A.R.Ts (137) - The neuroticism of holiday planning

With Amitabh's baritone voice saying "Aapne Kutch nahin dekha toh kuch nahin dekha" in the background, our Rann of Kutch plan was getting made. The dates...the cars we would take...the routes we would follow. I can't drive a four-wheel, I declared, making my limitations clear. Your car cannot take more than four, said P, sizing up all the vehicles. You better come, we need a driver, said J to T. Apply for leave in advance, said G to S. Make it Feb, Jan looks tough for me, said M. We planned it for weeks. Checked the calendar for full moon nights. Imagined ourselves driving for miles, mouthing soulful lyrics. Lying on the white sand and staring into the moon. Eventually, our plebeian commitments got the better of us. The trip never happened.

Planning holidays is our curse. It is what we seem to be born for. A bunch of us, forever living in the mountains, the beaches, the snow, the sun, the sand, and the hammock. Like it is a parallel life. A life where crazy is sane. Night is day. Where, between the rainbows and sunsets, we see the dance of our dreams. Splashed over the horizon of our lives, spanning eternity.

We plan atleast ten holidays a year. We know we will do only one. At best two. Failed Goa holiday plans top our list. A typical Goa holiday conversation goes like this -

J posts a link "A chic yoga resort in North Goa". Trying to lure some of us budding marathon runners into a fitness filled holiday. The recent fad in our lives.

Yoga in Goa? Nah! says P.

Yoga and run on the beach, says N.

Followed by beer and nap, says J.

No running for me, says G.

Let's go anyway, It's been a while! says S.

When, asks M.

June, says T.

Come May, T has a project, G has her son's exams, S is in between jobs, P has double booked herself on a road trip, M forgot the plan was made. And J - she has already posted the next link - this time it's the Kerala backwaters.

We forgive each other these gaffes easily. The only pact we have is to never let the dream down. Make the plan. Dream about it. Create a story. Add to the album of the memories built. Execution, after all is serendipity. It makes us weird, this living in a parallel universe. Like we are in a constant state of stupor. Caressing our dreams, making sure they don't get crushed between the folds of reality. Dressing them up, parading them in front of the mirror, and keeping them ready for the big day - maybe tomorrow, maybe never.

It doesn't bother us in the least. The uncertainty of fulfillment. On the contrary, we want to be a little hungry. All the time. Another sunset. Another valley. Another trail. And another. Just one more. It keeps us connected. Our need to see the world together. Sometimes through each other's eyes. Makes us a family. Wrapped it it's own neuroticism. Maybe we will grow old doing this. And look back and laugh at ourselves. At our unadulterated zest. Our humongous stupidity. Our crazy impulses. And raise a toast to doing more of it. I can see it happening.

By then, N and I would have done our Midnight Sun Marathon in Norway, P and M would have done their epic road trip, G and S would have lived in Leh, J and T would have soaked in the sun in Greece. We would all be sitting next to a fireplace, sipping wine, mouthing our favourite line "So many places, so little time." Many lives, one ending. Only one. No matter when, that's the only way this will end. So many places, so little time......

A.R.Ts (136) - Living with Parents

I was the quintessential Mumbai single woman living by herself. Envied by all, bound by no one. No questions asked if I skipped coming home one night. No compulsion to fix a broken light bulb for months on end. Surviving on eggs and maggi for dinner. Greeted every other evening by a Blue Dart courier slip stuck at my door saying "We missed you".

One year back, my parents moved back with me. A lot of people ask me "how is it to live with your parents after eight years of living by yourself? Today, I tell you the story.

It starts with the difficulty of believing how easily you become a child once again. How so many years of separation does nothing to the parent child equation. Years later, Mom still stays up in the night with me because my coughing bouts keep me awake. Often, she slips that banana into my lunch bag to make sure I am getting my daily dose of vitamins. Dad insists on heating the food and serving me at the dinner table. Occasionally, I become the parent. Chiding Dad for spilling the water all over the dining table. Or bullying Mom into taking a break from her long hours spent working online.

Every morning as I get ready to leave, Dad asks, "Which office are you going to today, Powai or Worli?" "Worli" I say. "Ok", he nods and then goes back to reading his newspaper. I can see that he has made a mental note of the distance that I will be driving. And the traffic that I have to navigate through. I don't know why he asks me this. But he needs to know. Like his coffee, it adds to the predictability of his morning routine.

I catch him dozing off on the sofa while watching TV after a long day. I'm conscious he is getting older. I gently nudge him awake. He brushes the sleep off and goes back to watching TV, where a woman is howling her lungs out about how her husband cheated on her. In less than a minute, I start wishing he would grow up.

Friday night party invitations have now been converted to more respectable and sober "Sunday lunches". Food has become integral to the relationship. I just have to go around looking for sweets in the fridge, and the next day, I find Mom experimenting in the kitchen with banana muffins. I never fail to miss the betrayed look in Dad's eyes when I choose pasta over sambhar for dinner.

Conversations around investments and income taxes are the most deary. "Have you filed your returns for the year?" Dad will ask. I start looking for my sister. Not finding her, I politely tell him I will check with Nandita and let him know. "When will you ever be on top of your finances?" he asks half in jest, half serious. It gets worse. "When did you last update your passbook?" I blank out. Then I remember. "We don't need passbooks anymore Dad. It's all online." He grunts something which I know is a mish mash of "this generation-value of money-crappy technology-don't care-spend like no tomorrow." I know that he knows that I am no longer hearing him, and he knows that I know that I will never get a passbook, but the conversation will happen every six months. It is our father-daughter ageing ritual.

With mom it's different. She doesn't sweat the small stuff. I sent you an article link today, she will say. "It is titled 15 signs that you are born a free thinker. They all apply to you. Read them." I read it. One of the signs reads "You are the Pope of your life. You live by your own rules, and no one, not even your Mother can change that". "I'm not that bad, I protest. Well, I can be, she says of herself. She gets me. That feeling of being a misfit is our shared secret.

I know they are both treading living together with caution. Wanting to be around, and yet be invisible. Be the parent, and the friend. The wings, and the roots. On a Saturday morning, I tell them I have plans for the night. "Pub hopping again?" asks Mom. "Where? Asks Dad. "You will know from the check-ins on Facebook" says Mom with a chuckle. I rest my case.