Sublime Sunday

It is a Sunday morning at home after many Sundays. I wake up early as the maid comes while there's still water in the taps. Then I read the newspaper, sit around for a while absorbing the feel of my home. The guy in the society who plays groovy music at a loud volume on Sunday mornings hasn't woken up ... or may be he's away too, I'm sure I'm not the only one gallivanting away. I don't feel like putting music on and destroying the calm. The sun is filtering through all the windows in all the rooms. Its all very quiet, the kind which makes you feel like tip-toeing and whispering even when noone's around.

S is still sleeping, he looks very innocent, not that he looks otherwise when awake :) Its the perfect kind of time to get back to bed with a book and that's what I do, stealthily, so as not to wake him. The walls are bright with the sunlight coming in through the white curtains and the room seems to be glowing. There is a slight breeze and I watch the lazy patterns forming on the wall with the sun, the window bars and the trees outside.

I am reading with my back to S and suddenly he turns in his sleep , holds me tight as if to stop me from going anywhere. With his face in my neck, I feel his breathing and keeping the book away, I lie back. Sometimes it so happens that even a nomad gets tired and finds the way back home.

I'm back.