For a somewhat dysfunctional family, we get by, sometimes only in part, true, but mostly all right nevertheless. In the summers, this usually means three things — taking a long trip to be with my parents in Bikaner for the shortest time possible (since there’s nothing more unpleasant than June in the desert); arguing (and fighting and sulking) for weeks on end till we somehow agree on a destination (mostly out of exhaustion) for our annual holiday; and celebrating my wife’s birthday (after the appropriate and hypocritical “Let’s not do anything this year, guys!”). The calendar has a place for all these things, and, in due course, after the usual brooding and moping, everyone is somewhat happy or, at least, not unhappy.
This year though, things seem to have backfired. For starters, both the children had extensive internship schedules that made them claim a short break each for themselves (not, alas, at the same time) before addressing the issue of the grand family summer plan. By the time we were ready to hop into the family jalopy for the long drive home, other family members had beaten us to claim the air-conditioned bedrooms there. Aunts, cousins, nieces and siblings came and went, and we found ourselves outside the queue or at its very end. One weekend expired because my daughter had to attend a party hosted by an international DJ; another because my wife didn’t want to meet a sister-in-law who would be transiting there at the same time; and then my son’s university brought forward its opening date (“attendance: mandatory”); my daughter complained about my being lenient and letting him off the hook while “punishing” her; my wife looked smug, and so it’s been left to me to fend off calls from my mother who instead of saying “Hello” begins with an uncomfortable “Who?” these days.
Because the family visit didn’t happen, I struck a negative note on the family holiday which, in previous years, had taken a beating anyway, with everyone more or less opting for their own vacations. Since I prefer short breaks (my wife loves month-long ones), the arguments (involving the neighbours, who then had to take sides and cast votes, at which point they became scarce) were the stuff of fire-and-brimstone. “You can stay at home then,” my wife shouted, “while I’m off.” “That’s what you did last summer anyway,” I reminded her, “and the one before.” So did the children, I might have added, only it would have made me look like a loser, so I spent time checking on the options available to us: Summer packages in tourist cities close by, or a flight to Goa in the rains (my wife shuddered her disapproval); escaping to the hills (“that’s for People Like Them”, my son rebuked me); or, okay, I conceded after reviewing the savings account, I’d spring for a week in Malaysia. “Greece?” perked up my wife. “You promised us a cruise,” complained my son, remembering some long-ago pledge rashly made. “For this,” my daughter griped, “you made me miss my course at the London School of Economics.”
“So, OK,” I conceded to the children, “let’s splurge on a grand holiday for your mother’s 50th,” cautioning them to keep it secret. Plans were hatched, destinations chosen and approved, airline fares checked, even holiday clothes selected. My son said he’d take a break from college, my daughter splurged her internship stipend on a new wardrobe, we whispered about how much fun it would be and talked furtively till it came to springing for the holiday dates. “This time, next year,” I told the children, “when your mum turns 50.” Strange that neither they, nor their mother, have talked to me for over a week now about the surprise.
