A Sunday is a beautiful thing.
It is a day when the sadist newspaperwala rings the bell twice instead of once.
It is a day when the maid reaches for work at 7.15am instead of her daily time of 8am. “Traffic nasto sir…mag kay…lavkar pochaylay mi !” Quite matter of factly, I want her to reach someplace else when I open the door. Some place far far away from this earth. She can travel with Mcconaughey off to a solar system to return when I am too old to remember her even if I chose to. But she is a good lady and we are lucky to have her else I would get an apron and a scotch brite with vim.
Sunday is also the day I cook my infamous breakfast that has something to do with eggs, bread, bacon and an irritable bowel.
It is also the day I may physically get kicked out of the sheets if I try to snuggle, because no one dare wake up the Godzilla in our family. This is one day she gets off from cooking a breakfast, lunch box and a snack box for both of us, and I have to take utmost care to not to wake her up.
It is a day when I shouldn’t snore in the morning. I used to believe I couldn’t snore even if I wanted to. But one fine day the missus, occupying most of the bed as usual, went to sleep alongside and woke up in the living room next morning without knowing how she got there. She vibrated her way there she exaggerates. I snored. Apparently. Such exaggeration hurts. That was when I was put on a Kesar Milk with Zandu Balm pre-sleep ritual.
It is a day when I open the crammed shoe cupboard, look at the dirty ceiling fans, search for things on my overtly messy desk and then chose to play Fifa instead.
It is also a day I am scolded upon for not growing up and not having my Sunday priorities right. I should be cleaning and eradicating everything including poverty.
Then eventually it is a day I start getting grumpier post lunch and retain a frown well into the night, wicked enough to strangle off an eyebrow, so that I look ghastly come Monday.
Live long Sunday.