Lazy Sunday Morning

June 22, 2013

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.”

They have been special to me, and yet again, I stumbled upon these lines, as I sat up overnight to finish off David Baldacci’s thriller First Family. To talk of the book, a good plot, but the literature was just, mediocre. It seems like a tactic now, for writers to pull across a best-seller, by starring the President of the States in their plots, and most necessarily the NSA and FBI, and how it is of paramount importance to the lives of millions in America. Big deal! I have seen lots like that.

Staring into my dad’s PC, and wondering what to write, my vision staggers over to the window to see a calm June sky, relieved of the storms and the rains, when that pleasant little sun finally pops out of the clouds to give a wide grin. Early morning, still wet and damp. The sun rises quite late here, in the west, its dark even at 6:30 am. Listening to their softened snores, I stole past my parents to the balcony upstairs hoping to catch a glimpse of the majestic Nilgiris across the highway. The clouds hid them all, and what I did catch was a good peek at the countryside, the small-town that Palghat is, right on time to see smoke rising from chimneys and little pools of mud in the paddy fields.

And a tiny martyr of the overnight storm, a mynah, lying peacefully below the iron rails. I murmured a quiet prayer and informed my mom about it. They had all risen except my lazy sister who continued to purr beneath her cozy blankets. And my mom was up and going, like she had always been, and I was allotted my share of the chores, to fold up dried clothes that hung on the lane. I managed to pull my dad over to give me a hand on that. Despite my ardent pleas and full-on logical reasoning that the bird be buried the Christian way with all pomp and show, atleast with prayers and flowers, my parents not only rigidly refused but ridiculed my idea teaming up to laugh at me. Finally the last remains of the martyr was disposed off into the large swamp nearby. Sad. Sad that we dispose off humans with dignity while throw a still an cold little birdie to rot. After all the soul is the same, who know, God might be a bird. Rest in peace, dearie.

The fish-seller drove down the muddied road yelling “Matti, Aila”. He is not the same man of my childhood, apparently, that guy has set up a stall in the town and is doing well. And after some persuasion I agreed to make tea for everyone, see our family is really patriarchal like most South Indian ones where the man just sits back and reads newspapers and discuss politics over tea while the women work sweat and muscles around the house . I poured it out in four steel cups, I like it strong, but I like coffee better. And I danced( well, what I call swinging your hands and doing a couple of cartwheels) in the hall, while my dad idly discusses the JEE results and my mom occasionally strode in from the kitchen to add a spicy opinion or two. I danced my heart out in the hall, waltzing and whirling, until my parents agreed among themselves that the girl had turned insane.

As I sit and type here, another discussion has propped up in the hall, I must run and tuck in, better not bore the reader longer. More next time :D Yeah, and the rains have come back again, incessant.

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