Sunday Domesticity

There is a Sunday morning fragrance in the air that brings back a rush of memories from different towns.

Strong incense, OK soap. Jo OK se nahaaye, kamal sa khil jaaye.

I pop into A.’s house next door. His parents are watching Chandrakanta and he is in another room, singing obediently after his music teacher. Today’s lesson is Raag Bhupali, Itno joban par maan na kariye. This bandish is a plea, a slightly sombre version of what is generally a bright raag; the mood is reflected on A.’s face, who is perhaps lamenting the loss of an hour of his holiday, time that we could have spent bursting leftover Diwali crackers or playing with his WWF Trump Cards.

I watch Rangoli at the Chaudharys’. The sisters and the brother are sprawled on the sofa, while their mother makes breakfast and cups of sweet tea. I am allowed some. Their father returns from the market, carrying fresh vegetables and some kaala jaamun. Try some, says S. You will like it, it is pink inside. Attracted by the prospect of an intriguing colour, I take one. I don’t see the pink, or at least I don’t remember it. I continue my search, to this day, for the pink-hearted kaala jaamun.

Their black-and-white TV holds my interest only so far. I return home for Potli Baba ki and the Jungle Book. My mother is cooking ladies’ finger soaked in generous quantities of oil and just the right amount of turmeric. She offers me a cup straight off the stove — hot and steamy, with the satisfying crunch of mustard seeds. When I try to replicate the recipe now, I am almost horrified at the amount of oil it needs. This is one of the pieces of the past that can be recreated most easily, but now the head demurs.

Then follow years of Sundays spent preparing for a variety of tests and exams — all thanks to the school and college administrators who like to terrorise students by holding tests in the first period of the week. I wish for a divine intervention on Monday mornings; torrential rain, a sudden holiday, a teacher’s absence, a bad mood, anything to ward off that unpleasant beginning to the week (unless it is an English exam, when the music of words comes to the rescue). But miracles are in short supply. I never wake up to discover that it is still Sunday morning, and we never skip marvellously to Tuesday.

Come 2001, I have a new interest in life. I spend almost every other Sunday from March to October glued to the TV screen, hoping for a Michael Schumacher win. I am the engineer Ferrari need, the superstar mechanic who makes sure any component woes are immediately resolved. I dream of a career in F1, only to be brought promptly to earth by the realities of my engineering syllabus, where the textbooks don’t seem to have been updated since the 1970s — for Computer Science, of all streams. Work follows: office Sundays, Sundays for sleeping in, Sundays on which my flatmates want profile photos for Orkut. As the only one without a profile to manage, I am the assigned photographer. Gardens, malls, museums, many shops — photos against many backdrops, which will be scrutinised and updated at home, the highlight of the evening. I read library books by the dozen — contemporary novels I have no money or room for, dazzled by the plaudits until I realise what the prizes really mean. I grow up a little.

***

Now Sundays come and go in a blur. I cannot remember what I did last Sunday, or the one before that, but this is a pleasant sameness with swathes of uncertainty. I read, I write stories nobody will ever read, I imagine things with a vim to rival Anne Shirley’s. I fret about Mondays, cook and clean, think about doing chores, but always find a book or a song that demands attention straightaway. G. talks me into playing a board game. I surprise him by asking to watch Pulp Fiction. Look how we’ve both changed since we met each other, he says. And so we have. He’s reading Anne Tyler, I’m talking about Quentin Tarantino, and we’re keeping house. We’re amazed at ourselves, but you can’t tell from the outside that each Sunday is different: it looks like nothing has changed, when a lot has. I’m growing.

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