Well I don’t know since when but I am missing Sundays. Yes, I know today is Sunday and the sun is shining bright and gay. It’s just not there: the charm Sundays used to have in the old times…

Sundays meant waking up late, Sunday supplements with The Telegraph, of a certain purposeless willful laziness. Not exactly laziness, maybe a meditation on the fact that a week has ended, and another is yet to begin. Ignoring the fact that Sunday was also a day of the week.

I remember we were exempted from studying on Sundays (provided we had finished our homework the evening before). Sundays were exclusively dedicated to crayon and HB pencils, clandestine meetings in mango orchards, para cricket, Mahabharat and kasha mangsho. Sunday was the time when no one was watching.

Of meandering tram lanes, of boulevards of late morning walker, of newness of life, of eternal spring, of crosswords and amateur artists. Sundays.

Today, Sunday is just another day.

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