I am not usually a happy person: I belong to that category of people that cannot be happy unless we try very hard at it. Somehow, though, Sundays manage to sneak past that barrier. It is not because I do not have to go to College or where-ever. No, there is a sense of purpose, of meaning in having no obligations to anyone but myself that translates into a quiet, bubbling happiness.
In campus, my Sunday always begins with breakfast. Or a walk, if I wake up early enough; I just put on my ipod, and I’m off at a brisk pace. Breakfast is always leisurely. Sometimes, my friends join me, and it is cheerful conversation over good food. Mostly, though, I’m on my own, to savour hot dosas, hot milk, and a boiled egg, in that order –I always save the best for the last. It is a happy beginning to the day, and after that, whether I find my book, my laptop, or my friends, and even if, nay, when I find boredom in the afternoon, everything is right with my world.
It is, of course, a different story at home. I sleep in, for once. When I do wake up, I find my happiness not in the solitude that makes campus-mornings mine, but in the bosom of my family. I am, as a rule, not one who goes out of the way to seek company. And on a given day, you’ll find us all- dad, ma, jiji, and me- immersed in our own work. But there is a charm on Sundays, when everyone’s at home and with nothing particular to do, and everybody drifts to the hall. It is not a boisterous gathering. Laughter is only in short bursts. Hell, there are times when all of us are silent. No, everything is much more subtle. You see, whether I am quietly reading the newspaper, or animatedly debating something with jiji and ma and dad, there is this sense of belonging, this warmth enveloping me, this je ne sais quoi about the Sunday afternoons and evenings, and a butterfly-happiness settles somewhere in my breast.
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