When the journey was the vacation

I still remember when I was a kid. Every year during Durga Pujo (yes, I'm Bengali. The universe made that decision long before I had any say in the matter), our entire family would go on a trip together.

It was never just my parents and me. There were my maternal grandparents, my aunt, and enough luggage to convince any passerby that we were relocating permanently rather than going on vacation.

The planning began at least a month in advance. While the adults worried about tickets, hotels, medicines, and all the practical things that apparently keep a family alive, I had only one concern:

Had we packed enough books?

Durga Pujo meant Pujobarshiki season. Those massive annual magazines that appeared only once a year felt magical. Anandamela was the crown jewel among them. It was a Pandora's box for a child. Short stories, serialized novels, comics, puzzles, fascinating articles, illustrations. Every page seemed to promise a new adventure.

Our destinations were usually Darjeeling, Puri, or Digha. Darjeeling and Puri meant overnight train journeys, which, to me, were as exciting as the destinations themselves.

The moment we boarded the train and settled into our allotted seats, the ritual began.

I'd ask my mother, who is an avid reader herself, to hand me one of the Pujobarshikis. Then I'd ask my father to open the middle berth. Once that was done, the world outside ceased to exist.

Lying there with one leg casually resting over the other like a miniature Bengali babu, I would disappear into those pages. We usually travelled second class, so the coaches were never particularly well lit. But none of that mattered. The stories provided all the illumination I needed.

A little later, after the ticket examiner had completed his rounds and confirmed that we were indeed occupying the correct berths and not staging a small-scale railway coup, another treasure chest would open.

The food.

From the seemingly endless collection of bags emerged containers packed with luchi, soft and pillowy, along with chicken curry and boiled eggs on the side. There were sweets too, because no Bengali family has ever willingly travelled without enough sweets to sustain a medium-sized village.

Even today, I can remember the feeling.

The train rattling steadily through the night.

Dark silhouettes of trees and distant houses gliding past the window.

The occasional gust of cool air.

A book balanced in one hand.

A plate of luchi and chicken curry in the other.

Somehow, everything felt perfect.

Looking back now, I realize that the vacation didn't really begin when we reached Darjeeling or Puri. It began the moment the train left the station.

The journey itself was the vacation.

And sometimes, when I think about those trips, I don't remember the hotels, the sightseeing, or even the destinations all that clearly.

What I remember is a dimly lit train compartment, a fat Anandamela resting on my chest, the smell of homemade food, and the comforting knowledge that everyone I loved was somewhere in the berths around me, gently swaying through the night toward another adventure.