…after three nights and four days at Goa. Kindly excuse me while I sigh long and deep in remembrance of a holiday which was more than a mere holiday. A holiday, which was, as I would dare believe, the mental equivalent of a carwash. You know, you go in all grimy and greasy and dirt spattered (and vomit spattered too, given the child got hit by a violent bout of carsickness enroute and insisted on being in mamma’s lap each and everytime) and emerge, scrubbed, polished, waxed (not literally, I had waxed before we left Mumbai shores), and gleaming. And tanned of course. This despite the bucketloads of sunscreens of varying strengths and prices one had carried along. But this time round the tan was not quite so intense. What also helped is that one was fastidious about slathering on sunblock. SPF 60 if you must know. And a cap and keeping out of the sun also helped. Yes, yes. The remembrance of the tan from the previous trip that had me looking like someone’s hired help kept me on the straight and narrow, and never stepping out without the hat.
We drove down from Mumbai to Goa, leaving at the unearthly hour of 4.30 am. Don’t ask. The spouse loves to drive. He has done Mumbai-Chennai, Mumbai-Bangalore, Mumbai-Cochin, and not once or twice. Times more often than I have fingers to count. Before the child happened, we would look at each other and say, “Lets go.” Throw a handful of clothes into a duffel bag and drive off into the sunrise. It was fun. Also neither of us suffers from car sickness. And we have iron clad guts, which have been seasoned and tempered by much eating off the streets and drinking water straight from taps and from roadside NH highway dhabas. Which was a major factor to be taken into consideration. Washing sick off clothes once one lands at fabulous hotel with fabulous rooms and fabulous bathroom with no provision for washing clothes is not a happy situation to be. Especially when the child who has regurgitated the contents of his stomach on you, approximately four times, with enough accuracy to deposit half of said contents into freshly washed hair, is now happily splashing in the pool with the spouse leaving you to do housemaid duty. We reached in time for lunch. Buffet lunch if you must know. A spread that had me want to sell my soul then and there for the ability to live there in that restaurant forever till my dying day. Pity no one’s offering to buy.
Anyway. Coming to the moot point of interest. We had booked an all meals package. And that, as any kind reader would realize, means that every meal is a buffet. A huge, tempting buffet. With miles and miles of dishes that one absolutely had to try out, and friendly chefs working their magic on the other side of said buffet counter telling us helpfully about the intricacies of each dish when one looked puzzled and wondered if that was quite enough or should one take the overheaped plate on a trolley to the table or rish walking into innocent folks given that one wouldn’t be able to see over the pile of food one had layered on in sheer greed. Which in turn means I ate enough to have to call for the golf buggy used to ferry selves around the resort to ferry myself from my table to the buffet for further servings. Kept thinking it was a good thing I gave up all pretences at going vegetarian before I landed up in Goa. I actually empathized with the lack of appetizing variety available for the vegetarian audience and moued that life was so cruel, while pouring down animals prepared in every possible variety down my gullet. I ate breakfast. Then I lounged around, fed to the gills, and unable to lift a muscle. Then I dragged myself down stairs at lunch time and topped off the stomach to keep the fullness to level and then had to splay out near the pool unable to even contemplate making my way back to the room. By evening when some digestion had happened and one felt that moving self would not be hazardous to one’s longevity, I would manage to go around checking out the fabulous works of art on the walls of the resort and the wonderful décor, wondering of course, in loud and audible tones as to how the hotel had the courage to keep white upholstery in the lobby and apart from Scotchguard and high budgets allowing continual changing of covers what was the secret that kept white white given I’ve managed to ruin even black leather sofas in my home.
Some person’s idea of a cruel joke was a state of the art weighing scale kept right at the entrance to the room so one could weigh oneself in privacy after every meal and hope the toughened glass of said scale didn’t shatter under ones feet when one hauled oneself on. Of course, this exercise was conducted when the spouse was not anywhere in the vicinity to have his sniggering in the background distracting me from the task of squinting at the hieroglyphs the weighing scale would display. Let me just say that I am now half a kilo away from the weight I weighed in at full term, just before they wheeled me into the operating theatre to cut me up and pull out the three and a half kilo child from me. Adding insult to injury were the Twiggys all around me sashaying around in itsy bitsy clothes looking like they didn’t know the spelling of the word cellulite it not being a word contained in their dictionary, while one ensured that the area between waist and knee was covered at any time given its propensity to move in directions independent of the rest of the body.
Yes, I will begin that diet and exercise programme tomorrow. I cross my heart and swear to die. I so need to be able to fit completely into a mirror and not see sides of me trimmed off the reflection.