New Delhi, Nov. 2 -- Recently, I travelled to Sri Lanka with my family. People who have been to Sri Lanka would know how densely the country is strewn with places of rich geological, historical and mythological significance, all compacted within an east-west span of barely 250 kilometres. You can have breakfast by the beach in Trincomalee, find yourself at a jungle resort in Sigiriya by lunch, and still make it in time for dinner amid the hilly, chilly surroundings and breathtaking views of Kandy.

Staying true to the touristy vibe, we had also planned some beach activities in Trincomalee before moving on to our next destinations, particularly temples and places of significance from the Ramayana.

When asked to wrap up our beach time, my three-year-old son, who was experiencing the beach for the first time, instantly quipped, "Do we really have to go somewhere else now, Mumma? Why can't we spend some more time here at the beach?" His innocent vehemence gave me a sense of deja vu. I went down memory lane and instantly saw the eight-year-old me playing on a beach in Cuttack, building sandcastles with my younger sister. Both of us were thrilled by our first beach experience, while our parents waited impatiently for us to wind up so that they could embark upon the religious tourism that is characteristic of the Puri-Cuttack belt.

"Hurry up, we need to go to the temple and then go shopping," they would say, followed by constant urges to "pack up now!"

"Do we really have to go somewhere else now?" we asked, as neither my sister nor I wanted to leave. We wanted to stay at the beach all day long. Wasn't it the most fun place to be? What was the enchantment in visiting centuries-old temples and palaces, where there was no thrill or any activities for us to engage in? Who would choose such places over the beach?

We tried with all our might to cajole and convince our parents, even occasionally threatening rebellion, but to no avail. Gradually, the pleas turned into soreness, and the drudgery of the trade-off between beaches and monuments became the most striking aftertaste of the trip in our minds. Why our parents did not accede to such harmless requests from young children was beyond our comprehension. The reminiscence brought a wide smile to my face as I watched the little girl in me graduate from the request-maker to the decision-taker; from upselling the enchantments of the beach to promoting the grandeur of checkbox tourism.

Meanwhile, my son grudgingly pulled himself out of the sea and walked away, crestfallen, his sulky face now replacing all the convincing and cajoling. I smiled as I watched him. Having shifted to the other side of the table, I had come to understand the parents' perspective. The requirement to have an itinerary, to check out as many places of tourist renown as possible, and to maximise every minute of the trip almost ironically turns the vacation into a work project that one needs to deliver with excellence. The juxtaposition was strikingly clear: the younger me wanted depth. The older me wanted breadth. Wouldn't it make more sense to simply be present in the moment instead of treating the vacation as a sequence of events with non-negotiable compliance and negligible tolerance for revisions? Wouldn't spending an entire day lazing by the beach make the trip more memorable for the whole family? Would only a meticulously detailed itinerary, followed to the T, make the trip truly "paisa vasool"?

I don't have any definitive answers. Perhaps I'll simply wait and watch my son move to the other side of the table himself and be asked by his child someday, "Do we really have to go somewhere else now, Daddy?"

Views expressed are personal. The writer is an engineer from VIT Vellore and an alumna of IIM Kozhikode

Published by HT Digital Content Services with permission from Millennium Post.