Saturdays sprint, Sundays fly!!

I actually thought of saying Saturdays fly, Sundays sprint. But I stuck to the above because there is some kind of rhythm, a kind of attitude about it.

Fridays are spent bringing in the Saturday. So when you get up at 9.00 , you are already thinking “damn! It’s already 9.” You try to get out of bed but by the time you manage to get out of the many layers of sheets that have (literally) weighed you down, your eyes close and you tell yourself “It’s a Saturday. Another hour of sleep won’t do you any harm”. So another hour is actually 3 hours and at 12, you stretch yourself, get out of bed, drink the coffee (which has already been heated 4 times) and hit the shower.

As the bathroom singer in you is at its very best (so good that you could release an album titled (s) tone deaf), you suddenly remember you are running late for a lunch. You hurriedly get out of the shower, almost slip, half dry yourself, lie to your friend that you are on your way as you are getting into your jeans and then actually live the lie.

Getting to the place is as easy as finding a place to sit in a crowded bus. As you live through the honks and the tanks (water tankers) and finally reach the place, your shirt sticks to your back making you wonder whether it’s the water (remember the half dry routine) or the sweat.

The lunch lasts exactly an hour. You eat exactly for 10 minutes. The rest of the time is spent in talking everything about the sun including about the sun. And then, a casual glance at the 100 year old clock makes you feel even older. It’s already 4.

You hit the road trying to catch up with time. It never happens. You curse the traffic, almost hit a dog, just about kiss a lorry. You also wish you were an artist (to paint the red light permanently green). By the time you get home, have a shower (and properly dry yourself), it’s time to head out again - this time to catch up with a few friends who think they grow wiser under the influence of alcohol.

Once you are buzzed or flushed with alcohol, food beckons. The best gobi Manchurian in the world (all cold and exactly 2 days old) kills your appetite so that the ghee rice is anything but edible. As you say ciao to your friends and head home, you wonder where the day went. The thought stays with you till you fall asleep.

And then…Sunday dawns bright and clear just when your dreams become brighter. As your dream takes to you to only where dreams can take you (to a house filled with beautiful maidens), the sun decides to play spoil sport. You get up with a start, rub your eyes, stare at the yellow colored walls and try to figure out where you are. The clock strikes 11 and your journey to reality is complete.

As your drag yourself out of bed, hit the shower and embrace reality (sigh), its time to step out for lunch. The roads are pretty empty. A cow crosses the road; a dog hits the wheel (to pee of course!). You meet a couple of friends for lunch and talk about the previous day (our obsession with the past cripples our present so that the present can only be talked about in the past).
By the time you hit the road again, its time for coffee. Now, coffee on Sundays is an expensive affair because one’s got to pay for the ambience in addition to the watery, coffee like coffee. As you tell yourself that every sip was worth it, another part of you says “you know it’s not worth it. Who are lying to?”

As you recover from the (lack of) caffeine kick, its time to head home. You say bye to your friends promising to meet in a couple of days. You get home, watch some inane movie on TV where the villain looks better and bigger than the hero and yet gets beaten up (this can happen only in movies). The hero wears tight T shirts showing off his flab and gets to romance the heroine who is young enough to be her grand daughter.

As the credits run past you, you get up, tell yourself (yet again) not to watch some stupid movie, sprint though your dinner and hit the bed thinking how short the weekend was.