Sundays #Nostalgia

Sunday mornings always feel special to me. No mater what the weather, it could be pouring cats and dogs, but Sundays for me are always days of sunshine and happiness. If I had to give Sundays a colour, it would be yellow, a lovely smiley sunshine yellow.

Sundays are meant for a lazy snooze in, but I love being up early, especially on a Sunday, knowing that the whole day stretches before me; mine to do what I like; no compulsory chores; just my lazy “me” day.

Sundays have a special smell, coffee, bacon and eggs and mummy’s favourite perfume.  As a child, Sunday mornings meant getting ready to go to church, all dressed up and pretty and if I promised to behave well, I got a spray of Mom’s perfume on my wrists. This was a very precious gift as Mom’s perfumes were always hidden in her cupboard which was always locked. So not only did we get to use her perfume, but she had to open the cupboard to get it out and that afforded us a glimpse of that magical place where she kept all her lovely silk sarees and jewellery.

Sundays were the days when the whole family sat down to a leisurely breakfast together; Grandpa Willie, Grandma Mary, Dad, Mom, my sisters and me and our dogs Laddie and Trigger, under the table getting scraps of food from everyone.

Sundays always saw a stream of regular visitors to our house. No sooner was breakfast over, than Giprya would be at our door. He was an old vagabond of indiscriminate age. He wore a long oversized black overcoat that someone had given him. He had a battered worn out waking stick too, which I think, he used more to hit out at the stray dogs that barked at him than to help him walk.

His face was thin and gaunt, framed with an unkempt salt and pepper beard. To our utter fascination, he wore earrings. He was always accompanied by his mangy old dog who went by the generic name of Kutriya.

After Giprya, came Mai, an old bent woman, with shockingly pure white hair. She wore old baggy dresses and smiled her toothless smile when we gave her food that she liked.

And boy, she sure had a temper. Once my grandmother gave her some leftover vegetable made from bitter gourd. She looked at it suspiciously and asked Grandma what it was. On being told that it was karela, she overturned the bowl and dumped the contents in anger at Grandma’s feet. Though the adults were affronted by this, I, at five, found it absolutely fascinating that she had the guts to do that to my grandmother, who could be pretty tyrannical when she wanted to.

Then it was the turn of the dhobi. I loved the ritual of him and Mom sitting and counting the clothes and arguing about a bed sheet he had not returned or a shirt of Dad’s that he had not ironed well enough.

While this colourful parade of visitors graced our door, Grandpa would be in the back yard, deciding which hen would go into the pot for our lunch that day. We always watched in wonder as he deftly wring the neck of the hapless hen and dressed and cut the bird.

Lunch was a grand affair, with “dal curry”, rice, “appars”, cutlets, salad and either mutton or chicken along with a fugath; and of course dessert. The meal was cooked by Mom and Grandma, using recipes handed down over generations.

Though Sunday was a holiday, it was the one day no one would be outside playing. Playing with friends was for the weekdays like lessons and school. Sunday was totally family time and it was generally spent at home.

In the evenings, we would go over to Grandma Bessie’s house. Mom’s sister would come with her family. The adults including Grandma Bessie and Mom’s brothers would all sit to play Carrom or Scrabble or some other games where all the kids too could join in.

My uncles, Newman and Oscar, who were bachelors, would compete in the kitchen, to produce the most exotic dish. We loved these competitions as we got to taste things like mushrooms and noodles and other dishes which were to us exotic as we rarely got to see them leave aside eat them.

The grand finale of the day was being rocked to sleep by Grandpa Willie .Though it’s been almost 40 years now, I can still hear his voice as he sang lullabies to us.

Yes. Sunday’s were truly magical and maybe it is the memory of the Sundays of my childhood that spills over to make Sundays feel special even today.

I am taking part in The Write Tribe Problogger October 2017 Blogging Challenge and I hope you enjoy reading my posts here. If you do, please leave a comment. It motivates me to write more. 

Patterns

Patterns

Life was so predictable.

 A pattern set for each day,

This then that and then this again,

Repeat over and over.

Linear…

Horizontal or vertical,

But always repetitive.

The days falling in pattern.

Till one day something broke.

And everything started spinning,

Twisting and turning,

Mixing the broken pieces,

To create

New designs, new worlds,

New knowledge

with every turn

Of life’s kaleidoscope.

I am taking part in The Write Tribe Problogger October 2017 Blogging Challenge and I hope you enjoy reading my posts here. If you do, please leave a comment. It motivates me to write more. 

Picking Up The Pieces

This post is written in response to the prompt on Write Tribe’s #WritingWednesdays. “Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.” ― Anton Chekhov

 

“Is this what you call tea?” he yelled and flung the cup across the room at her. She ducked instinctively to avoid the hot liquid. The cup hit the mirror behind her with all the force that he had thrown it with and both the cup and the mirror shattered.

As he turned angrily and left the room, she was just thankful that he had not whipped out his belt this time.

She turned to clear up the mess but was distracted by the shards of the mirror that lay on the floor; each piece reflecting pieces of her face.

“That’s me,” she realised as she looked at the distortion. “Fragments of the person I was. Will I ever be whole again?” she wondered.

And as she picked up the pieces of the mirror, she realised it was time to pick up the pieces of her life.

 

 

Endlessly

 

I walk through the house

Listlessly

It seems so big somehow

And so empty.

I strain my ears.

Is that your voice I hear?

That laugh that was so typically you.

I close my eyes and I can breathe in the scent of your body,

Feel its warmth surrounding me.

I reach out and can touch you,

Feel the texture of your skin

So achingly familiar.

I open my eyes reluctantly

To find myself alone

As I wait for you

Endlessly.

 

 

This post is in response to the Friday reflections prompt of the week: “Sometimes waiting is the hardest thing of all.” – Luanne Rice