Disclaimer: This is to alert those concerned, the likes of who disagree with the concept of a weekly dissolution of routine -- that this piece, like the earlier ones in the series, would seem like a mere rambling -- which of course, would result because of their weak constitution, being quite unable to soak in pleasure in the name of resolute nothingness.
Weekend is the celebrity couple, no secret to anyone, comprising the Sloshed Saturday and Sleepy Sunday. What ensues episodically are the definitely unwanted Days. However unfortunate, the process being well internalised, there is a reduced intensity in the guilt and pain about the Week -- as the Days are commonly called -- afresh, week after week. Having said that, one cannot completely call off the sorrow the time after Sleepy Sunday follows. Subtly, it lingers. You could say it is the guilt of over-doing. But then what is life, if not lived to the fullest, and Weekend sure knows how to do it best.
They generally do not follow a pattern, and that unpredictability sets their structure. Anything may happen, or better still, nothing at all could happen. Sloshed Saturday probably is a continuity of their youngest child Friday, running into the wee hours of the dawn, only to wake up late to a disastrous hangover, much invited. Wait, much invited? Why, you would say. Why not, I would. Didn't you know the best way to do away with hangover (truly) is not only lime and water, but also (more truly) a welcome shot of alcohol. As the saying goes, iron cuts iron (badly transliterated from the Hindi "Loha lohe ko katta hai"), the same applies to alcohol, or the unbearable beauty of watching movie after movie, or driving from no way to highway. Sloshed Saturday has one certain trait, much loved: Do - Repeat. Now, that 'Do' could be anything, including the exquisite doing nothing. And that is the wonder of 'Repeat'. With Sloshed Saturday, the essence is an illusion of a never-ending holiday. An illusion, as we by the way well know, is hardly real. But is there any harm in believing in eternity for a while? That is what Saturday does -- imbibes in us a conformity towards an elasticity that time travels, never stops. Like the tension of the elastic, it does come back to where it began, but the journey, as all of us will willingly and lovingly agree, is nothing short of a high.
With Sunday, sense slowly slithers its sensible way into the soul. It shows us that the real is only an illusion, and the understanding of that short span of time -- of knowing and disbelieving, is surely surreal. It is abundantly taxing, especially after all the relaxing that went in the previous day. And to do away with the iron-curled strong nerves, which refuse to open up to the truth called Week, sleep puts us on a hammock and often drops in a lullaby or two such that we swing back, ever so gently, into the harsh generosity of the Days. Sleepy Sunday tends to have an enticing affair with Depression, but its celebrated true love with Sloshed Saturday is too dense to allow any distracting depression to delve into.
On that hammock, Sunday thinks of Saturday, and even as Saturday was right next, it suddenly seems Days away. The rest we know, don't we? The universe conspires to bring them together soon enough. Till then, they do not fail to teach us the greatest importance of their being -- togetherness. For what is One, without the Other?
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