The Pleasure of Unnecessities

We reached Coorg late in the evening. Serene environments often come nestled within relatively unspoiled nature.

A young girl from Kerala received us warmly. We were given one of the better rooms, surrounded by greenery. The rain didn’t matter. We shared a warm dinner with one of my son’s friends and his family. They live deep in the jungle, in the midst of a coffee plantation, where elephants outnumber humans, and they love it that way.

The next morning arrived with light rain and lush silence. We sat on the verandah, watching nature as if seeing it for the first time.

When you pay for something, it seems more valuable. But luxury needs time to soak in.

It was time to return to Bangalore. We said goodbye to the kind Kerala girl and our ever-cheerful buggy driver.

Our return via Mysore was steeped in nostalgia.

Mysore was my first workplace. All first-timers carry their share of blessings and blunders. Here we laid pipelines, installed fermentors, learned everything from scratch, and felt as if we were building a world for the first time.

There was no hierarchy. A meagre monthly salary bought food, friendship, and even weekend getaways.

We couldn’t stop in Mysore; time was short. As we passed through, I spoke to a few old friends. As if time has passed and we have not changed.

We reached Bangalore a little late. Our nephew, now working in the city, joined us for dinner at the hotel where we were staying.

My stomach had taken enough rest. Too much rest is not good for the restoration of health. It was ready for an attack, and I let it be attacked. My wife and nephew joined me in the jubilation of its revival.

After dinner, we returned to our room and talked till late night. Our nephew had to leave; work awaited him in the morning.

We have seen him grow up. He had been our companion on many vacations. Now he is working. Our closeness has taken a different shape. We don’t talk frequently, yet we can talk more freely. He speaks with independence now.

We spoke about my younger days. I wanted to tell more than I wanted to know. My wife didn’t quite enjoy this one-sided conversation; she wanted to hear his story. But he was more interested in mine.

Sometimes, you want to reach your own people in your own way. You are old, no longer the self you once were. Your children now support you with care, means, and strength. And yet, for no reason or necessity, you wish to support them, as if they are still children. It’s not about need; it’s about desire. They can buy the world. But you like to believe that what they cherish most is a chocolate from you.

The quiet joy of giving something small, something unasked, something unnecessary, is a token of love wrapped in memory—a pleasure born not of requirement, but of remembrance.

We carry not the coordinates, but the conversations. More than places, it is people who matter. A place’s charm is momentary; people linger. Landscapes move on, yet souls leave their trace. These are the pleasures of unnecessities.

Vacations are one of our necessities.

I have travelled far and wide, crossed oceans and borders, stepped into unfamiliar lands, breathed the air of distant places. Each journey brought something new: sights that widened my gaze, cultures that shifted my perspective, people who added layers to my understanding of the world.

And every time I return to familiar streets and faces, I return to my ordinary self.

The extraordinary dazzles; the ordinary sustains. Travel offers movement, possibility, and temporary escape. The return reminds us of belonging.

Some chase the extraordinary, believing happiness lies beyond the horizon. For others, happiness resides in the ordinary. Perhaps we all seek unexpected kindness, sudden beauty, moments of awe. These rare flickers add texture to the plain fabric of our days.

When we return home, a simple dal-roti and a familiar bed give us our world back. And we are ready for the routine.