Hotels are beautiful, aren’t they?
Neat and clean, full of luxury, fulfilling your every demand at just a room service call.
The beds are always properly made. You can’t guess who slept how on them, you don’t find any stories in folds of their sheets.
The curtains are always clean and new, you can’t guess how many summers they have seen and if children hid behind them to scare people.
The carpet doesn’t have a slightest sign of dust or of the shoes that walked on them. You can’t guess whether they hurried or tip toed or stomped their way out.
The bathrooms are always full of the commodities required, with towels that can’t be more fresh. There is no plumbing required and the tiles are perfectly clean. You can’t hear the happy screams of children playing with water.
The doors don’t creak, the wardrobes don’t smell old. The paint on the wall isn’t peeling off, you can’t say if they have seen any tears, smiles, surprises or wrinkles.
Hotels are just perfect!
Maybe, that’s why they are not ‘Home’…
I’m Pratik from Gujarat, India. Diwa is a very very lovely friend of mine, just like an elder sister.
My hobbies are singing, writing and cooking. By profession I am preparing for some exams on government level but I do teach too.
Writing is something which can connect you back to yourself. It speaks to you when the mind is silent and it reminds you of what you are. It lets you scream in silence.