Dinesh Rao
Chapter 1: “Congratulations, You’re Going Abroad!”
It was a dusty April afternoon in Kanpur, the kind of day where ceiling fans give up and men in banyans sit outside complaining about rising electricity bills. In the midst of this sweaty monotony, the Tripathi household was suddenly turned upside down by a shrill ringtone and a louder shriek. Sunita Tripathi had won something. She’d been entering supermarket contests for years—sending SMS codes, dropping coupons in steel boxes outside sweet shops—but this was different. This time, the universe answered. “Ramesh ji! Dekho! Dekho!” she shouted, waving a crumpled paper. Her husband, Ramesh Tripathi, a middle-aged LIC agent with salt-and-pepper hair and an eternal suspicion of all things digital, put down his steel glass of nimbu paani. “Ab kya mila? Soap ka sampoo?” he mumbled. “Nahin! Europe trip!” she beamed. A 10-day, all-expense-paid European tour for five, courtesy of “Star Shopping Bumper Lucky Draw.” Ramesh blinked. Europe? The farthest he had been was Haridwar. The house erupted into disbelief. Chintu, their teenage son, leaped from the bed, WiFi-forgotten, to check if it was real. Dadi muttered, “Achha hai, main toh France mein bhi Gangajal leke jaungi,” while Aarti, their daughter working in Bangalore, who happened to be on a video call at that moment, nearly dropped her phone. She knew one thing instantly—if this family had to go abroad, she would be the designated tour guide, babysitter, translator, and crisis manager.
The following days were a whirlwind of chaos wrapped in plastic folders. The first shocking revelation: out of the five family members, only Aarti had a valid passport. Ramesh scoffed, “Passport kisliye chahiye? Hum toh deshbhakt hain.” Sunita, meanwhile, thought her Aadhaar and a photo from their Kedarnath yatra would suffice. Thus began the most dramatic trip to the passport office Kanpur had ever seen. Chintu’s birth certificate was missing. Dadi insisted she already had a passport “made in 1984 for Nepal trip,” which turned out to be a bus ticket. They ran from xerox shops to notaries, Dadi fighting with a biometric machine (“Mera toh angutha hi nahi lagta properly!”), Ramesh suspicious of every officer behind every glass window. Aarti flew down in panic, armed with checklists, forms, staplers, and two liters of sanitizer. “You people will make us internationally blacklisted,” she muttered as she filled forms on their behalf. By the time they were done, Sunita had brought tea in a flask to the passport office twice, Dadi had blessed the photo booth with kumkum, and Ramesh had declared the office “corrupt but manageable.” Finally, after hours of drama and nearly losing a shoe in a government washroom, all documents were submitted. The wait began. As days passed, Ramesh paced like a caged tiger. “Europe… cold country hai. Wahan hamara masala chalega?” he asked nervously. Sunita, ever-prepared, began sun-drying thepla and achaar, filling steel dabbas with things she was sure no foreign grocery store could ever offer. Meanwhile, Chintu made a TikTok titled “Desi to DC (Dream Country)” and received over 3,000 views.
Then came the passports—three small, navy-blue booklets that transformed the house into a fortress of excitement. The flight tickets arrived. A bulky travel itinerary was emailed. Aarti printed and laminated it thrice. The day before departure, the house was no longer Kanpur—it had become a mini departure terminal. Suitcases lay open like surgical wounds, spilling with woolens, instant noodles, pain balms, and emergency jaljeera sachets. Ramesh insisted on packing wool socks “just in case the hotel gives us cement floor.” Sunita packed religious CDs. Dadi hid a tiny bottle of ganga jal in her blouse. Amid this overpacking orgy, Aarti remained calm—until she saw that Ramesh had packed three blazers, all brown. “Baba! Are we going to a funeral or Europe?” she cried. “Blazer dignified hota hai,” Ramesh replied solemnly. As night fell, the family sat down to their last home-cooked Indian meal before the “videshi bhojan trials.” They clicked one photo together, in front of a suitcase pyramid. In it, Dadi smiled broadly, Sunita held a travel guide upside down, Ramesh looked stern but secretly thrilled, Chintu wore sunglasses indoors, and Aarti looked tired—but proud. Europe wasn’t ready for the Tripathis, and to be honest, the Tripathis weren’t ready for Europe either. But the plane had been booked, the bags were packed, and the story was just about to begin.
Chapter 2: “Boarding Passes & Biryani”
The morning of the flight began not with a soft alarm or classical music but with Dadi’s voice echoing through the house at 4:30 a.m.—“Utho sab! Kal Europe jaana hai, aaj der karoge?” Her logic, as always, was questionable but firm. Despite the flight being in the evening from Delhi, she insisted on leaving Kanpur by noon, fearing traffic, rain, global warming, or the possible “bandh” her friend Lajwanti had heard about on Facebook. The Tripathis, dressed like they were going to two different weddings and one funeral, dragged themselves into a rented white Innova. Ramesh wore his brown blazer (blazer #2, according to Aarti’s tracking system), Sunita clutched a steel tiffin containing poori-aloo, and Dadi sat in the middle row with a sling bag that held her passport, her photo of Lord Hanuman, and a steel container of mukhwas. Chintu, already bored, put on headphones and tried to ignore his family while recording vertical videos of everything for his growing online fanbase. Aarti sat in the front seat beside the driver, scrolling nervously through the boarding pass PDFs. “Please, sab log apne passport ka photo mujhe WhatsApp karo. Abhi,” she instructed. “Mere paas toh WhatsApp hi nahi hai,” Dadi proudly declared. “Main likh ke deti hoon!”
Delhi Airport loomed large and glowing like a spaceship in the night. As the family approached the departure gate, their pace slowed with nervous awe. Ramesh whispered to Sunita, “Yeh toh station se bhi zyada chamakta hai.” Trouble started the moment they reached the entrance. “ID proof?” said the security guard. Dadi dramatically pulled out her ration card. “Beta, yeh chalega?” The guard sighed. Aarti stepped in, smoothing things over with printed copies and charm. Inside, they were greeted by an alien world—escalators, moving walkways, foreign voices, people wearing neck pillows like garlands. “Yeh sab acting kar rahe hain,” Ramesh mumbled. At check-in, Sunita insisted they keep all bags with them on the plane “kyunki mujhe apna sweater chahiye flight mein.” The lady at the counter almost fainted when she saw six overweight cabin bags filled with namkeen, extra slippers, and half of Kanpur’s medicine stock. Somehow, they managed. The real chaos began at security. Ramesh forgot coins in his pocket—beep. Dadi’s handbag triggered a double scan—turns out, she had packed a sindoor box in a pressure cooker, “kyunki yeh cooker travel-size hai.” Sunita unwrapped foil from theplas and asked a confused CISF officer if she could heat them somewhere. Chintu filmed the chaos, titled it “Security Drama – Indian Family vs. Metal Detector”, and uploaded it before boarding. Aarti looked ready to melt into the airport tiles. She sighed and muttered, “Bas flight miss na ho.”
Once on the plane, Ramesh spent fifteen minutes figuring out the seatbelt (“Yeh toh scooter ka belt lagta hai”), while Dadi kept pressing the cabin crew button thinking it was a light switch. Sunita opened her steel tiffin mid-air, releasing a storm of hing-laced air into the otherwise deodorized business class section. A flight attendant gently requested her to close it, but Sunita replied, “Beta, it’s homemade. No smell.” The Italian gentleman in 11B disagreed silently with watery eyes. Meanwhile, Chintu explored the touchscreen like a caveman discovering fire. “Yeh toh Netflix se bhi accha hai!” he yelled. Aarti, stuck between her father’s elbow and her brother’s loud commentary, put on noise-canceling headphones and tried to meditate. The plane took off. Dadi gasped. Ramesh clenched the armrests. Sunita prayed. Chintu giggled. And for a brief, rare moment, Aarti smiled. They were finally in the air. The Tripathis were officially international. Europe didn’t stand a chance.
Chapter 3: “Bonjour, Confusion!”
The descent into Paris was met with awe, ear pressure, and a loud debate about clouds. “Dekho dekho! Eiffel Tower dikh gaya!” screamed Sunita, pointing at a water tank on a distant rooftop. Aarti sighed. Ramesh declared, “French log ka traffic bhi disciplined hai,” staring at a closed runway. As the wheels hit the ground and the announcement came—“Bienvenue à Paris!”—Dadi clapped. She thought it polite. The Frenchman beside her did too, and joined in. Chintu immediately filmed the moment, adding his signature line: “Tripathi Travels has officially landed in Europe, bhaiyo aur behno!” At customs, Aarti showed all passports, visas, hotel bookings, and return tickets. Ramesh, still suspicious, muttered, “Pura din toh file hi dekhte rahenge yeh log.” Dadi greeted the customs officer with a loud “Jai Shree Ram!” and offered him tilak—which led to a 7-minute multilingual explanation from Aarti. Finally through, they emerged into the arrival lounge where a man in a flat cap held a placard: “Tripathy Family.” Ramesh scoffed, “T-h ke jagah T-h-y likha hai. Nalayak hai.” But they followed him anyway, dragging oversized trolleys full of India through the land of elegance.
Their hotel in Montmartre had a narrow lift that could barely fit two Tripathis and half a suitcase. So they went up in batches—Dadi and Sunita first, with the thepla tin and spiritual calendar; then Aarti with the passports and sanity; then Chintu and Ramesh, who got stuck between floors briefly, triggering a minor diplomatic panic. Once settled, they explored the surroundings. The streets were charming, with patisseries on corners and people sipping coffee like it was holy nectar. But for the Tripathis, the real challenge was ordering dinner. At the café downstairs, Aarti tried to explain vegetarianism. The waiter blinked twice. Ramesh took the menu, frowned, and said, “Poisson? That means poison, right?” Aarti slapped her forehead. Chintu tried to translate using an app but it confused “paneer” with “wall.” Finally, Sunita lost patience and said, “Bhaiya, kuch rice ho toh le aaiye.” The stunned waiter brought out a plate of risotto, which the family examined like a science experiment. Dadi sniffed it, declared it “wet kichdi,” and poured pickle over it. Meanwhile, Chintu asked for Coke, and was handed a small bottle costing €6. “Paanch Coke mein toh ek pizza aa jaata Kanpur mein!” Ramesh exclaimed. “Yeh toh loot hai!”
That evening, they visited the Eiffel Tower. Aarti had pre-booked tickets online, but forgot to factor in that Dadi would argue with the security guard about not being allowed to carry amrutanjan balm. After more negotiations, they reached the lift to the top. As the city unfolded below them, lights twinkling like stars at their feet, something shifted. Even Ramesh fell silent. Dadi whispered, “Achha hai. Bada sundar hai.” Sunita teared up and clutched Aarti’s hand. Chintu took selfies with the tower in the background and geotagged them #DesisInParis. Aarti, though exhausted, looked at her chaotic family and smiled for real. For a few minutes, everyone stood together quietly—no complaints, no food demands, no confusion. Then Dadi sneezed, Chintu asked for WiFi, and Ramesh asked where the washroom was. The moment was over. The Tripathis descended back to earth, both literally and metaphorically. They didn’t know it yet, but their adventures were just beginning. Paris had welcomed them with open arms—and slightly clogged noses.
Chapter 4: “Lost in Louvre”
The next morning began with Sunita’s voice echoing down the narrow corridor of the Paris hotel: “Sab utho! Aarti boley Louvre jaana hai!” Ramesh, still half-asleep, grumbled, “Phir se museum? Kal raat Eiffel dekh liya na?” But orders had been issued and breakfast was non-negotiable. At the hotel buffet, confusion began anew. Dadi looked at the croissants suspiciously and asked, “Isme onion-garlic toh nahi?” Ramesh refused to eat anything “folded like bedsheets.” Sunita poked a boiled egg and whispered, “Yeh toh kaccha hai.” Aarti, already chewing her fifth bite of toast in frustration, tried to explain continental breakfast to people who believed breakfast wasn’t complete without alu paratha or besan ka chilla. Somehow, with bellies half-full and spirits half-confused, the family set out. They took the metro, which meant navigating machines that spoke only in French and a labyrinth of signs that led everywhere and nowhere. Chintu, armed with Google Maps, declared himself navigator. Five minutes later, they were on the wrong line, headed toward Charles de Gaulle airport. Aarti took control again. Dadi, meanwhile, had started gossiping in Hindi with a Bangladeshi couple, convinced they looked “exactly like Bhola Chacha’s bahu.”
The Louvre stood in front of them—grand, glassy, and intimidating. “Is this a mall?” Ramesh asked innocently. “Yeh toh zyada chamak raha hai.” Aarti rolled her eyes. “Papa, this is the world’s biggest art museum.” Inside, the family shuffled among hundreds of tourists, staring at marble statues and enormous paintings that to them looked both priceless and pointless. Sunita stopped in front of a giant Renaissance canvas and whispered, “Isme sabko kapde kyun nahi pehna rahe the uss time?” Dadi, unfazed, declared, “Bas rang ache hain. Isko living room mein lagate toh jam jaata.” Chintu, lost in his own content-making zone, wandered off to shoot a “slow-mo transition” video of him pretending to fall in love with Mona Lisa. Trouble started when they realized he was missing. “Aarti, tumhare bhai ka phone lagao!” Sunita cried. “Arrey usne toh airplane mode on kar rakha tha battery bachane ke liye,” Aarti snapped. A small panic search ensued. Dadi sat on a bench and began loudly praying, “Hey Bhole baba, usko kisi firangi ne utha na liya ho!” After fifteen chaotic minutes, Chintu was found three galleries away, trying to get a security guard to hold the camera for a better angle. Aarti nearly throttled him. The guard was not amused. “No photography,” he barked. Ramesh tried to defuse the situation by smiling and offering a laddu from his pocket—leftover from their flight snack. The French guard blinked.
Eventually, they found Mona Lisa. The crowd was thick, camera phones rising like a forest. The Tripathis pushed their way in. “Itni chhoti?” Ramesh asked, disappointed. “Arrey, Pintu ke ghar mein jo Savita aunty ka photo laga hai na—exactly same look!” Dadi exclaimed. Sunita agreed. “Honth se toh bilkul milti hai.” Aarti gave up. The moment deserved reverence, but the Tripathis had other priorities. After taking four group selfies (none of which had the Mona Lisa in focus), Chintu announced, “Bas. Bored.” They left the museum in a flurry, Sunita dragging a tired Dadi, Ramesh looking for the souvenir shop, and Chintu rating the entire museum 2.5 stars on his vlog: “Paintings cool, vibe not desi.” Outside, Aarti stood for a moment, watching the massive glass pyramid sparkle in the afternoon light. It had been a disaster, but it was theirs. A trip they’d remember forever—mostly for the wrong reasons, but maybe, she thought, a few right ones too.
Chapter 5: “Rome Wasn’t Ready for Us”
If Paris had shaken the Tripathis slightly, Rome was about to flip them upside down and hang them from a Vespa. The train journey from Paris to Rome was scenic, filled with green hills, cozy stations, and soft announcements in languages no one understood—but for the Tripathis, it was also filled with chaos. Sunita insisted on unpacking a full meal in the cabin, causing the Italian lady across from them to gag politely. “Beta, bas ek garam paratha aur achar khilado,” she begged Aarti, who snapped, “Ma! This is train, not your kitchen.” Dadi kept offering murabba to other passengers while loudly telling them how Italians were secretly Indian in past life. Chintu, meanwhile, kept sticking his phone to the window recording “European countryside in 4K,” while Ramesh tried to calculate the euro-to-rupee rate every twenty minutes and loudly sighed. As they neared Rome, the train conductor made an announcement. Ramesh panicked. “Unhone bola na ki agla station Kanpur hai?” he asked with full confidence. “Papa, woh Roma Termini bola, Kanpur nahi,” Aarti said, facepalming.
Rome welcomed them with ancient stone streets, busy piazzas, and scooters that moved like bullets. “Yeh sab helmet nahi pehente? Fine nahi lagta?” Ramesh asked, as a Vespa zipped past him inches away. Their hotel was near the Colosseum, but the rooms were so tiny that even Dadi’s suitcase refused to fit under the bed. “Italy bhi chhota nikla,” she declared. The next day began with a guided city tour. Their Italian guide, Fabio, wore sunglasses and a scarf and began enthusiastically: “Here is the Forum, where great emperors ruled.” Sunita whispered, “Forum mall ka naam idhar bhi hai kya?” At the Colosseum, Fabio gave a dramatic speech about gladiators. “People fought to the death here!” he said. Ramesh looked unconvinced. “Our kushti in Kanpur was also intense,” he muttered. Chintu got bored quickly and began filming slow-mo videos of himself in Roman arches. Aarti tried to absorb the history but was constantly interrupted—Dadi needed a bench, Sunita had a stone in her shoe, and Ramesh wanted to know where the nearest ATM was. Things reached peak madness at the Vatican. Sunita, thinking it was a church like the one in Shimla, tried to remove her slippers out of respect. “Ma! No! This is not a temple,” Aarti whispered frantically. Dadi wanted to light a diya in St. Peter’s Basilica. Chintu filmed the Pope from a hundred meters away and added filters. Ramesh asked, “Is he like their Shankaracharya?” Aarti gave up and just sat quietly on the steps outside, muttering, “Iss baar Goa le jaati toh better hota.”
In the evening, exhausted and underfed (Sunita refused to eat pasta that looked like earthworms), the family finally settled at a pizzeria run by a Nepali chef who spoke some Hindi. Joy returned. Dadi found out he was from Darjeeling and immediately asked about his cousin who ran a momo stall in Varanasi. Ramesh finally had a meal that didn’t involve translating ingredients. Chintu discovered Nutella pizza and declared it better than gulab jamun. Aarti, sipping sparkling water like it was victory juice, finally relaxed. Rome hadn’t broken them—it had only reminded them how hilariously unprepared they were for the world, and how gloriously together they still were. As they walked back under a glowing moon, Dadi said, “Rome ka toh Colosseum dekh liya. Kal kya? Taj Mahal?” Everyone laughed. Even Aarti.
Chapter 6: “Switzerland Mein Shor”
The Tripathis arrived in Zurich expecting heaven—and were disappointed to find clouds. “Itna paisa diye, aur yeh bhi fog mein chhupa hai?” Ramesh grumbled as the train slid past misty mountains and tidy villages that looked like they belonged on biscuit tins. Aarti, however, was determined. “This is Switzerland. No complaints today. Please.” She had mapped everything—Lucerne, Interlaken, Jungfrau. But as they stepped out of the train, Dadi’s first reaction was, “Bhaiya, AC bandh karo. Bahut thanda hai!” Aarti replied, “Dadi, AC nahi hai. Yeh asli thand hai.” Chintu wore sunglasses despite the weather, attempting a slow-mo walk near the lake with ducks. Sunita kept slipping on cobblestones in her saree while trying to keep the thepla box upright inside her handbag. Ramesh stared at everything suspiciously—people walking dogs, the silence, the lack of honking. “Yeh log itna chup kaise rehte hain? Kya kharabi hai?” he muttered. It was a country of order, silence, and snow. In short, the exact opposite of everything the Tripathis had ever known.
The highlight of the day was the train to Jungfrau—Europe’s highest railway station. The view was spectacular, the air crisp, the silence magical. Until, of course, the Tripathis entered. Dadi began singing “Chalte Chalte” loudly in the coach. “Mujhe toh bas DDLJ ka feeling aa raha hai,” she beamed, spreading her shawl like a heroine. Sunita opened a bag of aloo bhujiya and passed it around. Ramesh asked a Korean tourist if he wanted some. The man looked scared. Chintu filmed everything, calling it “Switzerland Mein Shor – Part 1.” Aarti tried to pretend she didn’t know them. At the top, snow spread like a giant frosted cake. Dadi touched snow for the first time and screamed. “Yeh toh ice se bhi thanda hai!” Ramesh fell twice trying to pose like Shah Rukh Khan. Chintu recorded all of it. Sunita, braving the cold in her woollen shawl and floaters, declared, “Yeh toh honeymoon spot hona chahiye.” Ramesh blushed for a moment and then pretended to check the train timings. They built a snowman—complete with Aarti’s lost gloves and a bindi made from ketchup. A small crowd gathered, amused. Someone even clapped. Dadi waved like she was in a parade.
Later, they visited a chocolate shop. Dadi asked for sugar-free samples and then took five extra for “pados ki Sharma aunty.” Sunita kept calculating prices in rupees and gasped dramatically every time. Ramesh tried to bargain. “Thoda kam karo, hum family mein le rahe hain,” he said, to a confused cashier who didn’t understand Hindi—or bargaining. Chintu filmed again. The shop staff eventually smiled and took a group photo with them. That night, back in the hotel, they sat by the window watching snow fall softly on the quiet street below. No shouting, no honking, no pani-puri stalls. Just peace. And then Dadi said, “Bahar kisi ko dard ho gaya toh? Yahan toh ‘aee koi hai?’ chillane wala bhi nahi!” The entire family burst into laughter. For a moment, the Alps echoed with joy—not from echoes of snow, but from the sound of a family who didn’t know how to travel quietly but knew exactly how to enjoy loudly. Switzerland had met the Tripathis. And it would never be the same again.
Chapter 7: “Passport Gone, Panic On!”
Disaster doesn’t arrive with thunder in the Tripathi household—it arrives with Chintu rummaging frantically through his cross-body sling bag at the Zurich train station while whispering, “No no no no no…” Aarti noticed first. “What’s wrong now?” she asked. He looked up like a criminal caught red-handed. “I… I think… Papa’s passport is gone.” The words hung in the Swiss air like a snowflake suspended in time. For exactly three seconds, everyone froze. Then the emotional volcano erupted. “KYA?” Ramesh bellowed, already imagining life in Swiss jail. “Beta, mazaak kar raha hai na?” Sunita pleaded. “Tumhare papa ka heart ka tension hai!” Dadi gasped and clutched her handbag. “Bachpan mein bola tha, is ladke ko mobile kam pakdaao, bag zyada. Ab bhugto!” Chintu turned pale. “I had it. I swear! Maybe at the chocolate shop? Or… the train?” Aarti was already sprinting back toward the platform like an Olympian. “Everyone, stay here. Don’t. Move.” she commanded, her voice now full FBI.
The next two hours were pure cinematic panic. Ramesh paced near the lost & found like a caged lion, muttering about identity theft. “Ab koi Rome mein baith ke insurance karega mera naam se,” he grunted. Dadi sat on a bench, performing a silent Hanuman Chalisa, occasionally glancing up to ask bystanders, “Aapne ek bhura passport dekha?” Sunita kept applying lip balm nervously and whispering, “Shaant raho. Sab thik hoga. Bhole baba dekh rahe hain.” Meanwhile, Chintu stood like a kid in a school principal’s office, guilt written across his forehead. Aarti returned, breathless, with nothing. “It’s not there. We need to go to the embassy. NOW.” Ramesh refused. “Embassy? Mujhe toh lagta hai mujhe deport kar denge! News mein aayega—’Indian uncle lost identity while eating Kit Kat in Zurich’!” They finally bundled into a cab, Dadi loudly chanting “Jai jai Ram Krishna Hari,” confusing the Swiss driver who tried to offer mints to calm them. The Indian embassy in Bern was their next destination. The officer there, Mr. Kapoor, wore a tired smile. He had clearly dealt with many such families before. “Lost passport? Switzerland? Indian teenager?” he asked. Aarti nodded. “Typical. Don’t worry. We’ll handle it.” Ramesh almost burst into tears of relief.
Inside the embassy, while Aarti and Kapoor handled paperwork, the rest of the family sank into a faux-leather sofa like war survivors. Chintu finally whispered, “I’m sorry, Papa. I should’ve been careful.” For the first time, there was no sarcasm in his voice. Ramesh looked at him, sighed deeply, and then placed a hand on his shoulder. “Passport mil jaayega. But tu jo responsible ban gaya, woh sabse bada miracle hai.” Everyone laughed softly. Even Dadi wiped her eyes. By evening, a temporary travel document was issued. Crisis averted. The family emerged back into the icy Swiss twilight, battered but unbroken. “Main toh soch raha tha, ab yahi settle ho jaayein,” Ramesh joked. “Main cheese bechunga, aur Dadi chai stall kholengi.” Chintu grinned. “Nahi Papa, hum sab milke ek YouTube channel kholenge—Lost in Europe.” Aarti smiled at the stars above, silently thankful that the worst was behind them. Or so she thought.
Chapter 8: “Mr. Mehra Appears (Again!)”
Just as the Tripathis thought they had seen it all—passport panics, language fiascos, and culinary crimes—fate added a plot twist more absurd than fiction. They had just arrived in Amsterdam, a city of canals, tulips, and questionable museums, when Ramesh’s eyes widened at a familiar voice from behind. “Areee Tripathi ji!” A man in a sunhat, oversized shades, and a global explorer vest marched toward them, dragging a suitcase with a loud wheel and louder enthusiasm. It was Mr. Mehra, their ex-neighbor from Kanpur—a retired principal, full-time nuisance, and the self-declared Marco Polo of Shastri Nagar. “What in god’s Europe…?” Aarti whispered. Mr. Mehra embraced Ramesh like they were long-lost brothers and declared, “Main toh bas coincidentally Amsterdam ghoom raha tha, aur pata chala aap log bhi aaye ho! Small world, no?” Everyone knew this was no coincidence. Mr. Mehra had once tried to tag along on their Goa trip by faking food poisoning near their gate. This time, he’d clearly tracked them online, probably through Chintu’s daily vlog updates tagged #TripathiTravels.
Sunita’s smile turned brittle. Dadi squinted suspiciously. “Iske paas visa kaise hai?” she whispered. Mehra brushed it all off, already talking about how he’d made “European friends” in his hostel and how he was learning Dutch in ten-minute audio classes. “Actually, aaj mujhe Red Light District dikhne jaana hai. Aap log bhi chaliye na! Purely academic curiosity,” he said with the innocence of a holy man. Sunita dropped her water bottle. Ramesh choked on a mint. Aarti muttered, “NO.” But by some tragic alignment of destiny, Mehra booked himself into the same canal cruise the Tripathis had for the evening. And there he was—sitting with them on a peaceful boat through the glittering Amsterdam canals, offering strangers Paan Parag, and loudly explaining that “tulips are like Indian gulab but costlier.” Dadi leaned over to whisper, “Yeh aadmi toh Europe ka mazaak uda ke chhodenge.” Meanwhile, Aarti, at her wits’ end, kept glaring at Chintu, whose vlogging had basically caused this invasion. “You’re grounded. For two decades,” she hissed.
As the boat glided past ancient bridges and storybook houses, Mehra continued narrating made-up facts. “This canal was built by Shivaji’s cousin in exile,” he claimed to a Japanese tourist, who nodded politely. Then, midway, he pulled out a speaker and began playing Kishore Kumar songs. Tourists stared. Ramesh, somehow infected by the madness, began humming along. Sunita started snapping fingers. Dadi clapped to rhythm. Soon, the entire boat was part of an impromptu antakshari session, with Chintu recording everything for “Episode 12: Madness on the Water.” Even Aarti couldn’t help smiling. Later that night, as they walked back to the hotel with stroopwafels in hand and laughter in the air, Mr. Mehra looked at the family and said, “Aap log ke saath Europe ka maza hi kuch aur hai!” And for once, no one disagreed. He might be a tag-along tornado, but he reminded them that laughter didn’t need planning, logic, or even a valid reason. It just needed the right company. And in the end, maybe that was the best kind of travel memory.
Chapter 9: “Love, Laughter, Luggage”
The Tripathis arrived in Vienna, the penultimate stop of their European saga, a little older, a lot louder, and undeniably more bonded than they had ever been before. The city of Mozart, palaces, and polite tram bells greeted them with soft rain and wide, clean boulevards. “Yahan ke raste toh drawing jaisa lagta hai,” Sunita whispered as they walked past art nouveau cafés. But the emotional tide had already begun to turn. Maybe it was the effect of the trip winding down, or maybe it was just the accumulation of chaos finally melting into warmth. Ramesh, for the first time, said he didn’t mind skipping sightseeing to just sit in a park. Dadi didn’t argue when Aarti suggested leaving the pressure cooker packed for the rest of the trip. Sunita, surprisingly, agreed to try a local cheese sandwich—albeit with achar on the side. And Chintu, whose days used to revolve around YouTube analytics and Wi-Fi signals, quietly slipped his phone into his pocket to walk hand-in-hand with his mother across the quiet banks of the Danube. The family wandered into a quiet music square where a trio of street musicians played old classical waltzes. Ramesh smiled. “Shaadi ke time aisa music hota toh main bhi dance karta,” he murmured, and Sunita nudged him with a grin.
They spent the day getting lost in the old town. Aarti, no longer the anxious drill sergeant, let the itinerary go limp in her bag and instead followed her father into a hat shop, helped her mother try Austrian scarves, and even let Chintu drag them all into a bizarre puppet museum. It was here that Dadi, staring at a display of hand-carved wooden figures, got emotional. “Life kitna jaldi nikal jaata hai na?” she said softly. “Kal tak tum log chhote the. Ab Europe ghoom rahe ho.” A rare hush fell upon them. No jokes, no selfies. Just four generations’ worth of love, standing still in the middle of a puppet room. Later, they sat at a street café that served hot apple strudel. It was overpriced, mildly burnt, and absolutely perfect. They passed the plate around. Chintu clicked one photo—not for followers, but for himself. Aarti looked around at the table—her motley family, her mismatched chaos, her beautiful disaster—and realized that despite the tantrums, passport dramas, language wars, and Mehra uncle photobombing their entire European trail, she would do it all over again. Every single maddening, magical second.
That night, back at the hotel, they began packing. For once, the suitcases felt heavier not because of magnets or snacks, but because of stories. Ramesh folded his blazers with more care than usual. Sunita finally let go of the thepla tin. Dadi placed her only souvenir—a small glass angel—next to her Hanuman chalisa. Chintu finished editing a vlog but didn’t post it. “Some moments don’t need hashtags,” he said, shocking everyone. Aarti looked at her family from across the room—laughter echoing softly, hands brushing against memories, even Mr. Mehra humming from the corridor next door—and knew that no travel guide could prepare anyone for this kind of trip. This was a journey written not in brochures, but in burnt parathas, lost passports, snowball fights, and tears over puppet dolls. Europe hadn’t just changed the Tripathis. It had revealed them to one another. Luggage was zipped, hearts were full, and for the first time in the entire trip, no one was in a hurry to leave.
Chapter 10: “Back to India, Full of Memories (and Magnets)”
The return journey began with a silent sunrise over Vienna airport. The Tripathis, now seasoned travelers (read: less panicked, slightly better at zippers), moved through check-in with unexpected efficiency. Aarti kept checking the boarding passes, not because she didn’t trust the system—but because it had become a reflex. Ramesh wore his most “international” outfit—beige safari suit with matching muffler—while proudly carrying the plastic-wrapped Swiss chocolates like a trophy. Sunita had upgraded her travel pouch to a fancy leather sling and now had three lip balms. Dadi, now completely confident in airport navigation, walked ahead with her purse clutched tight and sunglasses perched on her head like a filmstar. Chintu, no longer filming obsessively, simply looked out the terminal window and sighed, “Yeh trip jaldi khatam ho gaya na?” Even Mr. Mehra, who had somehow wrangled his way into the same return flight, whispered, “Emotional ho raha hoon Tripathi ji. Jaisa parivaar aapka hai, waisa toh Europe mein bhi rare hai.” And for once, Ramesh just nodded. No sarcasm, no side comment. Just quiet pride.
The flight was uneventful, if you ignored Dadi asking for kadhi chawal midair, or Sunita arguing with a steward about “real tea vs. dip-dip water.” Chintu helped a German kid find a cartoon on the in-flight screen and gave his last packet of Parle-G to an old couple. Aarti finally slept. In her dream, she wasn’t fighting over luggage tags or begging a customs officer to accept a torn photocopy—she was dancing on a snowy street in Switzerland with her whole family in perfect rhythm. As the plane touched down in Delhi, applause rose from the back rows (instigated by Dadi). The humid air hit their faces the moment they stepped out of the terminal. “Home,” said Ramesh, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. “Switzerland thanda tha, par isme apnapan hai.” They took a cab back to Kanpur the next morning, the city as dusty, chaotic, and loud as it had always been—but it felt different now. “Lagta hai galiyan chhoti ho gayi hai,” Sunita said. “Nahi,” Aarti replied. “Hum bade ho gaye.”
The Tripathi home, though unchanged, now boasted European fridge magnets on every metal surface—Eiffel Tower, Colosseum, Swiss cowbells, a tiny Dutch windmill, and a plastic Mona Lisa. Dadi’s stories now included phrases like “Jab main Vatican mein thi…” and Ramesh quoted conversion rates like poetry. Chintu edited all their videos into one long film, which went viral. Title: Passport, Please!—Our Middle-Class European Adventure. Comments poured in: “This is my family!” “I cried and laughed both!” “We need Part 2: Tripathi Family goes to Japan!” Aarti began journaling her own travel tips for “First-Time Family Flyers.” And Sunita? She secretly began applying for another contest. Because now she knew—it’s not the destination, it’s the drama… and the love in the chaos. As they sat together for dinner one week later, eating homemade dal chawal on steel plates, Ramesh raised his spoon and said, “Next time, London?” Everyone laughed. Dadi added, “Pehle Goa toh jaane do.” The room echoed with laughter, clinking spoons, and the hum of the ceiling fan. Europe was over. But the story? That would stay with them forever.
