A Khichdi of Traveling Nuisances
With the new guidelines for check-in and carry-on baggage for air travel, and the new list of restricted items on board airplanes, going on a vacation doesn’t really seem like a happy thing anymore. And of course, if you’re a harried desi mom in these shores, like me, you’re done for. So if you’re looking to feed your baby healthy, ghee-laced, homemade food on a local flight, like say, “khichdi,” forget all about it. Even a sipper filled with the purest of ‘baby water’ is not allowed; well, not until you’ve reached your gate, at least. Based on these and other equally niggling regulations, the bliss that earlier used to stem from just the thought of an annual vacation, which we just wrapped up, was conspicuously absent during the travel and airport transits.
Not more than a year ago, I remember traveling alone across continents with my little baby, then all of six months, all snuggled up in a cozy Kangaroo pouch. There was no count to the number of times I had to un-strap the pouch, and get ‘checked,’ even as I tried to lug my cabin carry-all, balance a diaper tote that was ten times heavier than the baby on my frail left shoulder, a laptop on my right, and all with the baby precariously dangling on my disappearing waist.
Of course, if you’re on an Air India flight, chances are you’ll get help from old, affectionate parents of other desis, who are, possibly, leaving their own grand children behind, to return to their homeland. Or perhaps, you may even get lucky with a fellow desi mom or dad, a bachelor or bachelorette, as long as they understand your predicament and your need to take a deep breath, or sometimes, even relieve yourself, while the baby is watched over. Of course, you might be wondering about the big old “Lakshman Rekha,” or the one thing that all desi parents forewarn their children about when they travel, “Do not talk to strangers. Do not trust strangers.” But when it comes to our own, we seem to take things for granted. And in my case, there was this cloying single desi girl who was going home on vacation, and she gladly agreed to handle my wailing, whimpering little one as I excused myself to the restroom. My opened up bags and belongings were resting at her feet, and somehow, it never once occurred to me to think back to the “Lakshman Rekha.”
But this time, we were traveling locally. And the fact that my husband took care of our little one didn’t seem to suffice to ease my nerves. My bags were ripped open, sippers full of fresh, homemade fruit juices were discarded, the baby’s sunscreen was screened (it was more than the allowed limit of 3 oz., yes, it was 4 oz.), and even though I didn’t care much about it then, I am now glad I didn’t carry the baby’s nasal drops, general medicines, Pediasure, and a few other things in my diaper tote that would have had to hit the dump. And the screening machine seldom fails to single out handbags of poor, frenzied moms like me. So amidst all the checking, and detecting, I was busy explaining to the lady in the uniform that I had genuinely forgotten that I had placed a Gerber food bottle in my handbag. I even told her that I was willing to pass it by if she so deemed fit. But all she wanted me to do was stand back, and watch, without touching, as she explored and rummaged my debilitating handbag and its various nooks and hidden corners, as if it had something as harmful as the pack of Gerber “mashed sweet potatoes.”
Anyhow, once the ordeal was over and done with, the next daunting task was to put on my shoes and jacket, dress the baby back up in all those layers, and teensy little walkers, strap her back in her stroller seat, hand her over to the husband, and handle a couple of elephantine bags, after their contents had been put back in order, lest they fail to zip up - and all this, to be on the airplane in time.
After we had reached our destination, however, it was all forgotten, albeit momentarily, as there were the scrutinizing gates and guards in all the places of interest on our agenda. But my daughter was happy to see Mickey and his kin, and she picked out her first tiny seashells, as she enjoyed her first visit to a beach, playing “Jump Up High” with the seagulls and learning a thing or two about the hazards of getting sand in her mouth. I have even taught her to say “bonda” and “bhaja” to refer to the fried American delicacies she feasted on, on the beachside, when she speaks with her grandparents. All’s well that ends well, as they say, and I’m especially glad that her sunscreen had already been used to beat the Windy City heat this past summer. Well, at least so that it made the tube feel lighter than 4 oz., to be able to make it through, albeit locked in a special plastic seal.
Not more than a year ago, I remember traveling alone across continents with my little baby, then all of six months, all snuggled up in a cozy Kangaroo pouch. There was no count to the number of times I had to un-strap the pouch, and get ‘checked,’ even as I tried to lug my cabin carry-all, balance a diaper tote that was ten times heavier than the baby on my frail left shoulder, a laptop on my right, and all with the baby precariously dangling on my disappearing waist.
Of course, if you’re on an Air India flight, chances are you’ll get help from old, affectionate parents of other desis, who are, possibly, leaving their own grand children behind, to return to their homeland. Or perhaps, you may even get lucky with a fellow desi mom or dad, a bachelor or bachelorette, as long as they understand your predicament and your need to take a deep breath, or sometimes, even relieve yourself, while the baby is watched over. Of course, you might be wondering about the big old “Lakshman Rekha,” or the one thing that all desi parents forewarn their children about when they travel, “Do not talk to strangers. Do not trust strangers.” But when it comes to our own, we seem to take things for granted. And in my case, there was this cloying single desi girl who was going home on vacation, and she gladly agreed to handle my wailing, whimpering little one as I excused myself to the restroom. My opened up bags and belongings were resting at her feet, and somehow, it never once occurred to me to think back to the “Lakshman Rekha.”
But this time, we were traveling locally. And the fact that my husband took care of our little one didn’t seem to suffice to ease my nerves. My bags were ripped open, sippers full of fresh, homemade fruit juices were discarded, the baby’s sunscreen was screened (it was more than the allowed limit of 3 oz., yes, it was 4 oz.), and even though I didn’t care much about it then, I am now glad I didn’t carry the baby’s nasal drops, general medicines, Pediasure, and a few other things in my diaper tote that would have had to hit the dump. And the screening machine seldom fails to single out handbags of poor, frenzied moms like me. So amidst all the checking, and detecting, I was busy explaining to the lady in the uniform that I had genuinely forgotten that I had placed a Gerber food bottle in my handbag. I even told her that I was willing to pass it by if she so deemed fit. But all she wanted me to do was stand back, and watch, without touching, as she explored and rummaged my debilitating handbag and its various nooks and hidden corners, as if it had something as harmful as the pack of Gerber “mashed sweet potatoes.”
Anyhow, once the ordeal was over and done with, the next daunting task was to put on my shoes and jacket, dress the baby back up in all those layers, and teensy little walkers, strap her back in her stroller seat, hand her over to the husband, and handle a couple of elephantine bags, after their contents had been put back in order, lest they fail to zip up - and all this, to be on the airplane in time.
After we had reached our destination, however, it was all forgotten, albeit momentarily, as there were the scrutinizing gates and guards in all the places of interest on our agenda. But my daughter was happy to see Mickey and his kin, and she picked out her first tiny seashells, as she enjoyed her first visit to a beach, playing “Jump Up High” with the seagulls and learning a thing or two about the hazards of getting sand in her mouth. I have even taught her to say “bonda” and “bhaja” to refer to the fried American delicacies she feasted on, on the beachside, when she speaks with her grandparents. All’s well that ends well, as they say, and I’m especially glad that her sunscreen had already been used to beat the Windy City heat this past summer. Well, at least so that it made the tube feel lighter than 4 oz., to be able to make it through, albeit locked in a special plastic seal.
posted by Ranjini | 8:57 PM
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