Tourists I Travellers

I had just set out for home. My phone was pelting calls like bullets out of my bag. Thank god, i could have Dylan lullabying tambourine man on it. But i was kinda sure, that by the time i was through with the evening, i would be tired of dylan too. Yes, this curiously irritating dilemma of whether to pick up my phone or whether to pick up my phone had been induced by my mother, of course, and sometimes, my father, too.

In retrospective, an irritating seed had planted itself in me, the day i had let go of that air cushion called home raising. At times, it was worthwhile to think of this plan i had, to travel a lot and have a child, for a companion. A diet of questions, a road which went through innumerous terrains, a disregard for legacies, and a sparse population of expectations from myself and friends. And on a day, that i had realised that we were all just chips off the old blocks, i had been so disillusioned, i had almost gone through an identity crisis. That was the kind of love hate relationship i shared with my parents. My parents, weren't exactly liberal and neither did they belong to the romanticised cult of the children of the flower power generation but the most enchanting fact that i had come to know about my father was that when he met my mother for the first time, he'd asked her father about why the backlanes of Chandni Chowk in delhi were so narrow. He'd spent his life, mostly in the semi rural areas around as well as the main city of Kolkata.

Similarly, my mother wrote poetry that was surreal and had eyes that glowed like a child's every time i looked into them. She was one woman with whom i'd learnt how to value love. A remarkable quality about my mother also was that she had a brilliant memory, and when it came to things like literature, she was a storehouse of information.

That was all that was there to them. They hadn't been published or read for their ideas. In the throes of their middle class existence in Mumbai, they were hardly left with time to socialise as such, or even engage in occassional literary affairs.

Their professions had grown them as much as their communities, neighbours, cities, localities or academic profiles. However, the predominant influence of their occupational responsibilities and family management had unconsciously, and rather intrusively populated their itineraries with events that they could have done without. Fatigue had taken the form of dark circles under their eyes, and reduced outings to dinners at the closest mall, which was quite well endowed and glamorous by metropolitan standards.

They had five year plans too. They were part of the larger universe of cycles, winding downwards from the architecture of governmental infrastructure. They were at the receiving end of policy systems built for the welfare, progression, economic emancipation of the middle class but they were also part of the common mass called a 'Public', and the deemed civic duty of this public was to contribute to the large accumulation of national wealth and reserves which were responsible for the processing/recycling of these moneys and their investment in various sectors created for the operation of governmental machinery for civic purposes. However, while this was the part that worked fine and my parents were obedient civilians following all these processes carefully and wisely, paying their taxes etcetera, when the time came around, there would obviously be an occurence where there would be a breaking story glaring at them from national news channels, and they'd come to know, at the end of  a tired day, from a medium that was suffieciently passive, that there had been a scam with a loss to the national exchequer. The cream of the industrial world who were responsible for the multiplication of national moneys, or philanthropic ventures had conveniently escaped the bar. Power games were the rule of commerce anyway, they thought, and went off to bed, without letting the bitterness of the situation get to them. Tomorrow was a new day. This one statement was programmed into our minds like a permanent ink stain.

They were too engrossed in and confident of their plan execution skills. Their plans were the life force of their existence and the reason they functioned effectively. They had short term plans and long term plans. A plan for today, tomorrow, weeks, months and years. If their plans even fell a little out of line, all their irrational fears took over. Unfortunately, or fortunately, in some rare cases, the insecurity about their child's future was one of the most haunting consequences of this seeming failure.

This is a very good point to mention that i'd always been a rebellious soul. I rebelled against these plans and the influence of these plans on me. Their middle class expectations were like an invitation into a prison, and a very comfortable prison. A prison built of shortsightedness. My world view was constructed during my education as a journalist. Subsequently, i went to film school. I grew into an independent conscience based on first hand information about the world around me, and its happenings, and pursued my independence like a dog. I had ideas and goals, and planning was not in my DNA. So i took routes that i had a hunch about, climbed a few branches, balancing myself, so that i would reach the top as healthily as i followed daily routines.

When we sat and dined together which was an occassional occurence, i would often find this silence at the table where we'd be staring at each other's faces. The space in between was full of contradictions. Though, we always knew how to laugh together and make a good day out of it.

On many such occassions when we were out on a rare 'family' holiday, we would often be witness to travellers with backpacks, gruffy from their exercise, yet beaming with a radiant satisfaction. Their interruption in our line of view would usually be followed by a comment on their hygiene from my mother. However, my father loved to venture out, question, and gain knowledge about all such individuals. He always went about whatever he did, quietly. Though he was as moody as a child when it came to talking about these experiences.
The larger point, however, which was seemingly irritating to a large number of tourists who ventured out with their families on planned vacations was the adaptability of these travellers to any situation whatsoever. On occasions, their spartan attitudes became a hot topic of discussion at dinner tables too. Though these discussions were sufficiently short lived. They lasted only till these families got back to their hotel rooms and were comfortably snug in their airconditioned dreams.

On one such occassion, and consequently, though my literary experiences of reading innumerous travelogues and international writers, my subconscious processes had ultimately led me to make a choice. The choice of being a traveller, forever. It was a way of life.

I thought, that when the final destination of all processes that the world led themselves to, was disillusionment, wisdom was the only wealth that one could wish to accumulate. Compassion became a fundamental. I learnt not to overrate anything under the sun. All i could ever own was only 'A Life'. The worth of which only i could measure, in the last few moments of my life.