The Sundays and the colour red,
Tied by a thin yet eternal thread.
A calm mind,
Waits for the storm to end.
All embedded in red, the flowers, fruits, and the parting of the head.
But does her heart look the same?
Smeared in vermilion?
Her companion returns,
This Sunday, he retired from his chores.
Pondering in the kitchen,
She hit the back gear and remembered a five-year-old Sunday manoeuvre.
That day, he went out in search of the legendary Sunday delicacy,
The Kochi pathar mangsho (tender mutton ), in a red bag, he carried daily.
A request made by her,
Made him stop by the florist,
To pick up scarlet roses,
For the dining table
And for her to become her own hairstylist.
While food was in the fire,
She ran towards the terrace,
To get hold of the clothes and the raging desire,
Her eyes got locked with her beloved in the windy air.
‘Amar haath bandhibi,paa bandhibi, mon bandhibi kemone’
(You may tie my hands
You may tie my legs,
But how on earth are you going to tie the tempest inside my mind?)
A heart-touching Bangla folk song coming out of the radio.
The mutton has been cooked to perfection,
The pressure cooker of the pulao and the calling bell are in perfect sync too.
Here he is, with the same red bag in hand.
His eyes are red, too
Moist actually,
Eyes filled with infinite memories of his job life.
The weary hours, the exciting projects, the complaints, and the challenges.
All did accumulate in the red bag.
He asked her in a low tone,
” So, what’s for lunch today?”
What else,’ The Red Kochi Pathar Mangsho’.
You have retired from work,not life.
So nothing changes, except I don’t want this Sunday to come to an end.
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