It was an incredibly serene landscape, but touched in places by tints of sadness. The hills in the
distance were sheathed in mellow gold in the magnanimous rays of the westering sun. Some
departing rays fell on deserted buildings, filling up the cracks and crevices, and also on three young
men, in their mid–twenties, driving though this landscape in a secondhand Mercedes.
“The GPS has abruptly stopped. How will we find the hotel?” panicked Raghav, whose idea it was to
explore this wilderness, where it was said that an enterprising builder had turned an old, deserted,
and decrepit building into a hotel, which intrigued everyone, because of all sorts of rumors
surrounding it.
“You all know that I am geographically challenged. The only thing that I know is that this was the
most ridiculous idea one ever came across. Coming all the way from Delhi to this godforsaken place
with such a preposterous name!” Shivam mocked.
“Look, look, there it is! “Raghav yelled, highly excited.
Batty Bar and Barbeque
Rooms also available.
These words shone before them from a huge tree trunk, with an arrow pointing toward a deserted
pathway.
“Incredible! It is on a deserted pathway!” Shivam, sitting on the passenger seat, scoffed.
“Come on, it is only a signboard,” said Raghav, steering the car toward the pathway. Just half a
kilometer away, there was an old and almost decaying bridge, appearing on the brink of collapse.
“You know… this bridge reminds me of that Scottish Bridge, from wh ich dogs keep jumping.”
Raghav remarked, eyes on the road ahead.
“Are you really crazy? Which bridge?” Hemant asked from behind.
“No, I am not crazy. I have heard that the moment the dogs reach it, they are seized by a sudden
maniacal energy, and before their owners can stop them, they jump off the parapet.”
“This Raghav has gone crazy, hope you are not planning to jump off this bridge. Your instincts are
also those of a canine,” Shivam said with a huge guffaw, as the bridge clattered under the wheels.
“Go and google. Many dogs have jumped to their death on the rocks in the valley,” Raghav said with
a shudder, relieved that they had crossed the bridge.
As they went further, they came across many pedestrians looking at them with incomprehensible
expressions and a mammoth truck rumbled past swirling clouds of dust.
And then it suddenly sprung before them like a mirage, almost like a humongous beast. “You know…
it reminds me of a fossilized monster that might suddenly shake itself out of its stupor, with a lusty
roar and pounce on us,” said Raghav, awe dripping from every word.
“Hats off to your fertile imagination. Not for nothing are you an epic raconteur,” Shivam quipped with
an eloquent grimace.
“To me, it is almost like a poem of loss, with such startling poignant clarity,” said Hemant, who
prided himself on being a poet of sorts.
“Oh no! I am pathetically caught between a poet and a storyteller, what do I do?” groaned Shivam.
“Just sing, dude! You are a singer, so just sing! Sing away your doubts and your blues,” Raghav
implored.
“Let us hear you sing Rambling Gambling Willie… Ride, Willie, ride . We also love Bob Dylan,
come on, Shivam. Come on!” Hemant seconded with gusto.
“And it’s ride, Willie, ride …
Roll, Willie, roll…
Wherever you are a-gambling now nobody knows…”
“What a genius of a man!” Shivam remarked, stopping midway in the song.
“Who? Bob Dylan?”
“Both.”
“Both, who?”
“Bob Dylan and the builder.”
“Huh?”
“The builder has managed to arouse the curiosity of many, making it their favorite haunt. Imagine
hitting upon such a brilliant marketing strategy, going all out spreading rumors about it,” said Shivam.
“No, it really is haunted, you know,” Raghav persisted, looking around warily.
“Haunted! My foot!” Shivam snapped.
“Hush! Can you hear the flapping of a bird’s wings?” Raghav asked warily.
“Your hyperactive wings of imagination have started flapping,” Shivam remarked with a bodyshaking
guffaw.
“Cut the crap, will you?” Raghav remarked, glaring.
“It just seems to have forgotten to wind its clock. Caught in a time-warp,” Shivam mumbled.
A few paces away from the hotel stood an old and ramshackle car shining with the deepening stain of
rust; burnt sienna. Next to it was a very old banyan tree, a mammoth giant with what looked like
intimidating dreadlocks. They were about to park the car next to the tree, when the guard manning the
gate of the hotel asked them for the key so that he could park it in the underground parking.
“Look, look at the ancient, ramshackle car. Does it not remind you of a bleeding beast? There are
stories even about this burnt car,” Raghav said, a hushed reverence in his voice .
“I am in no mood to listen to stories. I am famished, “Shivam remarked, patting his stomach.
“Oh what a glutton, you are!” Hemant and Raghav piped up, glaring at Shivam.
“GLUTTON, GLUTTON, GLUTTON!” they jeered.
***
The veils of sunset slowly hid the hues of the evening sky and soon night fell. A gale trumpeted and
shrilled through the trees, and a tiny robin puffed up its feathers, bracing itself to rehearse its autumnal
dirge.
All of them trooped into the hotel, at once struck by its gothic ambience. Corpses of bats hung from
the walls, their eyes shining in the dark, sending shivers down their spines. Fake cobwebs, hoary in
the moonlight, made eyes at them.
“Sit! Salute! Rest! Lie! Down! Fetch!” Someone was training a dog. The surroundings echoed with
boisterous sounds and loud guffaws.
“Something looks fishy. I can smell it,” Raghav said, sniffing.
“You have the nose of an expert sniffer! You can even smell an explosive from a mile, I bet!” Shivam
quipped, a merry twinkle in his eyes.
“You are calling me a dog! A sniffer dog!” Raghav retorted in mock anger.
“Yes, a sniffer dog!” Shivam said with an impish smile and Raghav huffed toward a sofa in the ornate
reception area and slumped down on it.
Hemant and Shivam also joined him there, absolutely intrigued by the weird curios and figurines
adorning the mantelpiece and shelves. There were many paintings on the walls and Shivam, also a
promising artist, besides being a singer, was mesmerized by two reproductions hanging from the wall
in front of them. Francisco Goya’s iconic painting, Saturn devouring his Son and a reproduction of
Rembrandt’s Portrait of an Old Man in Red .
He suddenly shivered.
He did not tell the others, but had a queer sensation looking at the old man; his eyes seemed to be
blinking, and from the frame of the other painting, Saturn appeared to be eyeing him with interest.
“You know… Rembrandt is a master of light and shadow, and his paintings are known for their
exceptional realism,” Shivam blurted out, trying to cover his panic and furtively wiping beads of
sweat from his forehead.
“Look, how real the old man looks!” he added, turning back to cast one more look, before heading for
the dining space, where a sumptuous buffet was laid out.
“You know, Shivam, you are eating with the frantic speed of one who fears that apocalypse is just
round the corner,” Raghav pulled his leg, and Hemant also chipped in.
“And you remind me of a famished sheep, eating away gluttonously, apprehensive of the advent of bad
weather. Kal ho Na ho, ” Shivam shot back, a mischievous grin trying to push away the lines of
apprehension on his face.
Soon, amid a lot of backslapping bonhomie, they moved into a huge room where the hotel staff had
already put an extra bed as requested by them. A lot of boisterous banter followed and not much later,
they drifted away to sleep, leaving the night to its clandestine ruminations.
“Hush, do you hear something?” Raghav sat upright in bed.
Crunch, crunch, crunch …
All three of them heard it.
Crunch, crunch, crunch …
The sound became louder.
“You have paid for all these sounds, dammit. That too, a king’s ransom! Now you two listen to these
weird sounds and let me sleep in peace,” Shivam remarked, gritting his teeth, and pulling a coverlet
over himself.
Crunch, crunch, crunch …
“Hear? Don’t you hear it?” Raghav asked, all aquiver.
“Dammit, I am not very keen to be privy to silly bovine conversation. If you had your way, you would
not even allow the cows to chew the cud in peace,” Shivam mumbled from under the coverlet.
Suddenly there were shouts and closing and opening of doors.
What was up?
No one knew the answer, only the banging of doors became louder. On a sudden impulse, Hemant
went out of the room to investigate.
“You know, I heard someone whispering in the lobby that an entire wedding party of twenty people
who had booked ten rooms is missing,” Hemant said, on coming back to the room.
“But just a couple of hours back I saw many of them running around in confusion, carrying their suits
and unironed shirts, yelling and asking each other for something or the other. Yes, I remember even
seeing the bridegroom just back from the beauty parlor looking very sheepish, and someone and
carrying his colorful turban,” Shivam said throwing away the coverlet and sitting on his bed, looking
absolutely irritated.
“And now all of them have disappeared!” Hemant said emphatically while Raghav tried to rein in his
shivers.
“Have you lost it completely?” Shivam asked, disdain writ all over his face.
“But that is what everyone is whispering,” Hemant insisted.
“We paid for all this, remember? The hotel is hugely popular because of its image as a haunted one.
This is a marketing strategy, and we all know it,” Shivam reiterated.
Weird sounds continued to emanate from different directions; they could even hear the lively beat of
drums. “The marriage party has disappeared, only the sound of the drumbeats remains! All of you
have gone bonkers!” Shivam had now started enjoying the rampant quirkiness.
There was suddenly an angry chorus of shouts as if a rookery had been disturbed, followed by a high
level of spirited conviviality .
They walked up to the window and peered out.
Just outside the window, under a straggle of trees, they glimpsed a veiled figure. Shivam pulled the
others toward the door and they stealthily walked out toward the clump of trees, ears pricked to the
whistling and skirling of the wind, restless beating of the branches and conspiratorial lisping of the
tangled undergrowth and forked branches. A huge tree almost fell down on them, and they shrieked in
horror, followed by the utterance of a queer mélange of ‘thank gods’, in three different tones and
tenors.
On hearing footsteps, the figure slowly turned his neck backwards, which swiveled like a clockwork
toy. Was fantasy playing tricks? Had imagination gone into overdrive? There was a collective gasp
from everyone.
It was as if the Rembrandt figure had stepped out of the frame on the wall in the reception area. He
was old and bearded, with knotted hands, which quivered visibly. In the moonlight, every strand of
his beard appeared to have a life of its own. His walking stick stood loyally against a tree.
“Did you see a Golden Retriever somewhere?” His voice was a hoarse whisper, a voice which did
not know whether it was coming or going.
“No, we saw no dog, but just heard someone training his dog.” Shivam answered, trying not to flinch
at what he glimpsed strewn all around the old man.
The old man’s sibilant hiss, an ‘Oh’, reached Shivam through a surrealistic haze as he stood
dumbstruck, his eyes refusing to leave what appeared to be tangle of bones around him. Raghav stood
next to him, his face distorted, and teeth chattering, almost unstrung by hideous fear. Hemant clutched
him with a white knuckled intensity, his eyes almost popping out.
“Wonder if he jumped to his death from that decaying bridge we saw on the way?” Shivam’s sneering
whisper fell like molten lava in Raghav’s ears.
Crunch, crunch, crunch …
It was the old man munching away. Soon he slipped into a drowsy, ecstatic, and satiated languor.
Suddenly the golden retriever appeared on the scene, tongue lolling and tail wagging. The old man,
throwing off his lassitude, hurled himself at it with a squeal of delight, wiping away at his mouth with
the sleeve of his gown.
He patted him lovingly, kissing him all over, drenching him in blood-splattered endearments and then
peered closely in the direction of the three. The dog headed toward the bones, its eyes gleaming with
a maniacal glint.
The wind continued tearing and wailing spasmodically through the skeletal branches and poking the
gnarled tree trunks with its airy breath. The ancient banyan tree at the entrance of the hotel, shook its
dreadlocks with a mind- numbing vehemence. As the threesome watched in numb horror, the edifice
of the hotel crumbled and vanished from sight.
The old man flailed his arms, shouting “More! More! More!” his shivering hands groping for his
walking stick.
Finding it, he picked it up, and with the golden retriever following him, started walking toward the
rusted car.
Thud, thud, thud…
The walking stick seemed to be in love with the uncanny noises it was making. The threesome
followed them as though in a somnambulistic trance.
Soon all of them had reached the decrepit car, climbed into it through the rusted window, and merged
with its innards. The moonlight fell on the decaying car, giving it an absolutely ghastly hue. Some
echoes of shouts and screams kept resounding in the wilderness.
“Sit, salute, rest, lie down, fetch…” And a chorus of cats, owls, bats, and dogs building up a
threnody…
Crunch, crunch, crunch …
Some hidden monster was still crunching away… munching away… A few paces away lay
something, probably a turban, and atop it, sat a robin singing its autumnal dirge .
distance were sheathed in mellow gold in the magnanimous rays of the westering sun. Some
departing rays fell on deserted buildings, filling up the cracks and crevices, and also on three young
men, in their mid–twenties, driving though this landscape in a secondhand Mercedes.
“The GPS has abruptly stopped. How will we find the hotel?” panicked Raghav, whose idea it was to
explore this wilderness, where it was said that an enterprising builder had turned an old, deserted,
and decrepit building into a hotel, which intrigued everyone, because of all sorts of rumors
surrounding it.
“You all know that I am geographically challenged. The only thing that I know is that this was the
most ridiculous idea one ever came across. Coming all the way from Delhi to this godforsaken place
with such a preposterous name!” Shivam mocked.
“Look, look, there it is! “Raghav yelled, highly excited.
Batty Bar and Barbeque
Rooms also available.
These words shone before them from a huge tree trunk, with an arrow pointing toward a deserted
pathway.
“Incredible! It is on a deserted pathway!” Shivam, sitting on the passenger seat, scoffed.
“Come on, it is only a signboard,” said Raghav, steering the car toward the pathway. Just half a
kilometer away, there was an old and almost decaying bridge, appearing on the brink of collapse.
“You know… this bridge reminds me of that Scottish Bridge, from wh ich dogs keep jumping.”
Raghav remarked, eyes on the road ahead.
“Are you really crazy? Which bridge?” Hemant asked from behind.
“No, I am not crazy. I have heard that the moment the dogs reach it, they are seized by a sudden
maniacal energy, and before their owners can stop them, they jump off the parapet.”
“This Raghav has gone crazy, hope you are not planning to jump off this bridge. Your instincts are
also those of a canine,” Shivam said with a huge guffaw, as the bridge clattered under the wheels.
“Go and google. Many dogs have jumped to their death on the rocks in the valley,” Raghav said with
a shudder, relieved that they had crossed the bridge.
As they went further, they came across many pedestrians looking at them with incomprehensible
expressions and a mammoth truck rumbled past swirling clouds of dust.
And then it suddenly sprung before them like a mirage, almost like a humongous beast. “You know…
it reminds me of a fossilized monster that might suddenly shake itself out of its stupor, with a lusty
roar and pounce on us,” said Raghav, awe dripping from every word.
“Hats off to your fertile imagination. Not for nothing are you an epic raconteur,” Shivam quipped with
an eloquent grimace.
“To me, it is almost like a poem of loss, with such startling poignant clarity,” said Hemant, who
prided himself on being a poet of sorts.
“Oh no! I am pathetically caught between a poet and a storyteller, what do I do?” groaned Shivam.
“Just sing, dude! You are a singer, so just sing! Sing away your doubts and your blues,” Raghav
implored.
“Let us hear you sing Rambling Gambling Willie… Ride, Willie, ride . We also love Bob Dylan,
come on, Shivam. Come on!” Hemant seconded with gusto.
“And it’s ride, Willie, ride …
Roll, Willie, roll…
Wherever you are a-gambling now nobody knows…”
“What a genius of a man!” Shivam remarked, stopping midway in the song.
“Who? Bob Dylan?”
“Both.”
“Both, who?”
“Bob Dylan and the builder.”
“Huh?”
“The builder has managed to arouse the curiosity of many, making it their favorite haunt. Imagine
hitting upon such a brilliant marketing strategy, going all out spreading rumors about it,” said Shivam.
“No, it really is haunted, you know,” Raghav persisted, looking around warily.
“Haunted! My foot!” Shivam snapped.
“Hush! Can you hear the flapping of a bird’s wings?” Raghav asked warily.
“Your hyperactive wings of imagination have started flapping,” Shivam remarked with a bodyshaking
guffaw.
“Cut the crap, will you?” Raghav remarked, glaring.
“It just seems to have forgotten to wind its clock. Caught in a time-warp,” Shivam mumbled.
A few paces away from the hotel stood an old and ramshackle car shining with the deepening stain of
rust; burnt sienna. Next to it was a very old banyan tree, a mammoth giant with what looked like
intimidating dreadlocks. They were about to park the car next to the tree, when the guard manning the
gate of the hotel asked them for the key so that he could park it in the underground parking.
“Look, look at the ancient, ramshackle car. Does it not remind you of a bleeding beast? There are
stories even about this burnt car,” Raghav said, a hushed reverence in his voice .
“I am in no mood to listen to stories. I am famished, “Shivam remarked, patting his stomach.
“Oh what a glutton, you are!” Hemant and Raghav piped up, glaring at Shivam.
“GLUTTON, GLUTTON, GLUTTON!” they jeered.
***
The veils of sunset slowly hid the hues of the evening sky and soon night fell. A gale trumpeted and
shrilled through the trees, and a tiny robin puffed up its feathers, bracing itself to rehearse its autumnal
dirge.
All of them trooped into the hotel, at once struck by its gothic ambience. Corpses of bats hung from
the walls, their eyes shining in the dark, sending shivers down their spines. Fake cobwebs, hoary in
the moonlight, made eyes at them.
“Sit! Salute! Rest! Lie! Down! Fetch!” Someone was training a dog. The surroundings echoed with
boisterous sounds and loud guffaws.
“Something looks fishy. I can smell it,” Raghav said, sniffing.
“You have the nose of an expert sniffer! You can even smell an explosive from a mile, I bet!” Shivam
quipped, a merry twinkle in his eyes.
“You are calling me a dog! A sniffer dog!” Raghav retorted in mock anger.
“Yes, a sniffer dog!” Shivam said with an impish smile and Raghav huffed toward a sofa in the ornate
reception area and slumped down on it.
Hemant and Shivam also joined him there, absolutely intrigued by the weird curios and figurines
adorning the mantelpiece and shelves. There were many paintings on the walls and Shivam, also a
promising artist, besides being a singer, was mesmerized by two reproductions hanging from the wall
in front of them. Francisco Goya’s iconic painting, Saturn devouring his Son and a reproduction of
Rembrandt’s Portrait of an Old Man in Red .
He suddenly shivered.
He did not tell the others, but had a queer sensation looking at the old man; his eyes seemed to be
blinking, and from the frame of the other painting, Saturn appeared to be eyeing him with interest.
“You know… Rembrandt is a master of light and shadow, and his paintings are known for their
exceptional realism,” Shivam blurted out, trying to cover his panic and furtively wiping beads of
sweat from his forehead.
“Look, how real the old man looks!” he added, turning back to cast one more look, before heading for
the dining space, where a sumptuous buffet was laid out.
“You know, Shivam, you are eating with the frantic speed of one who fears that apocalypse is just
round the corner,” Raghav pulled his leg, and Hemant also chipped in.
“And you remind me of a famished sheep, eating away gluttonously, apprehensive of the advent of bad
weather. Kal ho Na ho, ” Shivam shot back, a mischievous grin trying to push away the lines of
apprehension on his face.
Soon, amid a lot of backslapping bonhomie, they moved into a huge room where the hotel staff had
already put an extra bed as requested by them. A lot of boisterous banter followed and not much later,
they drifted away to sleep, leaving the night to its clandestine ruminations.
“Hush, do you hear something?” Raghav sat upright in bed.
Crunch, crunch, crunch …
All three of them heard it.
Crunch, crunch, crunch …
The sound became louder.
“You have paid for all these sounds, dammit. That too, a king’s ransom! Now you two listen to these
weird sounds and let me sleep in peace,” Shivam remarked, gritting his teeth, and pulling a coverlet
over himself.
Crunch, crunch, crunch …
“Hear? Don’t you hear it?” Raghav asked, all aquiver.
“Dammit, I am not very keen to be privy to silly bovine conversation. If you had your way, you would
not even allow the cows to chew the cud in peace,” Shivam mumbled from under the coverlet.
Suddenly there were shouts and closing and opening of doors.
What was up?
No one knew the answer, only the banging of doors became louder. On a sudden impulse, Hemant
went out of the room to investigate.
“You know, I heard someone whispering in the lobby that an entire wedding party of twenty people
who had booked ten rooms is missing,” Hemant said, on coming back to the room.
“But just a couple of hours back I saw many of them running around in confusion, carrying their suits
and unironed shirts, yelling and asking each other for something or the other. Yes, I remember even
seeing the bridegroom just back from the beauty parlor looking very sheepish, and someone and
carrying his colorful turban,” Shivam said throwing away the coverlet and sitting on his bed, looking
absolutely irritated.
“And now all of them have disappeared!” Hemant said emphatically while Raghav tried to rein in his
shivers.
“Have you lost it completely?” Shivam asked, disdain writ all over his face.
“But that is what everyone is whispering,” Hemant insisted.
“We paid for all this, remember? The hotel is hugely popular because of its image as a haunted one.
This is a marketing strategy, and we all know it,” Shivam reiterated.
Weird sounds continued to emanate from different directions; they could even hear the lively beat of
drums. “The marriage party has disappeared, only the sound of the drumbeats remains! All of you
have gone bonkers!” Shivam had now started enjoying the rampant quirkiness.
There was suddenly an angry chorus of shouts as if a rookery had been disturbed, followed by a high
level of spirited conviviality .
They walked up to the window and peered out.
Just outside the window, under a straggle of trees, they glimpsed a veiled figure. Shivam pulled the
others toward the door and they stealthily walked out toward the clump of trees, ears pricked to the
whistling and skirling of the wind, restless beating of the branches and conspiratorial lisping of the
tangled undergrowth and forked branches. A huge tree almost fell down on them, and they shrieked in
horror, followed by the utterance of a queer mélange of ‘thank gods’, in three different tones and
tenors.
On hearing footsteps, the figure slowly turned his neck backwards, which swiveled like a clockwork
toy. Was fantasy playing tricks? Had imagination gone into overdrive? There was a collective gasp
from everyone.
It was as if the Rembrandt figure had stepped out of the frame on the wall in the reception area. He
was old and bearded, with knotted hands, which quivered visibly. In the moonlight, every strand of
his beard appeared to have a life of its own. His walking stick stood loyally against a tree.
“Did you see a Golden Retriever somewhere?” His voice was a hoarse whisper, a voice which did
not know whether it was coming or going.
“No, we saw no dog, but just heard someone training his dog.” Shivam answered, trying not to flinch
at what he glimpsed strewn all around the old man.
The old man’s sibilant hiss, an ‘Oh’, reached Shivam through a surrealistic haze as he stood
dumbstruck, his eyes refusing to leave what appeared to be tangle of bones around him. Raghav stood
next to him, his face distorted, and teeth chattering, almost unstrung by hideous fear. Hemant clutched
him with a white knuckled intensity, his eyes almost popping out.
“Wonder if he jumped to his death from that decaying bridge we saw on the way?” Shivam’s sneering
whisper fell like molten lava in Raghav’s ears.
Crunch, crunch, crunch …
It was the old man munching away. Soon he slipped into a drowsy, ecstatic, and satiated languor.
Suddenly the golden retriever appeared on the scene, tongue lolling and tail wagging. The old man,
throwing off his lassitude, hurled himself at it with a squeal of delight, wiping away at his mouth with
the sleeve of his gown.
He patted him lovingly, kissing him all over, drenching him in blood-splattered endearments and then
peered closely in the direction of the three. The dog headed toward the bones, its eyes gleaming with
a maniacal glint.
The wind continued tearing and wailing spasmodically through the skeletal branches and poking the
gnarled tree trunks with its airy breath. The ancient banyan tree at the entrance of the hotel, shook its
dreadlocks with a mind- numbing vehemence. As the threesome watched in numb horror, the edifice
of the hotel crumbled and vanished from sight.
The old man flailed his arms, shouting “More! More! More!” his shivering hands groping for his
walking stick.
Finding it, he picked it up, and with the golden retriever following him, started walking toward the
rusted car.
Thud, thud, thud…
The walking stick seemed to be in love with the uncanny noises it was making. The threesome
followed them as though in a somnambulistic trance.
Soon all of them had reached the decrepit car, climbed into it through the rusted window, and merged
with its innards. The moonlight fell on the decaying car, giving it an absolutely ghastly hue. Some
echoes of shouts and screams kept resounding in the wilderness.
“Sit, salute, rest, lie down, fetch…” And a chorus of cats, owls, bats, and dogs building up a
threnody…
Crunch, crunch, crunch …
Some hidden monster was still crunching away… munching away… A few paces away lay
something, probably a turban, and atop it, sat a robin singing its autumnal dirge .
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