“Save it for The Weekend!”

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The universe is broadly divided into 3 types of people:

  1. Those who work from Monday to Friday
  2. Those who work from Monday to Saturday
  3. Those who are paying for the sins committed in their past lives by getting their weekly off(s) on weekdays

No matter which one of these types one belongs to, any added holiday closer to the weekend reaffirms our faith in the secret power of wishful thinking. Now since India is such a salad bowl of cultures and religions, there’s never a scarcity of festivals A.K.A., public holidays. For everyone who belongs to the bored working class category, every festival means just one thing – a holiday!

We don’t care if Ram and Sita returned home after 14 long years of vanvaas and an adventurous Sri Lanka tour, we don’t care if Mahishasura was killed by Kali after a 9-day long gory duel, we really don’t give two hoots about our country celebrating its 70th year of being free from the British rule – just give us the damn holiday already!

Our generation is so hopeless that no matter how well-paying or interesting our jobs are, we will still pine for the days when we are away from our work desks.

“I’m planning to start reading this book over the weekend.”

“I think I’ll wake up a little early and go for a run on the weekend.”

“Oh, this one’s going to be a long weekend right? I think I’ll finally take my bicycle out for a ride.”

We know very well that activities such as reading a book, running and cycling are not banned on weekdays and that it’s absolutely possible to easily squeeze these into our daily routine. But we being the cranky, cribbing and lethargic souls that we are, we will always find an excuse to slyly slide things over to the weekend. 

Our generation knows nothing about celebrating the monotony of our routine; we only live for the weekends.

As a kid, I learnt quite a lot about the significance of a majority of Indian festivals through my school teachers. A lot of our post-holiday essays would revolve around learning about and writing the story that marked the importance of a certain festival for which we were getting an extra leave.

Why did we forget these stories?

Why were we so ecstatic about celebrating 1000 weeks of DDLJ (which by the way, I find to be ultra-long-maxi-level shitty) and were we not so bothered about celebrating 121 years of our victory at the Battle of Saragarhi? (Please go and read about this battle if you’re hearing about it for the first time!)

All our long weekends in the summer are reserved for trips to the hill stations, those in the monsoons are reserved for treks, and the ones in the winters are reserved for Goa. If nothing else works, there’s always the option of driving to Lonavala!

The travel industry is booming left, right, and centre – thanks to the ever-increasing number of “nomads” who always claim to bitten by the (hashtag) travel bug and smitten by (hashtag) wanderlust. This lot is completely diluting the essence of festive holidays. E-magazines have started fueling this show by publishing a list of all the long weekends panning across the year well in advance, with pre-planned mini-itineraries.

We may not know which day of the week will our birthday be falling on in 2018 but we know the order and the count of all the long weekends in 2018 by heart! (there are 16 this year, by the way.)

I may be sounding like a grandma right now but I really do think that we need to look beyond this self-created hullabaloo (and eventual disappointment) around holidays, and maybe spend at least a third of our time and energy on getting to know about the reason that made a certain day a public holiday.

It’s fun to get bhaang-ed at Holi parties and dance your heart out to ‘Do me a favour let’s play Holaaay‘ (God save us from the calamity that Anu Malik’s voice is!) with all that dirty colour on the face, which by the way, still makes us look at least three times prettier than how we look after getting off the Virar local on a weekday.

It’s also nice to get out of the city to unwind and get a dose of nature, God knows we all need it AND deserve it after all those long hours of commuting to work and back, and chasing deadlines like a cat chases a mouse.

I do understand that planning trips with just a handful of leaves available for the whole year is not an easy business, so weekends are our only hope. I also get that not all of us want to know or care about knowing what our festivals stand for. But I also think that it’s essential for us to be aware of and also respect the importance of noteworthy events from the past that still stand tall and strong in the history. Maybe Ram, Sita, Kali, Narasimha, and the likes were fictional characters, so I guess it’s okay for one to not believe in their stories. But why should that stop us from reading the story anyway and simply carry the essence of it with us? All these stories teach us lessons in some way or the other, after all.

I sometimes worry about the generations that will follow ours – how shallow and muddled is their recollection of our cultural and historic events going to be?

Will they ever know the joy of bathing before sunrise on the first day of Diwali?

Will they ever express gratitude and gather with their beloved to break bread on Thanksgiving? And will they do that because they genuinely understand the importance of doing this or only because Monica, Rachel, Phoebe, Ross, Joey and Chandler did so in F.R.I.E.N.D.S.? (For that matter, will they even watch F.R.I.E.N.D.S.?)

Will they ever stand in the never-ending queues for the bhog at the temples?

I really hope that the answer to all these questions is a good and a strong ‘yes’.

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“Only 12 hours; I Promise!”

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I knew it was going to be a long journey, 16 hours to be precise, but we wanted to plan a Goa trip which would “not hurt our pockets”.

Now, a ‘low budget trip’ can hold different meanings for different people. For us, it translated to travelling from Mumbai to Goa, and back, in a bus.

Thanks to my cousin’s claustrophobia, we had to book seats in a non-AC bus. If you think that was worse, then let me tell you that we couldn’t get a sleeper bus due to unavailability of seats and had to settle for one with those good-for-nothing push-back seats.

“Yay!”, I thought; NOT!

15 minutes into the journey: A group of 7 – 8 cheerful and chirpy college students boarded the bus. All of them looked too excited to be taking a trip to Goa; so much that I started feeling nauseous after a while. When two girls from that gang sitting right in front of me thought that their overflowing enthusiasm and hair needed to be documented, they took their phones out and clicked at least a 10,57,36,52,383 selfies. Every picture had the same cringeworthy pout, raised eyebrows and strategically used camera angles meant to highlight their ridiculously fashionable “travel outfits”. And here I was, shamelessly comfortable in my ancient track pants and an oversized t-shirt. By oversized, I mean a humungous t-shirt which could easily fit two baby elephants at once. The selfie-taking business was not over yet; how could it get over unless at least 10 of those pictures reached social media? One of the girls then started typing an unending list of hashtags, simultaneously reading them aloud, with such intensity that it made me feel sorry for technology.

2 hours into the journey: I found myself in what I’d like to call a “who gets to claim the seat-rest championship”. This innocent-looking human sitting next to me gently occupied the common seat-rest between our seats, which by the way, we BOTH had an equal right to. After a few minutes of shameless amounts of awkward-elbow-touching, I pushed the arm-rest upward so that it could no longer be used by either of us, thus, calling it a draw. (Request: Please don’t judge me! I really thought that I totally deserved the arm-rest because I was doing an important job of reading a book while he was just watching a bunch of random WhatsApp videos.)

5 hours into the journey: I had a rather entertaining argument with one of the girls from that college gang. All I’d asked this female was to move her seat a little forward only for 2 minutes so that I could prevent my kneecap from cracking completely. But madam responded with a look that screamed: “how dare you old-track-pants-wearing woman ask me to make my pretty Victoria Secret-adorned ass uncomfortable by shifting 2 centimetres ahead?” (Clarification: I’m an accommodating person as long as I see both the parties make an effort to find a mid-way.)

7 hours into the journey: I accidentally (I swear I didn’t do this on purpose!) happened to turn towards the adjacent row of seats only to find two love-birds making out as if the apocalypse was coming to claim them in the next 10 seconds. I quickly turned back to look out of the window and genuinely wondered how uncomfortable the guy looked, who BTW was busy swallowing his girlfriend’s tongue.

This brings me to think that a couple on a bus is a lot like the bus journey itself. They pick up speed only when everyone else has fallen asleep.

12 hours into the journey: I’m still trying to find that one “perfect sitting position” which will make my terribly stiffened spine ache a little less.

15 hours into the journey: I’m cursing the ticket guy who’d said “Madam 12 ghanton mein Goa touch! Only 12 hours, I promise!”, with a God-like all-knowing smile.

16 hours into the journey: I finally see cute little houses with thatched roofs lining the streets with cows freely taking their morning strolls while the bus fellow yells “Last stop, Madgaon”, thereby disturbing the very brief and the only decent nap I’d taken on this entire journey.