Sundays I spend languidly, getting up late, taking my time about everything, even reading the newspapers, taking time even to have my breakfast, much to my wife's chagrin. Sundays and me lie cradled in the arms of each other.
Outside things are a little quiet, though the changing landscape of Shillong in the form of a charade of cars, do make their presence felt. I take a jaunt, have a hair cut, buy a few things, go down the lane to sit in a tea shop to silently drown myself in a cup of tea, a constant habit years back in our real chat sessions.
Nowadays they are virtual!
The church goers stream by, immaculately dressed men and women, smiles, gentle ripple of laughter. Some of them enter tea shops. Sundays lie like aftermath of dreams, pictures which the mind has taken snapshots for years. Then you bump into a friend or acquaintance, a teacher carrying a bag of shopping. Sundays are quaintly beautiful. A friend waves from a car, a student nods deferentially. And if it pours the brisk walk is staggered, a halt in a nearby shop, or walking between rain drops...
Shillong's showers have a sudden beginning and an equally abrupt ending!
Going back home, my wife reminds me brusquely. Have a bath, have a shave, have lunch, then go to sleep! I rush to do all these in a heady manner. The afternoon sleep is sought after, blissful unawares of hum drum existence. Dreams punctuate the sleep, and soon it is late evening. Then the drawl of time. Shillong sleeps supinely, everyone watching their favourite serials. Not me, I plan the next day's work in trance. The first mail to send tomorrow... Monday morning does not find me miserable. After all, I am not a Tom Sawyer!