It’s back to the apologies in this blog. I’ve been lazy, and stupid, and unforgivably irritable the past couple of weeks. But, I’m on the recovery path now. So, I guess I will be forgiven. *puppy-eyes-of-innocence*
Okay, let me cut the nonsense short and get right into business. This is going to be a short piece. It’s about Wanderlust.
I have lived up until I was seventeen in my hometown Madurai. Me, and my parents, and my little brother who was born about five years after I was. In the typical Indian middle-class fashion, we traveled together throughout the years. Daddy believed that families bonded better that way, and I have heard him refuse trips planned by his school or college friends and his colleagues. I am excluding those trips made to Gammy’s place (Gammy is a recent nickname for my maternal grandmother, pronounced ‘g’ as in ‘game’, ‘am’ as in ‘ham’, ‘my’ as in ‘me’), trips to attend relatives’ weddings, funerals, godh barais, etc, and the rare pilgrimages.
Now, there was a perfect pattern to these other trips.
- It has to be the summer or winter holidays.
- Maa takes a weekend off work.
- We plan the places to see in the two days, or rather Maa chooses the list.
- We travel by train, it’s an unstated rule, only trains, no buses.
- Day 1 and day 2 blend together in a blur of places and posing and photographs.
- God forbid there be a relative’s place in the place we’re visiting, or we’d find ourselves obliged to visit it.
- We rush through Monday morning, Maa making two meals for four people in a hurry and Daddy running to get milk packets before the stocks run out.
(By the way, Maa and Daddy, if you’re reading this, I do not mean to be regretful about the way you guys planned our trips, but you have to admit, the trips were more tiring than everyday work!)
I can’t help but admit they were kind of fun, though. The trip with three smaller kids (who could not handle much luggage) and eight pieces of luggage (who could not carry themselves) and an extremely sick me, did make such beautiful memories. The most beautiful trip to Estuary Island Resort at Poovar, Kerala, for Daddy’s conference, with the most elegant buffet service ever, was the laziest, most relaxing one of them all.
Holding my direct addresses to the parents, I now talk to you, my Reader. You might not think it, and you might not see it clearly, but I consider that Wanderlust possesses me as well. There are different kinds of wanderers. Some are free to explore the world at their will, maybe even have their main job involve traveling. Some are nomads at heart, who jump up and shove off to a destination of their choice because they are free from roots tying them down and actually like it that way. Some, like me, are fascinated by the thought of new experiences, but are also predominated by,
- the lack of free choice in the matter
- the nasty Laziness monster
- the inability to afford the said trip
and so on. If there are kinds of wanderers I’m skipping altogether here, please forgive my ignorance.
Anyway, my Wanderlust wanted to describe my perfect trip in this post. So, here he goes.
My perfect trip would last at least two weeks.
My perfect trip would be during the winter.
My perfect trip would include my most favourite people in the world.
My perfect trip would go through a place from its local history to its Independence Day Parade.
My perfect trip would get me acquainted to local people with whom I regularly correspond thereafter.
My perfect trip would have me attempt to do things I would never normally have done.
My perfect trip would take me down a heart-panging lane of nostalgia when I flip through the photo album.
My perfect trip would have me re-do it every few years just for the memory of it.
My perfect trip would produce a picture of me, appropriately captioned ‘Wanderlust in her Eyes.’
I hope to see the dream come true in a few years. I feel the teenagerish whining coming onto my lips and fingers, so I’ll stop on that mellow note.