Get married – go on a honeymoon. That’s the done thing isn’t it? It’s the expected accessory to the main event. And the honeymoons are getting more and more exotic.  

I spent many a childhood day watching my older siblings going for their honeymoons. The excitement of it - bookings for the hotel would be done sometimes even before the venue for the wedding has been finalized. And the suitcases that went along with the newly-wed couple.  

How I sighed over those photos – my brother dressed in a dapper blue suit, posing proudly with his new bride on a sunny Goa beach; my sister dressed in a flimsy chiffon sari walking up a steep Kashmir mountain slope.  

How I dreamed of my very own honeymoon…I planned out the various exotic destinations, the even more exotic dresses I would wear and of course the luxury hotels where we would be feted like royalty.  

Came the time for marriage – to a rakishly handsome Air Force officer, no less! But any romantic delusions were soon shattered by the practical requirements of marriage and the Air Force.  

Disillusionment set in almost as soon we stepped down from the marriage mandap. A telegram arrived ordering my new husband to cancel his leave and rejoin immediately. Our lovely plan for a honeymoon on the golden beaches of Kerala was unceremoniously shelved as he raced back to his all-important work.  

“We’ll surely go for one later,” he assured me.  

But thereafter, for a whole year and a half, some Air Force commitment or the other kept pushing back that all-important occasion. Finally came a transfer order to Srinagar (we were posted at that time in Barrackpore, a Cantonment suburb of Kolkata).  

“We must visit the beach of Digha before we make for the mountains. This will be our honeymoon!” hubby declared. “We’ll take a local train till Kharagpur. There are lovely buses plying from there to Digha…we’ll just hop on to one.”  

A five-days’ leave was obtained from a reluctant Commanding Officer, and we were off. Slung on our shoulder was our little 18inches by 18inches overnight bag containing just one change of clothes and our toiletry – this to cater to the demands of my spouse that we travel ‘light’. (So much for my exotic dresses!)

The first lap of the journey from Howrah to Kharagpur by local train was quite uneventful. At Kharagpur we had to detrain and take a bus. My visions of an intimate cosy deluxe ride received a rather rude shock with the wheezing arrival of an ancient, dilapidated, rickety country bus, almost falling apart at the seams and loaded high with bicycles, baskets of animal and vegetable produce, and people of definite rustic attire.  

“Get on quick,” urged my other half, seeing my shocked and reluctant face. “There isn’t another vehicle for at least three hours.”   

I clawed my way up and innate Bengali chivalry vacated a seat for me. I sat there in relative comfort with my feet resting on a knobbly sack of potatoes, while my husband hung precariously from a broken rod, as the bus intrepidly negotiated the multi-pot-holed apology of a road.  

We reached the golden sands of Digha and made a bee line for Hotel Sea Hawk, the only reasonable hotel there.  

“Rs 100,” said the supercilious clerk when we enquired about a room. Husband and I exchanged dismayed glances. A hundred rupees was a princely sum in those days (30 years ago) and setting up home had made deep inroads into our meager budget.  

“Don’t you have something for a little less?” I ventured.  

“Sixty rupees,” he said in a still more superior tone. But even that was a bit too steep for us.  

“Anything for less?” I persisted. I think our earnest youthfulness penetrated a chink in his armour, for his manner softened. With the tiniest spark of a twinkle in his eyes, he guided us up the stairs to the large terrace. In one corner of it was a tiny room with a single bed. Standing apart from it was an even tinier bathroom and all around was the vast terrace with its magnificent view of the sea and the sunny beaches.   

“Only twenty five rupees,” he announced triumphantly. I could have hugged him for joy.  

The terrace proved to be the high-point of our three-day sojourn. Long after the tourists had retired to their closed, stuffy, air-conditioned rooms, we would stand on the terrace and watch the majestic sea rolling in, hear the waves crash rhythmically, inhale the tangy air and even taste the salt as it came floating in the spray. Late at night we saw the fishermen setting out their nets with the help of twinkling oil lamps, and early in the morning we watched them hauling in their ample catch.  

The terrace was also the scene for the shooting of a Bengali film. We got on talking terms with the two well-known stars, and ended up exchanging addresses and phone numbers.  

We didn’t own a camera in those days, but I don’t need one to recapture the vivid memories of this totally unplanned wonderful honeymoon on ‘half a shoe-string budget’. I wouldn’t exchange it for the usual routine honeymoon that most couples opt for with their meticulous advance reservations and four suitcases full of suits, ties and silk sarees!