Chirping birds at my window reminds me that it is a warm Sunday morning as I groggily open my eyes, the sunlight filtering through my curtains that are inconspicuously fluttering against the little breeze. I am conscious of my tensed muscles, as I stretch, hands involuntarily sweeping under my pillow for my phone as I squint at the time on my display – ten minutes past noon. Groaning, I prop myself up on the pillow as I take in the stillness of my environment. No sounds of the television blasting at high volume, no voices of my mother calling out my name or my father deeply singing a song aloud – just the engines of the cars outside, my battered Morries fan on speed three and my sister’s gentle snores beside me.
The stillness follows me to the empty kitchen as I switch on the stove, the burst of flames and click of lighter breaking through the quiet for a moment. The soft sound of anklets brings me back to reality as my sister arrives around the corner, rubbing her eyes and asks what’s for lunch.
We could do tuna and bread, I suggest.
I am sorry, I add, as she smiles and assures me that it is fine.
A fine Sunday morning, my mother would be ambling about in the kitchen, the sound of the knife against the chopping board while she hums under her breath. Occasionally calling out to my father to help her fetch the eggs from the pantry to grab the masala box atop the shelves while he begrudgingly shuffles his feet around the kitchen, sometimes complaining about having to labor on a Sunday.
Don’t cook so much the next time, he would say.
Then you would starve, snaps my mother.
Their raised bickering would float into the room as we would sleep soundly past noon, my sister tossing and turning before she propels up irritated, slams the door shut and sinks back into her interrupted sleep. A quiet pause sinks in before hearing them break out into a song from the radio, my father pulling my mother into a little dance in the kitchen while my mother’s laughter floats back into the room once more.
I set the table for lunch, as my sister joins. A quiet affair. She asks if I was heading out tonight, I said no.
You’re staying with me then, she asks again – her face lightening up.
Of course, I cannot leave you alone, I say.
We wrap up lunch, as she withdraws into the room while I switch the laptop on, in hopes of sleep reaching out to her once more.
A Sunday afternoon is never complete without a nap. My mother finishes her washing as my father starts snoring while the television runs on high volume. It’s finally switched off, and the radio dial is slowly reduced as my mother blankets herself and drifts off as a reward for a long morning of hard work, while my sister and I take a little longer to fall asleep, hushed gossip and stifled laughter over jokes that aren’t supposed to be heard from the other room itself.
A fine Sunday afternoon, as my sister sleeps, the stillness accompanies the sounds of my fingers sweeping through the keyboard, the keys clacking, the engines of the car outside as I type.
Just twelve more hours, clack clack clack.
Twelve more hours before my mother’s shrill voice permeates throughout the house again.
Twelve more hours until I can hear my father’s giant feet shuffling through the house.
Twelve more hours to Monday.
More importantly, I wonder perhaps how would it be like if they were gone longer, for more Sundays?
