Of all the little things I enjoy, nothing compares to the joy and tranquility of a nap on a Sunday afternoon. Frankly, it need not
be a Sunday. The title is given simply because it sounds better than
a ‘Monday siesta’ or a ‘Thursday siesta’. All you need in order to enjoy one is
the ‘art of doing nothing’. You cannot enjoy a siesta when you have work either
prior to or following it. It is akin to meditation. You need to zero in on your
objective and let it take over. (The zero is an interesting concept. Zero or Shoonya
means ‘nothing’. However, it can also mean the all-encompassing. Shoonya
can be none and whole at the same time!) A siesta is best enjoyed when you have
nothing to do, allowing it to engulf you entirely.
Living in a hostel teaches you many life skills. Of the few
I have learnt, I surely count appreciating the beauty of a siesta to be one.
Prior to being a hostelite, I used to scorn those who lazed their way through
Sunday afternoons. The tables have turned and I now absolutely appreciate the
value of sleep, surrendering to it as and when it demands, especially in those
golden moments on beautiful afternoons.
Having been a hostelite for more than four years now,
Sundays at home and in the hostel move along similar trajectories; the only
difference being, perhaps, the food. At home, a Sunday usually opens with the
false alarm of the maid having arrived, forcing my brother and me to wake up.
Such honour is not bestowed even upon guests who arrive not so frequently. With
a cup of coffee, the next couple of hours are spent reading the newspapers,
which switch hands between Dad, brother and me, while Mom is busy making
breakfast. Dad is an ace at taking his afternoon naps in the morning,
especially with the TV switched on!
A heavy lunch on a Sunday is just the right prelude to a
siesta. If it is ragi mudde, need I say more? Wash the lunch down with a
glass of buttermilk and the stage is set. Eyes droop, mental activity decreases
while voices on the TV become a drone. I unroll a mat, place my head on the
pillow, wrap myself in a blanket and ever so slowly, slip into blissful
oblivion. Unless there are pressing commitments or (unwelcome) visitors, this
siesta can stretch upto three hours. Nobody is complaining about it, is there?
In the hostel, since Saturday ends late – or even if it
doesn’t – dawn does not break until near-noon on Sunday. Having missed
breakfast, lunch is the first meal of the day (like most other days!). Often,
conversations at the table are spicier than the food itself. Having downed a
fresh lime soda, we friends disperse along separate ways. I return with my copy
of The Hindu.
A warm breeze blows through the window as I settle down to
read the paper. It does take a lot of time to read the elaborately structured
Sunday edition. Lying down to read the last few pages of the paper, I already
sense my eyes becoming a little heavy. There is a buzz as a stray housefly
flits around the room, looking for an exit. I spread a thin blanket over myself
and pick up the book placed next to my pillow. A beautiful line forces me to
stop reading and reflect upon it. I look up at the fan which has been gently
whirring all this while. Spotlessly clean. I thank the housekeeping for having done
a good job. There’s a myna at the window, chirping away, piercing the silence
of an otherwise still afternoon. A few seconds later, it flies away and
everything is static once more. The housefly is no longer in the room. The line
has just triggered an insight. I sense it bubbling upwards. However, much
before it reaches the surface, sleep takes over. The book is on my chest, in a
loving embrace. The spectacles remain perched on the nose.
Siesta and I exchange pleasantries. I still perceive the world outside, though faintly. Steadily, Siesta overpowers me. One by one, the senses shut off. At the height of our communion, I do not realise the incessant howling of dogs below the window. I am oblivious to the vibration of my phone. It takes a very brief power cut to break the spell. Siesta has lost her magic. I feel my senses returning and yet, I find myself resisting their return. It is my friend’s knock on the door which finally wakes me up in time for the evening coffee.
Despite knowing that we'll meet again in a week's time or perhaps even before that, I bid farewell to Siesta with a heavy heart. Siesta disappears through the door as caffeine enters the system, leaving memories and expectations in her wake.
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