist one. Didn’t you want your child to be alive?
– I want everyone’s child to be alive. I do not want any mother to see the face of her dead sons and daughters. And therefore, we must change the system that we have so wrongly established and call it society – Fucking system made by a handful of well-off creatures.

I was on the verge of going crazy with everything that was happening. I had turned so small that I was in the hands of a nurse for whom I would have had hots a while back. So I started to cry.

– Now take your crying kid. He needs to sleep now.

My mother took me in her arms and I felt as if I smoked up 3 rolls of purest weed. It was so relaxing and peaceful and relaxing and calm, to be held by one’s mother with all her care and love. I slowly closed my eyes.

I was suddenly woken up by the Old Man. I was lying on the bed next to the painting materials.

– Now that your work is done, leave.
– I have my train day after tomorrow.
– In life, never overstay anywhere once your objective is met, whether it’s a hotel or this world.

I was in no mood to argue with the sermonizing crack-head.
– Fine. I’ll leave.
– But first you have to paint.
– Wait, what?
– You mentioned 3 in the No. of Paintings column. Now you will have to paint as the cost of the stay.
– I thought you had asked how many paintings I have painted.
– I guess you are a novice painter and therefore you keep on bragging about it at every chance you get. Never boast and never assume.
– Okay, give me 5 hours. I will paint.

I painted 3 paintings, handed over to him and as I was about to leave the hotel, the Old Man

– I have something for you (and handed me a USB Pen Drive)
– What’s in it?

He smiled.

I rushed to the station, bought a General Class ticket back to Mumbai and hopped in on the train. Next day, I reached my home, threw myself on the bed and slept for 7 hours. When I woke up, I decided to plug in the Pen Drive. There were 4 files in it – 1 Presentation File, 1 Excel Sheet, 1 Word Document and 1 Image File. I opened them in sequence and found that all my pending work was there in the first three files. When I opened the image file, I found the photograph of Dog’s dead body. Below it was written –

With every mistake we must surely be learning
Still my guitar gently weeps.