Sundays are lazy. I wish I could get back all the lazy Sundays of the past five years, my past 5 glorious working years that matter more to other people than to me, when I missed the morning game at the YMCA, the first milky tea at the Maidan, the first chill setting in. And sleep getting more comforting.
Sundays, over time, have become symbolic of the small but extremely important things in life. Keys to peace of mind, happiness and creation. Not contentment, mind you; THAT can spell death, but happiness, yeah.
So I had a lazy Sunday today, waking up late, savouring Ma's luchi-alur dam, sitting through a reading of all the newspapers while my brother taught his students in the drawing room. I took time for a bath — even reached for the olive oil bottle, very uncharacteristic of me — and bathed Bhuchu. I shared the table at lunch with Dida and Ma, I guess after, what, 7-8 years? I had a great lunch replete with mutton and mishti doi. And I hit my bed for a siesta thereafter. And I played some music with two of my best friends later in the evening.
Considering that I'm totally idle (read 'jobless') at the moment, I'd say that's a nice way of spending a day. I remember wondering what my life has come to, after the pages went, looking at the same road and the same streetlights and the same skyline at 10.30 at night, with no sense of self-worth at all. I was being a robot, just another screw in a machine that is also generally useless in everyday, common sense life.
Does all this come with staying clean? I don't know. But the miracles are just beginning to happen. Maybe, just maybe, I'll listen to 'Perfect Day' with a different interpretation in my head, someday.
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