Things standstill and we continue to move

Paulo Coelho’s “Adultery” lies opened near the pillow.  Besides that lie two other books. One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest and Kahlil Gibran’s collection. The floor is clean and the kitchen table a little scattered. The study table has books piled up. The Psychology of Learning, Other People’s Love Letters, along with calendar at the left, lens solution besides it, a mug with spoon from last night’s milk, still left to be washed, a nail remover waiting to be used, a highlighter waiting to ink itself on a textbook of physiological psychology and a watch which ticks every seconds, only to be looked at after a few hours.

The room today feels different. With the hustle bustle of the week, it loses its identity. The owner swept away with the laziness that a Sunday beckons re-structures and re-defines the room’s existence at least in his own eyes ( for doing it actually requires intense effort). The drawings on the wall and the inspirational messages become non- existent after a while, for they become more of an object of admiration than words with meanings. But what happens to the purpose for which they were written primarily? Time fades everything, purposes too. The lady, inside those pages, is asked a question “Are you happy?” Married to a rich man with two children, this question perplexes her. It throws upon her the deadness and monotony of living a routine life for all these years and those yet to come. The author writes “Sin is followed by a fear of being caught”. The owner asks himself “Am I happy? Is sin an essential element to strive for happiness?” The fact that why fiction still continues to excite people is that even as it is a fiction, the elements of reality play hide and seek amidst the plot just as sun does with clouds on many a days. On days like these, it feels that the mighty Sun too knows how to have fun. On other days we curse it for the heat that melts our bodies. Those who believe in the planets and how it governs their future are of the view that there are phases. Phases, where sun, moon or rahu exercises a force which determines their current phases of life. The owner asks “How do the planets act as a force? It’s I who decides whether I wish to finish my deadline or not?

In the way his life runs these days with multiple roles of the professional course, a lazy and relaxed Sunday is nothing less than a luxury. Some sun-days are strenuous for it means living with that time before another week starts, and some bring all the existential questions of life in the fore front. The latter feel much better, mostly when a book leads him to think,eventually to write.

The room is cold and so is the wet nose. The fan is off, with the dirt of the days stuck to the blades like black soot waiting to be inspected. Outside the door the sun shines bright, waiting to bestow it’s warmth into the room. The owner wishes to rest, but work as always call. This time, after God knows ages, he procrastinates in a softer and subtle way, knowing it shall be done. The peace of an author’s words can do many wonders. With this the owner signs off.