Trodding those Miles

Despite being a voracious reader, I've never been much of a poetry person. I do, however, recall some verses from famous poems the nuns at my school forced us to learn "by heart" for "recitation" exams. One of the few poems that has stayed with me all these years was penned by Robert Frost many moons ago.
Sure enough, buried in the deep recesses of our minds, we all have dreams and desires that we want to accomplish before we pass on. For some of us, it's traveling to different destinations. BH, my ex-boss and mentor, is an example of the traveller. She has a huge world map covering one wall of her office. Every time she visits a new part of the world, she marks the corresponding spot on the map with a white-topped pin. Despite her seasonal meanderings around the globe she does literally have many more miles to go before she can sleep. To this end, however, she has an edge over me. She has already realized a great part of her dream. I'm still at the nascent stages of my jounery.
Unlike BH, [or even my very own MOH] I do not like to travel much [unless it a shopping trip to India]. My journey is more figurative than literal. Two weeks ago, when my parents walked out of the terminal gate and into my extended arms, I was finally able to jab a figurative white pin on my road map to success.
Over the last decade, I've met and befriended several Indian immigrant couples in the US. Many of them are comfortable enough in their adopted country to "bring" their parents over for six-month visits every year or other year. My readers who belong to that category of desis who constantly have a set of parents visiting them may not be able to appreciate why I feel like I have climbed Mt. Everest. Only those close friends who have known my father will truly understand my joy.
Like Hercule Poirot and Sherlock Holmes, here is a man who is supremely at ease in his surroundings. I would not be lying if I say that I probably inherited the stay-at-home strand from his gene pool. Set in his ways is an understatement when it comes to my dad. To put it plainly and simply, the man does not like to spend even one night away from his home [and his routine]. To top that, he's also very traditional in thought. "How can I come and live at my son-in-law's house?" he asked incredulously when I first broached the topic of a US visit with him. "Well, I earn quite well, dad. Maybe you can think of it as spending your daughter's money and not MOH's," I argued. We've been going back and forth like this for well over seven years now. I had to finally pitch a real hissy fit and threaten to stop visiting India for good when I visited them last December for him to even consider the option of visiting me. I even threw in the "If you don't come help me with the brat for at least six months, don't expect me to come take care of you when you become old and senile," for good measure. I know. It was a cheap underhanded trick. But the blow found it's mark. He did make the token trip.
I strut around with an idiotic grin on my face these days. None of my friends can fathom the joy I experience when I go out with MOH on a dinner-and-movie-night sans the brat. "Oh! She's busy playing with grandma," I say nonchalantly to the surprised acquaintances. For the first time in 10 years, I don't have to come home to a quiet house. I don't have to cook my own meals. I can actually expect hot sweet chai in bed every morning. Ah! The supreme bliss of living with one's parents again!!