‘The Eiffel Tower is very happy where it is
and I am very happy where I am, so why should I make the effort to go and see
it? The meeting will only inconvenience me and not make any difference to the
Eiffel Tower!’
‘The whole world goes on vacations and your
father wants only his laboratory and his tennis and his chicken stew at night.
As if there is nothing else in life.’
This was an oft heard argument in our house
when we were growing up. And may I add that this was one of the few from which
my father emerged victorious. We lived in Bombay, as it was known in the good
old days, and our vacations were limited to the annual trip to Calcutta where
all our relatives lived or Allahabad where my maternal grandparents lived. Not
that it mattered to us. We were perfectly happy and looked forward to spending
the entire two months with the cousins and an assortment of aunts, uncles,
dadus and didas whose only aim in life was to spoil us silly. Childhood was
indeed bliss.
Given this kind of an upbringing, you will
understand if I tell you that we did not grow up to be the fearfully
adventurous kinds who would think nothing of tearing off to climb the
Himalayas. Or go diving with the sharks, go canyoning through ravines &
waterfalls and go swimming with the dolphins in the Azores.I would never dream
of going hiking in the Balkans or go cycling in the Czech Republic. Though, the
Czech Republic did beckon me because I had read that beyond Prague’s maze like
suburbs of the Soviet era, lie stunning sun warmed valleys speckled with
pastel-colored Bohemian villages.I wanted to go there and paint, not cycle!
So every summer vacation would find us
traveling to Kolkata or Allahabad. The sameness of the destinations never
troubled me and I looked forward enthusiastically to the last paper of my
exams. Every time I thought about the vacation, I would have that funny feeling
inside my stomach…..you know the kind that gives you joy of the pure,
unadulterated kind and brings goosebumps all over!
Packing our bags was the first exciting
step. ‘Traveling Light’ was not a concept that my mother approved of. For a
vacation that was to last two months, fourteen pieces of luggage was the bare
minimum that she would even think of traveling with. If you think that my
father’s protests were a hindrance, then you are very wrong. And I am talking
about the times when bags were not merely suitcases or backpacks, but they were
trunks. And the bedding had to be carried in bedding rolls. I still remember
our food basket. It was a humungous affair made of cane and easily accommodated
two large stainless steel multi potted tiffin-carriers, places for bread,
butter, jam and an assortment of cutlery and crockery and starched napkins.
Those were not the days of disposable paper products. Thus packing was a very
elaborate affair and was every bit as exciting as the vacation itself.
We travelled by train and the journey from
Bombay to Kolkata by Bombay Mail took thirty five hours. But for all this to
make sense to you let’s start at the very beginning. Which, as the famous song
goes, is a very good place to start. Our household has always been a very
disciplined one. There was a time and a place for everything and everything had
to be in it’s place.Routine was the mantra and woe betide us if we ever, even
for a single day ever thought of breaking that routine. Transgressing that
routine was an idea that was not even allowed to enter our sub-conscious minds.
Where nutrition and the well being of his offspring were concerned,my father
had very definite ideas about what was good for us and what was not and he
could not be budged even a millimeter from his position.
So, train journey or no train journey, our
routine had to remain in place. We boarded the train at night and after the
fourteen odd pieces of luggage had been appropriately and adequately stowed
away and the porters having gone away looking visibly relieved, began our life
over the next thirty five hours in our ‘home away from home’. My father changed
into his starched kurta pajamas and I can still see him folding his sleeves
just so, in my mind’s eye. Dinner was spread out…..and I mean just that. Spread
out. Delicious soft maida luchis, Begun-bhaja,Salad, Aloo Phoolkopir shaada
chhenchki and Chicken dry curry. Finished off with a Mishti or two. Generally
two! Dinner done, plates etc washed with detergent brought specially for that
purpose, the beds were made. Starched sheets, covers all laid out to pristine
perfection. Off to a deep slumber made even deeper by the accompanying rhythm
of the turning wheels and the whoosh of countryside racing past. With not a
care in the world! Why has that kind of sleep eluded me ever since?
Breakfast had to have the mandatory glass of
milk, the mandatory corn flakes,the mandatory boiled egg, the mandatory slices
of bread slathered with butter and jam, the mandatory portions of fruit. Yes
Sir! And how do you get a glass of fresh boiled buffalo milk in a running
locomotive traveling at a speed of 60 km per hour average? Well, you don’t. But
what you do is carry a tin of Amul milk powder, a stirrer, hot boiling water in
a stainless steel vacuum flask and chocolate powder. It is as simple as that.
Not drinking milk twice a day was an option that was not even considered for it
to be discarded. And I forgot to add sugar but that was a very tiny item
compared to the other heavy weights. You may add it.
After the breakfast, yes? Did I hear someone
ask whether bought food could not be had? Of course it could, but I would like
to inform you, as was informed to us, that only very very pedestrian kinds of
people ever ate station food. And certainly not any ten year olds. And certainly
not anyone who wanted to stay in our house. If they did not agree they could go
out and look for another house to live in. We always ate healthy home cooked
food. Now, if you would kindly allow me to continue, without trying to stem my
literary flow. Thank you very much! After breakfast, we had to have our baths.
Because for the two nights that had to be spent on the journey, the train had
been transformed into a home. The only thing my mother did not carry with her
to give it the final finishing touches, was a flower vase filled with fresh cut
flowers. So, along with the trunks and the bedding we also carried our bucket
and a mug and rubber slippers to wear to the washroom while having our baths.
And those were the days when we were good children and did exactly what we were
told. So a little bottle filled with coconut oil for the head was an accessory
as was talcum powder to keep smelling fresh. Need I add that after we were
done, the next people who used the restroom found it spanking clean since my mother
did what she would do at home……she cleaned up the place! You have to admit that
fourteen pieces of luggage is not really such a ridiculous number, given the
number of activities that had to be carried out!! Oh, I almost forgot to add
that my father needed his ‘side pillow’ or ‘Paash balish’ to be able to get a
good night’s rest. My mother always said he had been spoilt rotten by his
parents, my grandparents and he really should have been the Nawab of some
kingdom and not a scientist.
Having been used to such royal modes of
travel, these days when I fly, the journeys seem so tame. Boring. With none of
the excitement preceding it. You are allowed a suitcase which cannot weigh over
23 kgs. Gone are the days of royal looking trunks with padlocks which any self
respecting thief would think twice before even thinking of pitting his strength
against. Though of course such trunks should ideally have been filled to the
brim with gold and jewels. Doesn’t that picture fill your mind’s eye when you
hear ‘Trunk’?
You are made to sit straight on an
uncomfortable seat. Carry a ‘Paash Balish’?
‘Sir, that object does not fit in with the
dimensions allowed for an accompanying hand luggage.’
Can you imagine a Paash balish being put
into one of those metal contraptions which is the yardstick for a piece of
luggage to be accepted as a carry-on baggage. Poor PB has absolutely no chance
of emerging the winner.
Gone are the days of soft fluffy luchis. You
have to eat what the airlines dishes out and what they loosely call ‘food’. I
wish someone would one day sit and explain to the airlines people what
requirements,objects need to satisfy before they get elevated to being termed
‘food’. The first would be that it should be edible and secondly, it should
have a modicum of taste.
Well, times change and so must we. I cannot
think of traveling to New Jersey from Mumbai by train. So the aircraft never
becomes my second home. Nor can I dream of bringing a Guava tree here from
Allahabad accompanied by small rocks and pebbles and it’s surrounding soil
covering a radius of 5 feet so that it would feel totally at home and decide to
bless us all with it’s bounty. Oh! Didn’t I tell you that I had done exactly
that with a Guava tree when I was returning from Allahabad to Mumbai with my
brand new husband of six months? To say that he had been shocked out of his
wits would be an understatement but I must admit that he had taken it in his
stride. Yes, even the two huge bags of Allahabad soil which I insisted upon
just so that my ‘guest plant’ should not feel uprooted. It is not such a
difficult thing once you set your mind to it.
I am after all, my mother’s daughter. Even
today, I try to push the allowable boundaries to their extreme outside limits.
Much as I admire those slim svelte ladies who travel so elegantly with nary a
hair out of place, striding confidently on their 4 inch stilettos and easily
dragging a piece of luggage as if it carries nothing more than a few ounces of
air, I have sadly come to the conclusion that that particular avatar is not for
me to don. So vacation, here I come, with my suitcase bursting at the seams and
my tote purse threatening to spill it’s contents all over the Airport floor.
They do not weigh purses, you know! The only thing that has remained unchanged
amidst the sea of changes is my state of mind. I still get my goosebumps and my
gurgles in the stomach at the mention of the word ‘vacation’.
Eiffel Tower, here I come!
AMRITA KANGLE
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