Sunday Mornings

I'm sorry I never completed my comment to the older post. Ever since I turned 25 I've been partying like the heathen I was born to be which implies that post-25 my intellectual RE-retardation hath begun. Aided by a major haul I brought back with me from Amsterdam. I have no reason to meet or talk to people any more. The only purpose I have in my my post-office life is to sit back, turn the lights down low and listen to music. I did manage to scoot off to Venice for a weekend to attend the Carnevale and be reunited with Feather. In trying to find this post to link to Feather's name, I found this one as well. I think this is my favourite post-ever. And yes the 'Shekhar' fantasy still endures. Ambitious, liberal, hot, smart, sporty, eloquent, independent, well-traveled and self-assured Shekhars of the world.......call me! Guess what? No one will. Is there a guy out there with all of these attributes. And the balls to not be intimidated by me? Yeah, I didn't think so either. Why? Main apne aapko 'Shahensha' ki chatti aulaad samajthi hoon. Haan........But the last comment on that post. Sorry for the font colour there, I can't change it! Anyway as I was saying as per the last comment on that post, I'm doing what I preached! Fuck! There is an ounce of intellectual honesty to me. Fuck! I can't believe it. For once I have genuine respect for me. Vaah hobo vaah! Baaki duniya hypocrite, you baby stick to your shit. :)

Now for my post.

It's a quiet Sunday morning. Actually every moment I spend in the house is quiet. Even when I'm getting high and listening to my music, I do it with my massive helicopter-landing earphones.
I'm more accustomed and less disturbed by having to wake up each morning in an empty, soundless, spiritless, aroma-less, activity-less house. People-less house. It takes some time to get used to and an immense amount of self-discipline in waking up to such a barren household. Self-discipline, or the looming threat of losing your job if you fail to show up to work on time. But when the only activity stirring in your house each morning is you wearily waking out of sleep in to a fixed routine, it is hard to not be lulled back to sleep at 6:30 am. Though truth to be told, I'd be hart put to wake up at 6:30 am even if I was living in a construction zone with my entire bat-shit insane family (or tragically known to my suitors as HER GENE POOL!).

My house feels empty. No, it's not a despondent, 'sigh......my house (Re: my life) is empty', kind of lament. It's merely an observation. It feels empty. It's full of things but no movement. Except when I draw the curtains, turn up the volume and dance like a crazy kid.

What do I miss about waking up on Sunday mornings from home?
The water running for my dad's bath.
My mum hollering ironing/cooking/gardening/cleaning instructions to anyone who is listening.
She hopes that sometimes this means Cherub, our spritely maid.
Cherub's indefatigable cheer that never seems to abandon her be it midnight or early mornings.
Her clunky footsteps outside my door, on the stairwell. Her Sweetness inquiring, 'Didi, app jag gaye?' when she knows I'm sleep. She can see I'm asleep. And even Helen Keller could hear her.
Someone entering my room to open the curtains on a sunlight bright morning, to turn off the AC. And the fan if they want me awake in 5 minutes. Awake and angry.
The sound of the telly. My adolescence spent stirring out of sleep to 'Athashree Mahabharat Katha' or 'Ramayana' or 'Jungle jungle baat chali hai pata chala hai.........' or 'Aap ki Adalat'. And now NDTV India mostly. Ooooo 'Bharat Ek Khoj', 'Surabhi' and 'Bournvita Quiz Contest'. What can I say, I come from a family and culture of nerds!
At 10 if I'm still alseep I start internalizing the aromas of Sunday mornings in to my dreams. And if the breakfast smells of Poha then expect me to wake up very quickly.
You can hear someone being told how to do their job by either my mum or my dad or my third-parent-cum-family's-man-friday-cum-he-doesn't-work-in-our-household-anymore-but-we're-not-a-family-unit-without-him. The last one, he has the most grace, cheek and gall. He puts you in your place with a smile, an evil chuckle and by packaging his as advice, very well, as dosti.
Yes, your mind is capable of processing all this in semi-sleep.
The gardener in the garden is probably sulking because either Ma refused to buy the latest brand of khaad or pay him bakshish for some festival (or not. He tries his luck every three weeks, festival or not.) or because Cherub and My Third Parent never gave him the due he deserves for being a descendant of the family of Charndragupta Maurya. I kid you not.
Or My Third Parent being mock yelled at by Pa for blocking the driveway just when he needs to step out to office. (My dad's a workaholic). Or for revving up the engine so much that some part burst. Or for blasting music on it too loud. Or for not checking whether there's enough coolant or engine oil or something. Or for just being there to listen to him while his ingrate kids sleep away their potential and their fire.
The smell of my mother's freshly laundered and ironed cotton sari. The moist smells of talcum, soap, shampoo and bathing. The lingering fragrance of my dad's cologne which if it's lingering means he's already gone off to start his Purpose-filled Sundays. His fragrance is always on the phone.
Cherub's 'Dabur Amla Kesh Tel'. Try as I might to convert her to my brand of almond oil she insists on choking up our nasal passages with Amla tel. Cherub I will get you back one day.
If it's earlier say 8ish or 9ish, then my parents are on the phone. Talking to relatives, to my brother when he lived away from home (As he continues to), to their friends, patients, people they reserve their fake little socialite laughs for which always wakes me up. Grumpily.
If my brother's home, you can sense people physically avoiding his den as he sleeps. He has the morning mirth of a grizzly mama bear looking out for some grubs for her cubs. Unlike me he hibernates through Sunday mornings.
I am my mother's daughter after all and as she slumbers through her morning ablutions, I feel reassured and calmed in my sleep. AT least not all of my parents are super-organized, super-achieving, super-driven, super-mirthful bags of baffling sunshine at 9:30 am on a Sunday morning. My mom. She's a chiller. You can't rush her. She can't rush her. She does her own thing. She sleeps. Every opportunity she gets, on Sundays.
If there's music blaring on the radio, with a Mithun or Amitabh hit number, then I know My Third Parent has decided to spring clean the house. If you strain your ear you can hear the little flecks of dust fleeing in panic-stricken stampedes from his merciless broom swipes, carpet beatings and vacuum swooshes. To this day much like him I can't begin doing any household chores without blaring music on the radio. How does the rest of the world do it?
Earlier in the morning I'd even smell aggarbattis and hear the temple bells from my parent's room. That's when I dig deeper in to my duvet, when the Khakhi chaddis are out professing.
At 9, there's the siren. I still don't know where it comes from but everyday it means business. And it means it's 9.
So 9ish there's all this, at 10 there's the telly. 11-12:30 are safe times to sleep because the house goes back in toa lull to recover from the twittering frenzy of all but two of its members. I even feel bright sunlight has its own sound. It's too much to take. I can sleep in brightly lit rooms but I cannot cope with sunlight.
11-12:30 Pa's probably in his office for a few hours or in his study at home. ma's out buying khaad or gamlas or sabzis. The cablewallah's come and gone. My Third Parent is off tending to his own family. Cherub's watching TV and occasionally sweeping the floor one little swish at a time in a circle around her. I kid you not. The spot where she sits and watches TV is the cleanest in my house. I love her. Cherub is a lazy little bratty young adult, much in the image of me and I love her sweet sassiness.
My brother is probably still hibernating while I sit in my bed holding my head to make the room stop spinning. Past 12:30 is wakey wakey time because the pressure cooker normally screams ROGAN JOSH SUNDAY! Besides how is one expected to take a Sweet Sunday Afternoon Sunshine streamed through light white curtains Siesta without waking up first? :)

Here. It's just me. And I'm awake.


G'Morning everyone!