To journeys where you savour time and break free of the rigours of contemporary travel
Before leaving, there had been the question, “What do you plan to do?”
Unfortunately, there was no plan. I was fairly certain that I was on a holiday — I had applied for four days work leave. But I had very little desire to “travel”. The plan, if one can call it that, was to simply visit a friend who I hadn’t seen in years. I’d stay with him, his family including two adorable dogs, at his 100-year-old house at Kangra, Himachal Pradesh.
However, everyone I know seems to love travelling or the idea of travelling with an intensity I cannot quite identify with, and which unnerves me. Friends have told me how travelling opens their eyes to the world, others have detailed how their entire existence is geared around finding the time (and money) to travel. These people fill me with envy that stems from the painful knowledge that I am, at least by such conventional markers, terrible at travelling.
The first time I decided to travel alone, I was studying in Brighton, England. I had decided that it was about time I see the rest of the country. A series of bad decisions followed and I found myself at York, at 11pm, in December. York, albeit a lovely historic city, is very, very cold. And I had forgotten to pack a sweater. Such instances, and many others, have made me realise that, at best, I am an avid planner of failed travel trips and plans. Perhaps that is why I was certain that my holiday at Kangra would be better served without a plan. This time, I did pack a sweater though.
It helped that my friend’s house, despite being around for a century, didn’t really have an address. My friend explained, “There’s the pin code and the village name. But that’s merely indicatory. The rest is about asking people about who lives where.”
Unsurprisingly, I had expected the holiday to be a blissful experience where I would leave technology behind, including my phone. Needless to say, I failed to do so. Instead, I got introduced to an incredibly addictive football game on my phone.
“I am sure you didn’t think you’d be playing a game on your phone while relaxing, without technology,” my friend said, and I replied that he was, indeed, correct. “But think about it,” my friend added, “we haven’t met in years now. And here we are, playing a video game. Doesn’t it feel like we have gone back in time?”
He was right. It did feel that way. But I also realised that it had less to do with technology, or the lack of it. Instead, it had more to do with my lack of any concrete plan.
Yes, it certainly helped that my friend’s dogs demanded my attention in a way that was, at once, unfamiliar and deeply satisfying. It helped that the food, from his mom’s cooking to pork chops at Dharamkot, was so delicious. It helped that in the hills, with sunsets creeping up instead of deadlines, I felt myself eons away from the office. But most of all, it helped that I had no intention of travelling or making a template of my journey that must be followed.
In fact, before ‘slow travel’ became a buzzword, this friend of mine and I had travelled together frequently, but had never thought of them with the seriousness attached to travel plans these days. We looked at them as just another way — another few days, of being with friends. So, at night, when we ended up discussing the various things that define friendships — failed relationships, future goals, hopes, disappointments — it never felt like we had been apart. He had lived in a different continent for a couple of years, as had I. But our stories coalesced without effort. It didn’t feel like we have ever travelled when, in fact, we’ve enjoyed several journeys together to come this far.
