“Sunday Morning Coming Down”
Well I woke up Sunday morning,
With no way to hold my head that didn't hurt.
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad,
So I had one more for dessert.
Then I fumbled through my closet for my clothes,
And found my cleanest dirty shirt.
An' I shaved my face and combed my hair,
An' stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.
The quietness woke me for a change. After the hustle and bustle of living in a metropolitan city, Sunday morning is that much needed day of rest and relaxation. However, sunday morning in Delhi also looks a bit like the above verse, don’t you think, my dear reader. Life in fast Delhi takes its toll on us sometimes, well, let me amend that, most of the time. And, the toll on our lifestyle, health and sometime hygiene has led to many a disastrous consequence in the many pasts.
I'd smoked my brain the night before,
On cigarettes and songs I'd been pickin'.
But I lit my first and watched a small kid,
Cussin' at a can that he was kicking.
Then I crossed the empty street,
'n caught the Sunday smell of someone fryin' chicken.
And it took me back to somethin',
That I'd lost somehow, somewhere along the way.
After the heavy (for hardworking students and professionals) and relatively calm (for those who call themselves students only by virtue of being enrolled in some institutions of learning and troglodytes themselves who erupt like Vesuvius only on weekend) week, Friday evening and the continuation is Canaan, the land of bliss and bountiful times to be subsumed in Bacchanalian revelries and Bohemian pleasures. No hedonist worth his salt would forsake the din and pleasure that flowed from the various founts of Bacchus. But, lingering memories are always there. A story once upon a time, far, far away.
On the Sunday morning sidewalk,
Wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cos there's something in a Sunday,
Makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothin' short of dyin',
Half as lonesome as the sound,
On the sleepin' city sidewalks:
Sunday mornin' comin' down.
The path laid for all of us is a lonely road. ‘Tis not one where good natured camaderie and bonhomie can happen and carry us along when we are lonely. Rather, its everyman for himself. Where is the light that will shine when we are jaded and want recourse from this existential reality?
In the park I saw a daddy,
With a laughin' little girl who he was swingin'.
And I stopped beside a Sunday school,
And listened to the song they were singin'.
Then I headed back for home,
And somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringin'.
And it echoed through the canyons,
Like the disappearing dreams of yesterday.
A girl, its always a girl who are the one who moved the world from Eve who change our whole existence (no apologies to feminists here, facts stands on its feet, not head) to Troy’s Helen of the thousand ship fame and Cleopatra over whom time shift restlessly in the unending sand. Well, let me not go overboard here. But, from the disasters to the success stories, girls contribute a lot, don’t they? What about some introspection? Dreams fade away to oblivion; the shining cities of yore are lost in the midst of time. Thoughts and speculations abound in the human psyche. Ole Janus stood watch over time-the unending Maya and the hopes of Nirvana.
On a Sunday morning like this, we’ve all stood and thought, what am I to do, what is my life going to be? However, life is not exactly “Que Sera Sera, Whatever will be will be, the Future’s not ours to see”. Rather to borrow Longfellow, it is “Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait”. But, the drive and the sources are all hidden in the past pavilions of time. It is ours to unravel the thread of time and find out what is our meaning of life, hidden in the dusty corridors of some forgotten building on a Sunday morning.
(Note: The title is taken from Kris Kristofferson’s song of the same title made famous by Johnny Cash. The plot has no allusion with the actual thought of the songwriter and any connections made between the two are at the reader’s discretion.)
NB: This is an unedited (or lets say beta) version of an article i submitted for the Delhi Mizo Zirlai Pawl Annual Magazine. While its for others, this time, i basically wrote it for myself.
Well I woke up Sunday morning,
With no way to hold my head that didn't hurt.
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad,
So I had one more for dessert.
Then I fumbled through my closet for my clothes,
And found my cleanest dirty shirt.
An' I shaved my face and combed my hair,
An' stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.
The quietness woke me for a change. After the hustle and bustle of living in a metropolitan city, Sunday morning is that much needed day of rest and relaxation. However, sunday morning in Delhi also looks a bit like the above verse, don’t you think, my dear reader. Life in fast Delhi takes its toll on us sometimes, well, let me amend that, most of the time. And, the toll on our lifestyle, health and sometime hygiene has led to many a disastrous consequence in the many pasts.
I'd smoked my brain the night before,
On cigarettes and songs I'd been pickin'.
But I lit my first and watched a small kid,
Cussin' at a can that he was kicking.
Then I crossed the empty street,
'n caught the Sunday smell of someone fryin' chicken.
And it took me back to somethin',
That I'd lost somehow, somewhere along the way.
After the heavy (for hardworking students and professionals) and relatively calm (for those who call themselves students only by virtue of being enrolled in some institutions of learning and troglodytes themselves who erupt like Vesuvius only on weekend) week, Friday evening and the continuation is Canaan, the land of bliss and bountiful times to be subsumed in Bacchanalian revelries and Bohemian pleasures. No hedonist worth his salt would forsake the din and pleasure that flowed from the various founts of Bacchus. But, lingering memories are always there. A story once upon a time, far, far away.
On the Sunday morning sidewalk,
Wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cos there's something in a Sunday,
Makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothin' short of dyin',
Half as lonesome as the sound,
On the sleepin' city sidewalks:
Sunday mornin' comin' down.
The path laid for all of us is a lonely road. ‘Tis not one where good natured camaderie and bonhomie can happen and carry us along when we are lonely. Rather, its everyman for himself. Where is the light that will shine when we are jaded and want recourse from this existential reality?
In the park I saw a daddy,
With a laughin' little girl who he was swingin'.
And I stopped beside a Sunday school,
And listened to the song they were singin'.
Then I headed back for home,
And somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringin'.
And it echoed through the canyons,
Like the disappearing dreams of yesterday.
A girl, its always a girl who are the one who moved the world from Eve who change our whole existence (no apologies to feminists here, facts stands on its feet, not head) to Troy’s Helen of the thousand ship fame and Cleopatra over whom time shift restlessly in the unending sand. Well, let me not go overboard here. But, from the disasters to the success stories, girls contribute a lot, don’t they? What about some introspection? Dreams fade away to oblivion; the shining cities of yore are lost in the midst of time. Thoughts and speculations abound in the human psyche. Ole Janus stood watch over time-the unending Maya and the hopes of Nirvana.
On a Sunday morning like this, we’ve all stood and thought, what am I to do, what is my life going to be? However, life is not exactly “Que Sera Sera, Whatever will be will be, the Future’s not ours to see”. Rather to borrow Longfellow, it is “Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait”. But, the drive and the sources are all hidden in the past pavilions of time. It is ours to unravel the thread of time and find out what is our meaning of life, hidden in the dusty corridors of some forgotten building on a Sunday morning.
(Note: The title is taken from Kris Kristofferson’s song of the same title made famous by Johnny Cash. The plot has no allusion with the actual thought of the songwriter and any connections made between the two are at the reader’s discretion.)
NB: This is an unedited (or lets say beta) version of an article i submitted for the Delhi Mizo Zirlai Pawl Annual Magazine. While its for others, this time, i basically wrote it for myself.
