am i a patient of amnesia? Very few memories haunt me. Many flash as if they were of my past birth. i do not know whether ever i loved Sunday. The ensuing Sunday gives me the bouts of depression, even before it appears. Dreary sundays are jiffy indicators that your social life is in dooms. Dismal sunday is a precursor to your growing solitude. Our own small world shrinks to void leaving nothing to look forward.
Why are you sleeping when all of us are talking? They repeatedly ask me. I feel i am participating. Yet dozy and intermittantly diving into unfathomable depths or flying onto the sky steering with perfect control panels no body seems to know that i have an inborn capacity to fly . i feel so happy to rest amongst loud cries (not literal cry). A feel that i can securedly nap when there are so many to take care of things. In the still night I saw a lamp man scaling the ladder leaning on the lamp post to light a flickering lamp barely good enough to brighten the dark corners of the streets, there rings a bell from a distance, Ding- dong, i do not know where from, thana? church? i was too young a creepy toddler to know, to understand. Yet the memory leaves a carbon print . When the night falls every one falls asleep i get a hinted caution that i need to be alert. May be it is the same way, bustling monday makes me comfortable that i have six long days to relax, when men on the streets run towards bus stops, speeding motor cycles, thrashing cars, every one is busy to do something, i watch them amusingly. i have the whole world in front of me relentlessy working, and on the move, i can arrive at any place i want. i can do any thing i want. i have ample time to initiate a thing on monday and finish it on saturday. Every thing comes to a grinding halt on sunday. A jurky interception. A murky elongation of inaction.
Roads look deserted, forsaken and barren. Nothing works. Where the people have gone? Are they hiding in their caves? What do they do without working? Still scroll in their thick blankets? Are leisurely going through sunday chronicles? Or a lousy movie, eating breakfast? "You want chicken?" secretly wishpers my watchman on a social service machine. "NO. i do not eat" "Ayyo" he repents as if i lost the most beautiful part of my life. Tired of blackbusters on T.V eating my half day, sick of scripted emotional high drama and tearshedding personal accounts of reality shows they give me a sense of de ja vu. Is naturalness so unpracticable? Over smart ten years kid smirking loud expressions must have had horrid training in the green room, call it a child labour? Day long people sitting glued to the box to refill the past misses. What am i doing there? like a gate keeper in cinema theatre, the most detached audience.
i ramble to the mall-cum-cinema-cum restaurant desperately hoping to get into at least one of them. All of them categorically say they have no place for me on this dreaded sunday. People falling flat on eating tables, making beelines before trial rooms, i have a remote chance of getting a ticket to an unwanted movie if i show my wresling skills. I roll back to the parking slot with lost orientation. Where did i park my car? 1st or 2nd or 3rd floor? Plush mall, underneath has a gothic setting. How to mount on this secret paths on untamed terrain to get back into my mad world?
Post pone your illness until Monday, i tell myself. God forbidden if you happen to get sick you are given a liberal routine injection from a duty doctor, not to think of a specialist even in twenty four hour emergency hospital, can you deny a fact that doctor is human? How come i am not able to set my bioclock?
Hair baths, homeworks, special curries, beauty parlours every thing falls only on the cursed sunday when we are in the middle of the life. With heavy stomach i lie down with a news paper to go through an article of Tavline Singh or Nayantara Shegal, my little one contempts my paper in my hand saying "I hate it". Little ever i understood that she needs more of me, naively thinking she will play tangent to my body like a cub to the lioness. Cruched between quanlity and qualtity time to the children, many working matrons lately realise that quanlity will not substitute quantity.
i became familiar with Halloween only with James Joys' "Clay". Now i see all around big hotels and high circles celebrating it. Good idea, people are on the constant exploration of some distant fantasies, anyways as described in my native language, herbs grown in back yards are not suitable to be a medicine, like our festivals ( taking Shanker Dada M.B.B.S for proverbial trans-clues). Halloween is not horror but associated with horror symbols. Sunday is hallooween for me.
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