Finding Fundays

Long ago, there used to be a day in the week when life seemed lazy, uncomplicated and rejuvenating best. Or worst!

BY MADHUCHANDA DAS

Can you remember, from many manic summers ago perhaps, waking up to a day of the week when the clock simply stopped and time stood frozen? Well, I certainly do! I wasn’t dragged out of bed by the horror of a shrill alarm clock, but rubbed my eyes gleefully open when Baba drew the blinds to invite the golden sun into my room. A clear sky promised a day of undiluted fun and endless possibilities, as the divine fragrance of Ma’s lit incense sticks extended a pious significance to that ambience. On that one day of the week, Ma’s frantic morning anthem of “Get up, get going!” was replaced by Anup Jalota’s bhajans calling the shots. I was deluged by the fragrant aroma of luchis (Bengali for puris) simmering lightly in a sea of warm oil, dying to be pricked open and devoured with succulent aloo dum

I would be at my creative best, etching intricate toothpaste designs on the bathroom mirror while wondering why it had been invented for teeth. That was the only day when the newspaper had a coloured edition, and its eye-catching spread would blow my senses away. Baba would goad me to read the serious stuff - the editorials and blah blah to buttress my language skills, but my heart lay in the tinsel town gossip, horoscopes, cricket and crosswords. And Ma would nag at the bright yellow designs in aloo dum oil etched across the glossy paper. Poor soul, she could manage to lay her hands on it only in the late afternoon, after it had been caressed by every hand in the family, all of whom had contributed to its crumpled

The lilting strains of Doordarshan’s signature tune wafting across from the neighbours’ home would make me dash towards our idiot box, which then ruled the roost. And there I remained fixated till eternity, oblivious of the world around me. This magic box faithfully delivered one fantasy after another, from Rangoli to Ramayan to regional cinema.

Intermittently, I was shaken out of my spellbinding stupor by Ma’s nimble fingers working their oily magic on my scalp or her fuming over getting the house tidy to welcome Baba’s first cousin’s second daughter’s husband’s friend who was invited for lunch.

Then there was Baba who demanded if he had any proprietary rights whatsoever over the goggle box (aka the TV- there was no Google in those days, you see!) to watch some sane news from around the country and the world. I only grudgingly consented after making a deal – to be allowed for a play with the building kids. Baba, the world’s simplest, most straight-forward soul, gladly gave in, but as I rushed down to freedom I could faintly hear Ma’s furious outburst on my grand escape.

Whether it was lagori, cricket, kho kho or badminton, or endless walks around the buildings, that was paradise and life was a dream.

Glorious food ruled the roost on that day. Baba’s impeccable eye for picking the choicest fare in the subzi mandi and Masterchef Ma’s culinary deftness made a magical jugalbandi which never failed to rise to the occasion. Their efforts triumphantly culminated into a lip-smacking feast that the day signified. My tongue and tummy tickled and teemed with myriad onslaughts of sweet, sour, tangy and peppery and there was a delectable gastronomic pleasure in licking my fingers after digging them deep into that elaborate spread.

I tossed and turned through the mandatory afternoon siesta which was Ma’s command, and as the house was engulfed by a hovering quietness, my hands itched to try the card trick that Guest Uncle had demonstrated post-lunch.

Evening snacks tasted even scrunchier with friends over to watch the Hindi film on telly. Well, you see, not everybody owned the grand EC TV that proudly ruled our lounge room. All rested and replenished, the week ahead seemed beckoning as I dexterously organised my school satchel.

It’s strange, but at the core of it all, there was a pronounced profundity to the seeming shallowness of plain, absolute chilling out. No secret formulas and no sacrosanct commandments were needed to add magic to life. No talents to hone, no competitions to flaunt, no parties to throw or seminars to attend, no malls to visit, no supermarkets to rush into and no virtual gizmos to dabble with. Just simple, out and out reflection, rejuvenation, rapport and reciprocity in the habitual humdrum of ordinary middle class living.

Now, there are talents to hone, competitions to flaunt, parties to throw, seminars to attend, malls to visit, supermarkets to rush into and virtual gizmos to dabble with

And now, as I die to steal a glance at Indian Link - my favourite magazine - on that very day of the week many summers later, the numerous chores to conduct and the countless errands to run continue to tick surreptitiously in some dreary corner of the mind, waiting to manifest into a whizzing torpedo of itineraries and agendas, of promises to keep and words to honour, of quality time to chalk out and quantifiable love to shower. Sadly, I remain incapable of affording the luxury called time to stand and stare, with the extraordinary demands of an extracting era looming large upon me. I just hope and pray that one of these days I’m able to reserve a teeny weeny bit of it to relive those unmatched, unique and unparallel good old days when something called Sundays existed.