It's often after that trip home that you need a real holiday

No sooner do you land and emerge from the airport that loved ones stress you out by asking how long you're in town for. Vacations can often be more hectic than fun. Is the solution a 'staycation'?

Definition of 'Holiday': An extended period of leisure and recreation.
Definition of 'Vacation': To go on holiday
Someone, a fellow Indian living in Dubai, once told me, "After all these years as an expat and travelling the world, I've stopped feeling excited about visiting any place... except India. When I go home - that's when I feel excited."
By the time you read this, I'll be in India, on a two-week "vacation". But as I write this, a few days before I embark on the journey from Terminal 1 (catching the Air India flight), I can't help feeling a little terrified. Don't get me wrong. I love India more than any other place in the world; what gives me cold feet is the idea of a "vacation at home".
For starters, I get annoyed whenever folks around town start telling me, "Wow, two weeks' vacation! What fun you'll have!" Not much fun really, when you land on home turf, and the first question you have to field is: "So... how long are you here for?" This, after all concerned know exactly how long my break is for (I've sent flight numbers, estimated time of arrival and departure dates - on email, WhatsApp and on vocal chords - to almost everyone I know in my home country). I have to tell them, game face on, "Like I've communicated earlier: two weeks."
"Only two weeks?" the sulking begins then and there. "Such a short time..." By now, I find myself explaining we, at Khaleej Times, get only 22 days of annual leave in a year - like I've mentioned so many times before - and - I repeat, like I've mentioned so many times before - if you want me to visit India twice a year, this is all I can muster. It's never a good enough justification, and the pall of gloom gets carried over for the next two weeks.
Then, of course, is the dreadfulness of being forced to meet extended family members I don't want to meet, and have hour-long convos with them saying exactly what I've been saying every six months (translated to: whenever I am in India); I've actually formed audio clip capsules in my brain and parrot them: "No, I don't have to wear a burqa to work, and guess what? I don't even have to wear a hijab." "Yes, I live alone... still," "Yes, there are winters in Dubai, at times I feel distinctly chilly," "No, I don't have time to cook lunch for myself and pack it to work - but I try to cook over weekends, and, no, I don't feel miserable and lonely eating by myself," and so on and so forth. The questions never quite end.
Strangely, everyone seems to have a problem with my weight. Bi-annually. "You're getting thinner by the day," they tsk tsk in disapproval. I have to remind them they've been giving me the same line for the past eight years... I should have disappeared by now, no? But see, here I am, all 52.5 kilos (I got my weight checked last week).
And then, comes the real bummer. "Gosh, how much tax-free money you must have made by now! Do you have a figure? A few crores for sure, right?" I have to look sheepish every time, and mumble I'm not saving anything much because, you know, it's kind of expensive being an expat, and wondering - for the nth time - if they can be possibly assuming they are going to get a cut of any of my alleged crores.
By the time I'm through having conversations with people back home, I'm exhausted. It's the kind of exhaustion that beats physical rigour at work. I'm already looking forward to returning to my 12-hour-day work routine. The fact that the Boss says, as journalists, we have to be working "virtually" 24x7 suddenly seems like a beacon of light ushering me out of a meandering wilderness of claustrophobia.
There is also the physical decrepitude. "You've got me something called pesto sauce... and something called spaghetti," my father announces loudly at 6am in the morning, jolting me out of much-needed slumber. "Please make some for dinner tonight." I toy with the idea of telling him you get pesto sauce and spaghetti at the store around the corner in Salt Lake, Kolkata, but desist, imagining it would trigger yet another conversation. So, come evening, I plod my way into the kitchen and boil the pasta, ensuring it's al dente.
My niece tells me her best friend (her best friend, it appears, changes every six months, to coincide with my "vacations") wants to meet me, so could I hobble over to her school? Please, pretty please? I love my niece to bits so have to oblige - again, game face on - but, seriously, why do I need to meet another 8-year-old chatterbox who'll be expecting a box of chocolates from my fast-depleting stock?
My brother is planning a "family picnic" down a walking trail. "I bet you don't have such amazing walkways in Dubai," he's declared. I try to tell him weakly I don't want to be walking under the summer sun; I want to be resting.
"You can rest in Dubai," he laughs.
He's probably right. Maybe I should plan a vacation here.,
sushmita@khaleejtimes.com
Sushmita is editor, WKND. She has a penchant for analysing human foibles