Even today he talks about the porosity of poha and the perfect crisp of jalebi complaining of how wonderful do they go especially when eaten before bathing. Sunday mornings, which would watch him waking early have always countered the other days of this sleeping being. The Sundays are after all different days, he thinks, similar to the name 'Sunday' itself he'd come across a decade ago or two.
The world stops rotating on Sunday, at least for him. What often is referred to as weekend by others, for him is the day when the shutter of his Kirana store sways by the day heat. Less of the arguments with customers over credit, the workload of the shop on number two's leave, and the never-ending scene of the inventories. An interlude.
He gets up for the day off from his shop. But his shop doesn't let him. He sticks around in there leafing through the books of accounts and inspecting the stocks yet to be dealt with. What for? He doesn't bother about it. He leans over his wing chair and reduces himself to the suburban world what it has been to him. Silence. Sleep.
But when were the Sundays to guarantee sleep? A voice gurgles in his mind in the very accent of Rahat Indori, absorbed, he leads to his godown- #Poha#indore#Itwaar#raahatindori
