A tale of three cities

Now that we’re back in Sydney after a month’s holiday in India, the inevitable question I am asked is, “How was it?” Being a writer and verbose, besides enjoying the sound of my own voice, I am very tempted to explain in detail. However, in consideration of the fact that people don’t have the time to listen to my meanderings, as well as they probably aren’t interested in the nitty-gritty anyway, I have to hold back and say, “Great, good, fantastic!”

But I can confess in written word, pinched from a long-forgotten nursery rhyme, that when India was good, it was really, really good, and when it was bad, it was horrid!

We did have a good trip. I met family and friends, all the people I longed to see after an absence that was all too long. The kids did exceptionally well, with no more than one visit a week to the local doctor, which must have been some kind of a record. My husband spent time with friends, watched cricket to his heart’s content and fell in love!

Going back to India after four long years was an esoteric experience in itself. We didn’t know what to expect; some bits surprised us, others delighted us, and yet others brought back a strong sense of deja vu. We did the ‘real India’ experience, travelling interstate by train, journeying within the cities by car, taxis and autorickshaws. In Mumbai, I once even ventured in a crowded local train with the kids, an experience which was never but the sheer logistics of trailing two hot and irritable kids through a crowded station, standing in a serpentine queue for tickets, getting jostled into a compartment full of sweaty yet obliging women, is just not worth it.

I think I had too many expectations, especially from Mumbai, which is probably why I felt a sense of disappointment when coming upfront with some of the more obvious vagaries of the city. It seemed more tacky, more dilapidated, more run-down. It was still arduously polluted, stray dogs and piles of rubbish still adorned the streets and it was constantly raucous and vibrant. The traffic was horrendous, not made easier with us living a distance away from my sister’s home, and every trip to and fro was a mini nightmare. But there was always saving grace at the end of each journey. My family was always around, we were always welcomed with enthusiasm, fed with vigour and my sister’s two boisterous younger boys were chivalrous companions to my monsters. The four of them had the time of their lives. Together they jumped on couches and sundry furniture, made conversation with the dog, laughed, rioted, watched TV, ate impromptu meals, acted silly and in general, had a very, very good time. They made an instant and strong connection, and one that I hope will remain resilient as the years go by.

For me, it was a journey of discovery. That family is a wonderful thing, and the ties of blood remain strong through the years, despite the fact that we live in completely different continents. Various uncles, aunts the years. Some have changed with time, becoming more mellow and mature; others remain the same, to the extent that I felt I had never even been away. Most of them have retained their wry sense of humour through the years, and are still my favourite people. In a way it was heartening to know that some things haven’t changed at all. At one point of time my mother and sister began one of their pointless arguments about nothing, and I could have been 18 again, trying to get a word in edgewise as they whinged and complained about each other.

My mother accompanied us on the train journey to and from Goa, and it would have taken quite an effort of will not to give in to the impulse of reprimanding my older boy as he swung off berths, clambered from corner to corner of the already cramped compartment and generally made a nuisance of himself. She has nine male grandchildren, and spends a good bit of her time telling them off, so to actually sit through his antics and resist yelling at him was a Herculean effort.

Everywhere we went, the younger one was charming and friendly, greeting everyone with enthusiasm, shaking hands and being an exceptionally well-behaved child. Who refused to eat, but don’t let me start on that aspect of our trip.

And my friends, my wonderful girlfriends who spent so much time with us, fitting us into their busy schedules, keeping us company, enduring the onslaught of boys into their well-kept houses and pandering to their eccentric food habits. It was fantastic seeing all of them, some of whom I hadn’t met for over a decade. We caught up on current news, shared kiddy anecdotes, filled in the blanks of absence, took nostalgic trips back in time.... but it wasn’t enough. I wish I had spent more time with all of them, I wish I had the chance to catch up with so many other people I wanted to meet. But sincere apologies over the phone. However, I reassure myself that there will be a next time.

In Hyderabad, meeting old family friends, those familiar faces who were always around in times of celebration or need, and catching up with my husband’s childhood pals and their lovely families made me realise, once again, the value of lasting friendships.

My husband enjoyed himself. Apart from trysts with old friends in the noisy pubs of Hyderabad and incessantly arguing about the merits of watching cricket over Cartoon Network, he regaled us with his whinging about the noise, pollution and general unsuitability of Mumbai for any sane human. Naturally, Hyderabad was the better city, an argument that remains unresolved to this day. However, he did find time to relax at Leopold’s in Colaba. But it was Goa that captured our hearts, in very different ways. The boys enjoyed the beach, I caught up with family and my husband found himself in love. On our first day there, he seemed strangely preoccupied, making mysterious forays into the village with unintelligibly muttered excuses. And the next day, he brought her home. We came out to be introduced, and whilst I eyed her with apprehension, my sons too, were enamoured. There she was, long, sleek in shining black metal, a 350cc Royal Enfield motorbike, with a throaty rumble that made my husband’s heart race. From the moment I saw her, I knew that I didn’t stand a chance of winning back his affection, at least, not as long as she was around. She merely tolerated my presence through a few rides, some at night with the stars shining above and the wind in our hair. It was the best feeling of all, one that comes to you so naturally when in Goa. The feeling that this is God’s earth, and you are in sync with the universe. The feeling of freedom and yet, belonging.

Yes, India was as succulent as sitaphal with cream, as long as we could chuck out the pips.