Between the Sunday evening and Monday morning

Your head feels like a cassette on rewind mode. Flashbacks of the 48 good hours play repeatedly like a film that you would love to watch back to back. Procrastination takes over and the film ends abruptly.  Your thoughts swing like a pendulum from yesterday to tomorrow.

There is some part of the Sunday left to make merry, but you suddenly feel like a soldier who is restricted by the boundaries of a Monday.  It’s a war against Monday to guard your Sunday.

The ammunitions that it has are worry bombs, Boss 247, anti-chill mines, tear gas and the aptly put ‘dead-lines’. The commander of Monday, the client, clad in a grungy green terrorizing outfit asks you to show him what you got. You combat it with the best of your Sunday weapons like booze bombs, musical mines and flashy weapons. 

There are cheer missiles from Sunday and tedium missiles from Monday colliding with each other. Your friends give you covering fire to escape thoughts of Monday, by supplying you with alcohol shots.  

After a night long battle, Monday blues take over the Sunday reds.  The Sunday, like a defeated hero, comes back to its territory and prepares itself for another battle coming up next week. 

2 Tiers and 2 Tears

What is wrong if you have two layers of extra skin? Why does the world go berserk about the flab which does not belong to them? What immense pleasure do they derive out of socially commenting on somebody’s double chin or 3 tiers? Even if I had an hourglass figure, the social commenter would anyway keep warning me about not including an extra teaspoon of oil or to take an irresistible second bite of a second sugar coated doughnut.  I don’t want to diet. I don’t want to do those daily morning weird yoga-aasans to get into a svelte shape.

I’m happy with those chubby arms which serve as a pillow to my loved ones, or that double chin that kids love to play with. People forget that if you’re fat, yes fat is the word, you’re also huggable, adorable and more lovable. With that extra cushion comes an extra layer of love which people fail to notice. So what if I’ve grown fat? Will the world collapse with an extra weight of 800 grams? Am I occupying their office chair and making them stand? I’m a harmless, happy-go-lucky, cute lady walking around the office and I’m certainly not throwing that weight around. So as I come back to my workstation, shedding two tears about those two tiers that a jerk heartlessly commented on, I wonder why is it a sin to be fat? Does it make me less competitive? Does it make me less beautiful? Does it make me less athletic? NO.  Then why do such comments matter to me? The truth is, it does. It somewhere hits my self confidence and the way I carry myself.

Yes, I too would like to fit into a Small or a Medium T-shirt. Every time I see ‘Large’ written on my t-shirt, it hurts.  I feel ridiculed. Probably, that’s the time I feel really ‘Small’.  It’s like an arranged marriage, where you’re asked to fall in love with that flab.  As a kid, when I ate all those mom-made delicacies, I didn’t realize that every milligram of sugar I consumed is not adding to just those tiers, but also to my tears.  So all those people with stick figure, you can rave about yourselves; but you will have to live with other shortcomings like- less adorable, less cute, less huggable, and less playable. I’m fat because I have a spare flab made of all your shortcomings.

Canteen wala, please take my order for one cheese toast sandwich, minus the cheese. 

There's still sand on my shoes..

There’s still sand on my shoes and I don’t want to dust it off.

They aren’t fine granules of silica as most of ya’ll see it. They’re memories of togetherness, drunken times, dim orange lights, soft instrumental living room music, times when I had to be shaken out of my thoughts; that are hidden between my toes. It’s like taking home these good times that have added magnificence to life. 

The sand is a vast oversized bed which guarantees peaceful sleep without a pillow. It probably soaks in my worries, fears and negativities as I lay on it. Those thoughts about conquering the world or uncertainties of life are sucked up and every time I get up, I’m a content, light hearted, transformed person. 

I’m either too quiet or too ecstatic on the sand. Mostly quiet, no ecstatic, no quiet. It’s a world of my own where I can be what I want to be. There are no boundaries, no one to watch, no one to direct. I can control the compass or be my own anchor. I can be in love with myself, think I can fly, roll over in the sand, scream my lungs out and the sand just quietly takes it all. It’s a listener, can make you a dreamer and can be your best friend.

As I come back to the hustle bustle of the city life, the mad rush, witness almost-a-stampede to be one step ahead of the other, concrete jungles everywhere, I look at my shoes and see the sand that has calmly nestled itself in the sole of my footwear and probably, my soul as well.

So, there’s still sand on my shoes and I don’t want to dust it off.