Sunday morning is the short space of happiness before the dread of Monday insidiously seeps in.
Sometimes it is hung over with me downing glasses of water and lime juice in a desperate attempt to save my Sunday before the dreadful drudgeries of college draw me in. (Sorry about the attempt to be awesomely alliterative). Sunday mornings are otherwise , getting up late after the ambitions of getting up early are shattered like the batteries of the alarm clock lying outside my bedroom window. Reading The Hindu Magazine and feeling idealistic or angry at the world. Or glancing through the largely crappy stuff from TOI. Making lofty plans that are badly badly co-ordinated. In boarding school it was dosa breakfast and too many glasses of tea. Dusting, cleaning, mopping, washing with the ever present fear of the house parent. Taking obese textbooks and walking to class to study for ISC. Sometimes it was putting on an extra innocent face to act like I was actually the packed bundle left on my bed when we were far away on some hill throughout the night. We slept with the stars and woke up to the sunrise and in awe walked to the dining hall. Or in younger times, going for picnics in the hills nearby with bits of grub.(bits of choco pie, two chips, half a dosa smuggled from breakfast). When I was really a kid kid it meant that the driver wouldn't come and I was under house arrest and aunties and uncles would visit to pinch my cheeks.