I remember the summers of yesterday when a vacation destination meant only one place—the grandparents’ home — and nobody complained.
Weeks before schools shut down for a break, we’d receive letters from our grandparents expressing their excitement about our summer holiday visit, and we too would write back sharing with them everything we’d like to do when we got there. The words scribbled on the blue-colored inland letters were enough to transport us to their homes and the pampering that awaited us. Soon after, mum and dad would book the train tickets and we’d begin to pace restlessly, counting the days left as we filled up our suitcases with cards that we’d made for them during the year, the board games that we’d carry to be able to play with them, and more.
We’d board the train, and with no way to communicate about the delay in departure or arrival, we’d all play a guessing game about the time we’d reach Nana—Nani’s (maternal grandparents) home. Irrespective of when we made it, they’d be standing at the gates, eager to engulf us in the warmest of hugs. Sometimes, Naani would even tear down as she planted kisses on our foreheads.
The next two months would fly away sooner than we’d want. Their homes, equipped with all that we required and even things that we were not ‘allowed’ at our homes, only added to the ideal quotient of vacation time. Cupboards loaded with candies, both homemade and store-bought, Nani willing to experiment with baking a pizza in the oven, Nana always excited to walk with us to the nearby market to buy us a bottle of flavored milk, and to have them both listen to us as we spoke incessantly about our lives were the highlights of the stay.
As years passed, we began to drive down from our home to that of our grandparents, with a must-stopover for a quick lunch at a dhaba (eatery on the highway). We’d now call them from dad’s mobile, telling them we were almost there and giving Nani just enough time to fry hot puris (pieces of bread) for us.
Each May, I'd receive a letter from granny saying she was waiting for us to visit in June and July when the schools were closed. As we arrived she'd be standing with grandpa at the gates to welcome us. When our train was delayed, she'd still wait for our taxi, sometimes for hours. As soon as the taxi took the final right turn, I'd look out of the window and spot her standing in the sun. She'd wave at me, and I'd wave back, jumping with happiness and excitement. She'd envelope me in a warm hug once I'd stepped down from the taxi. She never let this change. And at the end of our two-month visit, when we'd packed our things into the taxi, she'd hug us again, but only this time she'd cry. As I held back my own tears, I'd reassure her: "See you next year, granny." A year was a long time, we both knew that. As she and grandpa stood at the gate, they'd wave at us till the taxi took a left turn, out of sight." (Excerpts: The Trees Told Me So)
And irrespective of what and how much we’d eaten at the stopover, we’d overindulge in the meals she’d prepared for us. Later, as times changed, we attended universities nationwide and began to board flights to visit them. Of course, we never went for inflight meals, only to be voluntarily overfed by them on reaching home.
Looking back, I don’t recall a calendar filled with extraordinary summer craft camps, swimming lessons, or sports sessions. But I do recall mornings of learning how to make paper boats, afternoons of helping Nani lay the table, evenings of drenching one another with the water hose in the lawns, and nights of storytelling in bed as we all cuddled up on the same bed. I don’t recall slipping into fancy resort wear for this holiday; I relish the memories of scouring through their metal trunks and slipping into clothes that once belonged to Nani or mum.
Growing up led to wish lists of visiting countries in Europe and beyond, of spending time in world-renowned botanical parks and unique historical museums. Yet, they failed compared to the picnics we had in our grandparents’ backyards sitting atop rugs or the excitement that lay in flipping through family albums, wherein lay the nuggets of history of our families!
The summer vacation of yesteryears leaves me moist-eyed and waiting for a chance to hit rewind. For me, vacation spelled only one destination.
Disclaimer: This is a place where we pause now and then to make sense of a routine existence. We turn into bystanders (as we witness our lives go by)—observing, absorbing, questioning, wondering.
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