There were unending plans he would make and
write about them on sticky notes and orange coloured diaries.
In his neat and impressive writing, he
painstakingly jots downa the list of things that had to get done when his
favourite Sunday would arrive.
Bits of handwritten notes get shoved into his trouser pockets, and they lie there ignorant without a care; By the time he reaches home he forgets all about them, the trouser going in for a wash along with the rest of his clothing.
Next morning, after a run in the
dryer,
when a bucket full of clothes is pulled out
for drying, scraps of paper fall out,
the writing now hopelessly unintelligible.
The words are all jumbled, tumbling
over one another, big blobs of ink having blotted them out; like
a giant wave swooshing away the sand castles built the previous evening.
A host of other paraphernalia also
pops out.
A half smoked cigarette bud; the grey
ash still quivering at the tip, a 50 p coin now emerging with a slight
dent and a ticket to the opera, all lie there silently in a slush. He
blames his absent-mindedness for the mess, offers a careless shrug and
starts writing his plans all over again.
For the coming Sunday, there
were things to get done, errands to be run,
An overgrown toenail that had to be clipped,
An unsettled bill that had to be paid,
A musical opera that he had purchased a
ticket for, but then he remembers of forgetting it in the trouser pocket and
how it had got washed away. No regrets he tells himself and proceeds
to write some more.
He makes plans of visiting his great grand
aunt, who was all of ninety, ramrod straight and who would cook Chingri Malai Curry for
him, that was not adapted from any cookbook.
This time he was careful enough to
tuck the notes in the second partition of his frayed wallet.
But come Sunday, the notes, lie untouched and unread; He has forgotten all about them;
except about making a visit to his aunt.
He goes for a walk, finds an
unattended phone booth, drops a coin, dials a number and counts exactly till
ten rings. On the eleventh she answers, letting out a delightful shriek, on
hearing his voice. In slow halting tones, she tells him that nothing in this
world would give her greater joy than cooking his favourite prawn curry and
feeding him.
She informs him that she is in a rush to get
things done and hangs up the phone without telling him a proper goodbye.
He carefully replaces the receiver, a
smile leaving his face as he sets out for his walk again.
On the way, he finds a lone bench that
had creepers growing from beneath it. He sits and stares at the clouds
above that are gathered in a huddle, hiding the sun behind them.
As the clear winter air fills his
senses, he looks around to find a pair of orange hued butterflies chasing each
other and the trees shedding their browned leaves.
A one eyed horse passes by that has a
skittish walk.
These sights please him, bringing in a
joy from within.
He leaves from there, wanting to
make new purchases at the grocery store. Weekly shopping done,
he winks at the blue-eyed cashier for tendering him the exact change.
The notes that were carefully written in his
impressive handwriting are long forgotten except what occupies his
senses now is the taste of Chingri Malai Curry that
he would soon be experiencing.
Another week would begin tomorrow,
and he would encounter the same rush,
the same throng of people he would be
surrounded with, the empty faces that would stare back at him. But
for now, he is happy revelling in the Sunday, that he calls his own, the
sunlight filtering inside the rickety bus that was taking him to his great
grand aunt’s house…
