When the office was planning a three-day retreat – a junket without any structure – being older and therefore more cynical, I threw a wet blanket over the proceedings. “We see each other every working day,” I said in the preparatory meeting, “surely we don’t want to spend any more leisure time than necessary in each other’s company” — which any analyst would have pointed out was against the team spirit that the office was hoping to foster. Instead of a heritage resort that everyone seemed to think desirable, I pointed them in the direction of a hotel in Agra, which considerably dampened everyone’s enthusiasm. A corporate trainer was sneaked into the programme and though the information was meant to be kept secret, it leaked out, diminishing interest some more.
Even as we were organising the outing, and surely only coincidentally, my son’s office was preparing for its retreat with considerably more eagerness. Largely, this was because they were going to Goa, and not just for a niggardly two days but four, and at least partly because – unpardonably for the company considering the expense it was undertaking – there appeared to be no covert agenda.
My office sent out despatches about upholding the company’s brand image, billable and unbillable expenses, and a how-to on behaviour. My son’s company, on its part, dispensed with circulars in favour of a pithy message: “Have fun, guys.” “We’re staying at a five-star hotel,” our HR department warned, “make sure you put your best foot forward.” “You’re staying at a five-star hotel,” my son’s office communiqué suggested, “make sure it looks like a two-star by the time you check out.”
“We will have mature fun,” I assured my son when he reported progress on their trip with not inconsiderable glee. Instead of arguing back, he simply inventoried the booze list for their group of revellers: two bottles of tequila, one each of rum, vodka, whisky “just for the journey from the airport to the resort”, he grinned, “we’ve been advised to drink till we drop.” I looked at the emailed inventory my office had sent out. “Drink only as much as you can hold,” it cautioned.
“We’ve even arranged a party,” I boasted to my son, though truth was we’d had a difficult time putting it together — the weather was too wet to allow a pool party, it was too humid for a garden party, a banquet room was uninspiring at best, so, well, what we’d finalised was assembling in a suite in somebody’s idea of themed outfits, the ghastly sight of which alcohol would presumably at least dull. “Yeah, well, we’ll just chill at some shack,” my son chuckled, “swim, paraglide, get a massage.” “We’ve planned pizzas for lunch one day,” I gloated, “street food on another, Mughlai kebabs for snacks…” “Squid,” countered my son, “lobsters, vindaloo, bebinca…” It was a losing battle.
I needn’t have felt threatened by his office’s idea of fun — we were a conscientious, clearly corporate outfit that would eschew its enjoyment sensibly, but it didn’t mean we didn’t know how to enjoy ourselves. “Can you have my jeans ironed,” I asked my wife, “for my trip to Agra?” “Mom,” requested my son, “just throw in some shorts into a bag for me,” adding for my benefit, “and don’t bother with the ironing.”
Leaving for his retreat a day ahead of mine, he said, “It’s okay, Dad, I’m sure you won’t be too bored.” “I know I won’t,” I admitted, “because I’m sure Goa’ll rain all over your fun.”
