In the old days planning a summer holiday was fairly simple. It would consist of three steps.
1. Father would tell you where you were going.
2. You would nod.
3. Father would tell you to stop nodding your head like a yoyo.
This whole process would take less than three minutes and would always end with your father adjusting your head so that it stayed in place.
Also, in the old days (days were also known as “them days”, “days gone by” or “days when L.K. Advani was still just middle-aged”), the holiday would be for a much longer duration. For example, in 1979, our trip to Mahabaleshwar cost us 26 days. Granted, four of them were spent finding Mahabaleshwar after my father took a wrong turn at Chembur.
Yet three weeks in a sleepy town like Mahabaleshwar was par for the course. This in spite of the fact that in Mahabaleshwar there are only three things you can do: a) visit the lake. b) visit the market. c) run from the monkeys while visiting the lake or the market.
Well, those were the old days. It’s now time to move on with the times, after all Mr Advani isn’t middle-aged any more. So I decided the family vacation would involve a more democratic process. Just to give the family meeting a thorough professional approach, we had the meeting in err... our bedroom.
As I lay on my back on the bed, my five-year-old daughter took her customary position on my chest. This move is a real source of delight for both parties. It allows her to lounge about on my ample chest, and it also cuts off my oxygen supply from the lungs onwards.
My son, wearing the Broacha male uniform — an underwear, sat on a chair and kicked off the proceedings like the philosopher he is: Orlando is where the world wrestling entertainment has its headquarters. We’ll all have a swell time.
I immediately tried to argue the point but luckily I couldn’t breathe. But just then the ultimate wrestler, my wife, shot down his idea. Who wants to see 125 kilo men wearing skimpy Speedos bash each other up? When she put it that way we all raised our hands. My wife did what she always does to keep the family together — she ignored us.
For the next 20 minutes suggestions kept pouring in. My son’s second choice was Philadelphia, not for any other reason but because he just learnt how to pronounce the name. When that was vetoed, he went down under and plumped for Adelaide, Melbourne, Sydney and 13 reservation spots which are considered protected because they are still inhabited by the indigenous aboriginal tribe, none of whom are keen to have you visit.
Desperately he shifted base to the West Indies, but Barbados was hotter than Mumbai and costs almost as much. In a fit of dismay my son assumed the pose of a man who has finally given up: lying on the back with both feet in the air. As he banged his heels together and simultaneously told us that we were lousy parents and that he’d rather not come on holiday in any case, my wife decided to amend the Constitution. Democracy stood cancelled. The egalitarian was out. It was oligarchy time once again and a twisted déjà vu followed.
My wife from now on replaced my father from the past (err not literally; I’m not married to my father) — the holiday discussion took three minutes. It consisted of:
1. My wife telling us where we were going.
2. Me nodding.
3. My wife telling me to stop nodding my head like a yoyo.
But that’s not the good news. The good news
is we are going to Mahabaleshwar again.