Journey of a(nother) lifetime

The father and son trip that never was

While excavating to write a eulogy for my Dad, I found a proposal for our voyage to India. The winner of a competition run by the Royal Geographical Society would have their journey made into a BBC Radio Four documentary. Why not mix a little business and ‘pleasure’, I thought? It felt like a great opportunity for us to bond over shared heritage and new experiences.

We got down to the final 13 from more than 300 entries. A notable achievement but, disappointed by another no, I quickly filed it away and moved on.

Looking at it now, I am surprised by the amount of work I did, from writing the lengthy narrative and researching the itinerary to producing a risk assessment. A deeper sense of purpose seemed to be driving me.

This week, I will say farewell to my old man. His loss is significant, not only because of who he was to me but also because of what his passing marks in my life. So it felt right to share this with you while pondering what might have been.

If you would like the full itinerary, just message me.

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We are Patels. India is our root. It’s in our bones, on our minds and fills our plates. Inevitably, my Dad and I have differing relationships to our homeland and attitudes to travel. There is the generational divide, of course, and the ideological differences that come with it.

A religious one also: he is Hindi and leans on religion as a guardian of sorts, as ballast, while I seek a faith that is more freeform and open-ended.

Born in Tanzania, he studied in Vadodara (then known as Baroda) before coming to England to pursue his career as an accountant. He is a stoic man, restrained and puts my happiness before his own, to a fault.

I was born in West Sussex, and didn’t set foot on Indian soil until I was 21. An earnest adventurer on a quest for enlightenment and a more ardent, assertive sense of self. As author Keith Bellows wrote, it was like an overload of the senses, almost overwhelming. “It was as if all my life I had been seeing the world in black and white and, when brought face-to-face with India, experienced everything re-rendered in brilliant technicolour.”

However, I felt like an outsider and not for the first time. It's common for the children of immigrants to feel adrift in this in-between space. Neither fully Indian nor British, in my case.

But then I wonder what it was like for my parents to leave their homes (in my mother’s case, reluctantly following Idi Amin’s expulsion of Ugandan Asians in the 70s). The sense of loss they must have felt as they tried to build a new life in an unfamiliar and often unwelcoming new world.

My Dad hasn’t seen India for more than 50 years. In that time, he survived a major car crash, got married, became a homeowner, was made redundant, bought shops, sold shops, had children, lost children and became a widower. There was no family holiday, no great culmination to their life’s work.

He now sits at the kitchen table, turning over the past. A weary 80-year-old who is consumed by his ailments, A man who keeps the TV on only to pass the time and who, at the suggestion of doing or trying anything new, replies “we’ll see how it goes”. It’s become a reflex.

There has to be more to life. To his life.

I think there is. I have seen him immersed in travel documentaries, later complimenting the likes of intrepid Simon Reeve … with a glint of wanderlust. Over occasional chats at that kitchen table, he updates me on our family in Ahmedabad. For a brief moment, I can see him transported on a cloud of nostalgia and dreams to present-day Gujarat as we reunite in a place that feels strange and familiar at the same time.

I take the bait. “How about it, then?” I suggest.

Here it comes: “We’ll see how it goes,” he says.

Well, the time has come. This is our Journey of a Lifetime and it must start now. As he becomes more immobile, time is running out to take this pilgrimage. It could be a way to reframe our relationship, which feels clamped at father and youngest son. Imagine how many profound experiences we could share together on the road as travel companions.

The plan – and I use that word loosely for India – is to land in Ahmedabad in the western region of Gujarat, and visit places of personal significance to our family together with a local guide, who can lend invaluable cultural and historical context.

There’s Ode (my grandfather’s hometown), Khambolaj (where my grandmother grew up), Sojitra (where mum spent time after leaving Kampala) and Vadodara (where Dad studied). His niece still lives in Ahmedabad with her family. I stayed with them more than 20 years ago. Indeed, a lot has changed, even for me.

Places such as Swaminarayan Mandir are emblematic of Hinduism, magnificent spaces for prayer and reflection that could also make for evocative radio. It would be interesting to dwell there and notice how that concentration of faith feels, as someone coming from the UK where it’s more fragmented. I know Dad will want to pay his respects at several of these temples.

After a detour to the waterside splendour of Oberoi Udaivilas and the palace hotel on Lake Pichola in Udaipur, which is on Dad’s wishlist, we head down to Kerala on the overnight sleeper train. Have you really travelled in India if you haven’t travelled by train?

It will be a long and tiring trip for the old man, and even though we are hardly backpackers freewheeling it down south, I would hope we’re beginning to really cultivate a sense of adventure by this point and the tape will reflect that. At the very least, it’s a chance to look back on Gujarat and collect our thoughts. And to look ahead to Kerala, which neither of us has ever seen.

Time to meet our second guide and driver. Energy levels permitting, we will take in the best of Thiruvananthapuram and the surrounding area, from Vellayani Lake to the calm hamlet of Varkala with its 2,000-year-old Vishnu temple that overlooks Papnasam Beach.

After the oppressive summertime heat of Gujarat, the cooler climbs of Ponmudi hill station during monsoon season will be beyond rejuvenating. A misty, mystical land of mountain flowers, exotic butterflies, small rivulets, verdant tea and spice plantations. Peppara Wildlife Sanctuary is also nearby and will provide a great opportunity to transport the listener with all manner of sounds far and wide.

Thekkady, way up to the north-east, will be our next port of call. The cacophony of Periyar National Park will give a whole new meaning to the term ‘wild track’. Granite temple Mangaladevi, 15km away, is more than 1,000 years old and is one of many places on our travels with a legend attached to it. Where possible, we will lean into beliefs and superstitions and invite the listener into the land of folklore.

From there, we will drive even further north to Munnar, another hill station with its own character, through the windy and rugged hills of Ramakkalmedu in Ikukki district. In the distance is Anamudi, the highest peak south of the Himalayas. I may leave Dad to rest on the tea estate, while I slip on my hiking boats for a trek. Let’s really get out there.

After reaching Kochi and visiting a few natural wonders such as Kochareekkal Caves, in Piramadam and Areekal Waterfall in Ernakulamm, we will experience a slower pace of life on the backwaters of Alleppay houseboat followed by a few snapshots of culture back in the city before flying home.

This documentary will combine audio diary and fly-on-the-wall approaches, while leaving room for surprise and mayhem. I would like it to work on two levels. To place us in the story and to find the story in us.

I would like us to open up these parts of India to the wider world, to share knowledge and experience in a dynamic way through sound. To be insightful. To take the listener where they have never been before and introduce them to people they might never have met.

Let’s create a sense of movement and the passage of time – from voluminous chatter on a bustling road in Vadodara, to eavesdropping on a teary reunion in a cramped living room in Ahmedabad, to audible astonishment in Periyar’s forest wilderness, pierced only by the whooping calls of the great hornbills. To the splash of river people mid-bathing ritual as we glide down the backwaters of Kerala, to a creaking door triggering a tender conversation in a cabin as our train chugs towards home.

I also want to move our listeners closer to empathy. A father and son born of different eras, with different upbringings and outlooks, who try to feel a greater closeness to one another by sharing time in the here and now. India will affect us in different ways. There will be difficult moments alongside joy. It’s up to us to breathe it all in and be attentive to the beauty of chance.

For my Dad in particular, I hope he can reach beyond himself and see the wonder in the world. I will have to meet him more than halfway on this trip and go at his pace. Who knows what could happen when I’m not rushing from moment to moment in solo traveller mode, which is my default. (Previous destinations include New Zealand, Australia, South Africa, Morocco, Estonia, Istanbul, Porto and various parts of the US.)

Instead, let’s pause and submit to the beautiful chaos of India and its conflicting rhythms, ponder its enormity and complexity. Find humour in the calamity, cultivate deeper curiosity. Dare I say it, the listener has an opportunity to ‘witness’ a transformation with just their ears, something almost transcendental.

Perhaps our story will also say something about the times we live in. India is in the throes of rapid change. Tradition butting heads with modernity. What do each of us see from our respective standpoints, four decades apart?

On first read, this trip may appear rather aimless, sprawling, more recreation than exploration. After all, we are not going in search of a lost kingdom, retracing the footsteps of an ancestor or some mythical figure.

But I think that’s missing the point. It will be an arduous journey in many ways. And the prize is something that eludes many fathers and sons. Connection. This journey is about being present together in our surroundings, reflecting on our relationship to this country … and to each other.

I am reading Mary Oliver at the moment. She was quite taken by India and wrote a much-loved poem called ‘Varanasi’. ‘May’ is a current favourite and concludes like this.

“My heart was pounding. I stood a while, listening to the small sounds of the woods and looking at the stars. After excitement, we are so restful. When the thumb of fear lifts, we are so alive.”

I hope we reach that final destination.

Basic route on Google Maps