A Tale of Two Vacations

Everything about vacations used to thrill me. It all began with shopping for gifts for family back home, packing with excitement, and finally boarding the train. The journey itself took four days to reach both our paternal and maternal homes, and every part of it felt like an adventure.

One of the most delightful parts of the journey was waving at people near railway crossings—those waiting patiently for the train to pass. We would keep waving until someone responded, and the moment they did, it felt like a little victory—a mission accomplished. Another source of joy was the occasional vendors who came by selling snacks. While our parents didn’t always share our enthusiasm, we would plead for something every time a vendor appeared. When the train would take a serpentine curve, we were thrilled to catch a glimpse of the engine—a rare but delightful sight that filled us with excitement. Every part of the train journey was filled with joy—except for one moment: crossing the Krishna River. The bridge stretched long over the vast river, and the eerie rumble of the train as it passed sent chills down my spine. I would sit with my ears covered and eyes tightly shut, silently praying that nothing unfortunate would happen.

As the train neared our destination, our excitement would reach its peak. Our hearts would race, and we’d poke our heads out of the window, straining to see who had come to receive us. The moment we spotted them, we would call out their names. They would run alongside the train until it stopped. That dash to greet each other was pure joy—filled with hugs, laughter, and warmth as we set off toward our dream destination, where our grandparents eagerly awaited us.

We were a boisterous battalion of cousins, brimming with energy and bound by shared mischief. Our internal clocks were perfectly synced—whether it was hunger, bath time, sleep, or bathroom breaks, everything happened in unison. We turned even the smallest things into playful contests: if one cousin ate a plate of cooked jackfruit, the other would try to eat two. That was the spirit—fun and competitive, all in good cheer.

Since we didn’t have any toys, our imagination did all the work. 

• We spent our days outside, sliding down small hills on pala (palm leaves), with one of us acting as the driver and the other as the passenger.
• We turned our grandfather’s wooden cot into a pretend bus. Some of us became the driver, some the conductor, and one was the killi—the person who blew the whistle and helped people get on the bus. The stories we made up while playing in that imaginary bus could fill a whole book.
• Whenever we heard the sound of a real bus approaching, we would run to the road, wave to stop it—and then run away laughing when it actually stopped, getting scolded by the killi and conductor.
• We threw stones at jackfruits or coconuts to knock them down and ate them right there.
• We held shouting contests to see who could scream the loudest.

Evenings began with bathing, followed by indoor time. We would gather to recite the rosary—a moment filled more with giggles than prayer. Then came our version of ganamela (musical show), led by our grandfather. He would sing and drum rhythmically on the table, joined by his children and grandchildren. Some would sing, others pretended to play instruments like the tabla and harmonium—using anything from wooden boxes to air gestures, complete with expressive faces. It was magical in its own innocent way.

Some nights were reserved for card games, and the loser would have to face playful “punishments” decided by the winners. When it was finally time to sleep, we didn’t sleep right away. We’d lie there—still upright—reliving the day’s events, planning the next, and giggling well into the night.

Now it’s 2025, and vacation time looks very different for my children and their peers. Whenever friends or relatives call, the response is always the same: “They’re either on their phones, laptops, or watching something on OTT platforms.” Physical activity is almost non-existent. Even when cousins visit, each one remains glued to their own device. Real conversations are rare. The physical world seems irrelevant, replaced by a virtual one filled with games, shows, and text messages.

Vacations once meant crowded houses, shared rooms, laughter echoing in every corner, and unforgettable moments. Today, they mean silence. Each person remains in their own room, absorbed in their own digital world.

This year, however, something changed. We traveled to Jammu—not knowing that prepaid mobile connections are restricted there. Until that moment, we were constantly on our phones. But once we were disconnected, anxiety set in. How would our friends reach us? How would family back home get in touch?

For one week, the phone became nothing more than a camera. But after the first day, we began to adjust. Conversations started to flow. I was delighted to see my kids engaging with each other. They even encouraged me to spend time with my friends while they enjoyed each other’s company. Usually, they argue over phones or fight over TV channels. But here, they talked—really talked. They spoke about school, friends, shared knowledge, and paid attention to their surroundings. They watched people, admired the place, and most importantly, they enjoyed being present. It felt like a different world, and I wished it could last longer.

Who is to blame? Many parents are quick to point fingers at their children. But honestly, the responsibility lies with us. From the moment they were born, our children have seen us glued to our phones. To them, it became the norm—something they assumed was simply a part of everyday life.

Today, as I look back on my own childhood vacations—rich with connection and free from technology—I can’t help but hope we, as parents, strive to offer our children something similar. When they reflect on their own past someday, may it be filled not just with memories of virtual games, but with real experiences, laughter, and moments that truly mattered.

Nisha Kurian (O'Rodha)