Because all of us live a similarly structured life, Sundays have come to occupy a special place for the most of us. There is something about a Sunday that makes us very different from how we live our lives the rest of the week. I believe, some folks call it the work-life balance. Imbalance actually, 6 days vs. a day or 5 days vs. 2 (depending, if you include Saturday as the closest cousin of Sunday). We like to think that our life is our own on the weekend. That’s not true, but we like to think so. There is some triumph in that.
A Sunday is usually a day of taking stock of the week, often sub-consciously, because we consciously choose to forget the routine of the week. Yet, the past weeks, months, and sometimes years keep flashing by, even if we are engaged in something utterly useless like watching a cricket match or just lazing in bed.
Those flashing moments never get a chance to stay with you; they are shooed-away by the struggle of that which is aware and the sub-conscious. They are neutralised in the rich and aromatic flavours of Sunday feasts, or lost in the afternoon naps. They are kept waiting while we catch up on family gossip. They are kept aside for a while, like the bookmark of the book, that we are yet to finish after four Sundays. They are never a part of the story of the movie that we watch, nor are ever allowed to participate in the conversations at the after-dinner coffee. Yet they are always there, ever-present, ready to be looked at, if we are willing to give them some attention, in between the agenda-less tasks of a lazy Sunday.
The day ends, leaving you tired and often without a sense of achievement, though you never set out to achieve anything on a Sunday.
And you head out to sleep, grudging the Monday to come, venting out the grudge with creatively-crafted-Monday-morning-blues-status-messages on Facebook and Twitter and such.
Much happens on a Sunday, though, you don’t do much.