Our prompt today is:
Pick a day of the week that you most like. Tell us why you like it so much; only caveat: provide a set of analogies in the manner of "name, place, animal, and thing". E.g, if your day is Monday -- if Monday had another name, it would be....if Monday were a place, it would be....etc. etc. As per usual: Exactly 500 words. Tagging Mathangi Krish, Gouri Dange, Paromita Vohra
Pick a day of the week that you most like. Tell us why you like it so much; only caveat: provide a set of analogies in the manner of "name, place, animal, and thing". E.g, if your day is Monday -- if Monday had another name, it would be....if Monday were a place, it would be....etc. etc. As per usual: Exactly 500 words. Tagging Mathangi Krish, Gouri Dange, Paromita Vohra
A Month of Sundays
Do you remember that ridiculous verse, Monday’s child is fair of face, etc.?
It gave a lot of silly kids silly ideas about the day they were born, which was therefore meant to be their day, hence their favourite. I was quite a crybaby, being squashed often by two older siblings. I was quite convinced that I was Wednesday’s child, which wasn’t bad at all, because our school used to have a half day on Wednesdays, and Wednesday lunch at home was, inevitably, bread fried in butter, with baked beans. My sister was hardworking and super competent at everything, we were sure she was Saturday’s child. To add to which my father would often call her Shanichar, which was linked to Saturn’s obduracy. She was, actually, born on a Saturday, while my brother and I were both Sunday’s children. This fact I got to know much later in my life.
That’s a long digression. However, in another life, I did love Sundays. Daddy was at home on Sundays. I’d often accompany him to the weekly Satsang in Connaught Place, following little of what was sung or spoken, but feeling suitably holy. The prasad was always welcome too, usually rajma on a slice or two of bread, and a sweet. When the whole family attended, which was rare, we would walk down to Madras Hotel, and have dosai in the Family Room. In any case, Sunday lunches were a treat. Most evenings, Daddy and his tail would go across to Defence Colony, to visit a family, distantly related to us, who had, in those ancient days, a television. We would, quite shamelessly, may I say, sit and watch the Sunday movie, whether it be good, bad, or indifferent. (In retrospect I am quite sure my mother hated us, and justifiably so). If Sunday had another name, it would be Daddy Day. If Sunday were a place, it would be Connaught Place, with all the shops closed, no traffic, a blue sky, and a little girl holding her father’s hand. If Sunday were an animal, it would be a warm, cuddly rabbit. If Sunday were a thing, it would be a soft shawl, wrapping you in warmth and comfort.
Growing up, however, meant washing your own clothes every Sunday, and helping out in the kitchen. Further growing up meant Family Responsibilities. It was, for many years, the only day that the spouse and I could spend any waking hours together. It was, therefore, a day of mismatched expectations and much taqraar. Our kids called it Sadan (Sulking) Day, If it was a place, it was a path meandering between Heaven and Hell. If it was an animal, it was a magnificent tiger, which could roar and maul at will. If it was a thing, it was a rosebush: beautiful scented flowers and very prickly thorns…
Covid days are all Sundays, now, but happier ones: a farmer’s field, where you slog for much of the day, and then relax with Netflix.
Do you remember that ridiculous verse, Monday’s child is fair of face, etc.?
It gave a lot of silly kids silly ideas about the day they were born, which was therefore meant to be their day, hence their favourite. I was quite a crybaby, being squashed often by two older siblings. I was quite convinced that I was Wednesday’s child, which wasn’t bad at all, because our school used to have a half day on Wednesdays, and Wednesday lunch at home was, inevitably, bread fried in butter, with baked beans. My sister was hardworking and super competent at everything, we were sure she was Saturday’s child. To add to which my father would often call her Shanichar, which was linked to Saturn’s obduracy. She was, actually, born on a Saturday, while my brother and I were both Sunday’s children. This fact I got to know much later in my life.
That’s a long digression. However, in another life, I did love Sundays. Daddy was at home on Sundays. I’d often accompany him to the weekly Satsang in Connaught Place, following little of what was sung or spoken, but feeling suitably holy. The prasad was always welcome too, usually rajma on a slice or two of bread, and a sweet. When the whole family attended, which was rare, we would walk down to Madras Hotel, and have dosai in the Family Room. In any case, Sunday lunches were a treat. Most evenings, Daddy and his tail would go across to Defence Colony, to visit a family, distantly related to us, who had, in those ancient days, a television. We would, quite shamelessly, may I say, sit and watch the Sunday movie, whether it be good, bad, or indifferent. (In retrospect I am quite sure my mother hated us, and justifiably so). If Sunday had another name, it would be Daddy Day. If Sunday were a place, it would be Connaught Place, with all the shops closed, no traffic, a blue sky, and a little girl holding her father’s hand. If Sunday were an animal, it would be a warm, cuddly rabbit. If Sunday were a thing, it would be a soft shawl, wrapping you in warmth and comfort.
Growing up, however, meant washing your own clothes every Sunday, and helping out in the kitchen. Further growing up meant Family Responsibilities. It was, for many years, the only day that the spouse and I could spend any waking hours together. It was, therefore, a day of mismatched expectations and much taqraar. Our kids called it Sadan (Sulking) Day, If it was a place, it was a path meandering between Heaven and Hell. If it was an animal, it was a magnificent tiger, which could roar and maul at will. If it was a thing, it was a rosebush: beautiful scented flowers and very prickly thorns…
Covid days are all Sundays, now, but happier ones: a farmer’s field, where you slog for much of the day, and then relax with Netflix.
Hello Ms bonny and blithe, and good and gay.. Bachpan mai lagta tha Child Born in Sabbath Day (Sunday) ne lottery jeet li
ReplyDeleteNot just bachpan! Largely zindagi ki lottery jeeti hui hai!
ReplyDelete