Bombay is a city that gets its life juices from the weekends. The ties go off, so do the portfolios and the attachés; the bright lights come on and the big city tangos. The weekends in a way oxygen-masks the spirit of the city which is caught up in the a quagmire after five days of incessant hurry. Everything you dreamt of during the week, the genie of this city grants you in the weekends: be it the cold coffee afternoon or the couch potato evening; the pub and the disco or the paperback and the dream; the movie with popcorn or the walk down the beach… 

I have been a slow learner. It takes me quite a lot of time to comprehend the simplicities of life. In the last ten years, I haven’t been able to distinguish and appropriate the importance of each day of the week. Even till a few weeks back, days never stood out from each other, incidents did: like pockmarks on the surface of the moon. And incidents had the liberty to come and go through the swish gates of my collective experience. It didn’t matter which day of the week I was standing on. 

Now, suddenly, it’s a different board-game. Monday means slow traffic, Tuesday means exacted enthusiasm; Wednesday, where I am presently stranded, represents the clichéd mid-week crisis; Thursdays- eager nail-biting wait; Fridays, relief! By some written law you can’t change lanes, and on this tarmac, Bombay honkers on to its promised land.

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