Trapped in London

I am punished. I’m on my way to London. Actually, it’s a little bit my fault. When the wife asked about our annual family vacation, I immediately suggested Alibaug. That didn’t go down well with her, I could tell from her vice-like grip on my wrist.

So, in order to make up for the erroneous suggestion, I went to the other extreme and out it popped on its own, like a newborn alligator from its egg: “London”. My wife relaxed her grip even as the enormity of what I had done sank in. As breathing became difficult I weighed the consequences of my infantile overreaction action.
London would be expensive. Visas mean lines. A line is the thing I hate third most in the world, after standing and walking. Oh God! Standing and walking would be a major part of London. London is a big city. I’ve been there before, it’s a walk that doesn’t end. And what about the trap, or as non-parents refer to them, kids. Kids are dangerous in foreign countries. They like to bound around at full pace, they like to touch things, they like to shriek at the top of their voices.
Perfectly respectable actions, culturally speaking, in India, but highly avoidable in Europe. And then, what if the kids don’t want to walk the endless city of London. Guess who’ll be nominated to walk and carry them at the same time. The trap will also need to be fed fish and chips for £9. An ice cream for £5, and apparently now if you even look at a restaurant they charge you. And then there’s the weather. When you leave home, it’s cold. You’re in your sweater. Twenty minutes later, it’s ridiculously hot. So you remove your sweater and five minutes more and you are drenched in pouring rain with your raincoat 20 miles away, packed safely.
What about sightseeing. In my first trip, Buckingham Palace was a must, now it lags behind Mittal Towers (Laxmi’s Palace) and the sex museum. Frankly, I can’t say which one I’d be more embarrassed to take my kids to.
What about the Mecca of cricket at St. John’s Woods, Lord’s. In 1986, I saw Chetan Sharma bowl out England and Dilip Vengsarkar score a century. Wow! I hear the first test match between Sri Lanka and England may get scrapped as a multi-millionaire diamond merchant non-resident Indian wants to have his daughter’s wedding nuptials on the same hallowed turf on which both Gavaskar and Tendulkar failed to score a test century.
Then there’s the trip to Stratford-Upon-Avon to see the remains of the bard.(No actual forensic remains linger.)
Here, in the home of the English language’s greatest son, you hear very little English. Plenty of Punjabi, Gujarati, Russian, Japanese, even Urdu, but very little English. At this rate Shakespeare might as well have been a Sharma.
And then, if one has time to head north and visit Scotland, the legend of the Lock Ness monster has been relegated — instead, it’s the legend of the ex-officio Indian Premier League chairman Lalit Modi (last sighting in Glasgow, circa 2010) that’s got everyone talking.
No, London, is too big, with too much for one to handle. In desperation I begged my wife, Singapore, I cried, Bangkok, I suggested, Bali, Hong Kong, but to no avail. What about Nepal? I squeaked. Goa, Kerala, Jaipur, Rishikesh, Kulu-Manali, Mahabaleshwar, Alibaug.
My wife had already started packing for London. It was a case of alea jacta est (the die is cast).
Distraught, I went to seek consolation from my friend Kunal Vijayakar, bolonist, biologist and Londonophile.
Patiently he listened as I told him of all my fears, of the Lakshmi Mittals and the Lalit Modis. After a long pause this wise man said “Don’t be negative, you’ll have a great time. And remember to see the London Bridge, but do hurry”.
“Why” I inquired politely?
“Well the rumour doing the rounds is that London Bridge is falling down, so hurry”, he concluded, as he moved his ears in much the same manner as the Prince of Wales did in the pouring rain.