Mondays. On Mondays, I do not experience Monday blues like every other adult. There really isn’t much difference in my life whatever the day is. Mondays. On Mondays, the neighbour kid wears a white shirt and blue pants, with black shoes. He pets his dog one last time before getting onto the scooter with his dad. The mother waves and sends them off. There are no cows on the road. The veg restaurant remains moderately busy. The highway underpass seems darker than usual. There’s this guy who passes by me every day infant of the police station. Every day he wears a yellow shirt with the “Bingo’ logo on it and a badge. Does he work at the factory where they make Bingos?
On Tuesdays people slowly get settled into reality. I’m still floating. I wear light green to look fresh and bright. I plug in my earphones while walking to the bus stop. Women wearing green and yellow night dresses wait outside the dairy farm to collect milk. A recently married couple comes back after their morning walk. I wish I had the time for a morning run every day. The Neighbour kid’s mom looks at the sky hoping for glimpses of the sun. Women draw white-Mandela-art-like thing in front of their homes, after collecting milk of course. I walk carefully without stepping on them.
On Wednesdays, the temperature drops down to 20. My roommate takes out his grey hoodie from the cupboard. I forgot to take my sweater back home. So I wear a grey shirt since I woke up feeling rather gloomy and sad. I do not plug in my earphones but listen to the sound of the city. My roommate looks like Elliot Alderson from Mr.Robot. Cows wander across the street. The retired military man comes back from walk with his dog. I give him a pat on the head. The dog, not the man, obviously.
Thursdays, it feels like a fever is coming down. I take a hot shower nevertheless. The Neighbour kid’s dad scolds him for not being ready on time. Dogs take over the streets in place of cows. The condiment shop is crowded with middle-aged men. Black side bags, and buttoned dull shirts that seem like it has been washed a million times. Holding cigarettes in one hand and filter coffee in the other. The girl who boards the bus with me wears a blue denim jacket. She reminds me of Eleanor from ‘Eleanor and Park’.
Fridays feel like a relief for everyone. There really isn’t much difference in my life whatever the day is. Fridays. The mother drops off the kid instead of the father. I wake up 10 minutes late and have to rush down the stairs. The guy from the supermarket is sitting on the steps to catch his breath after having to carry the water can for five floors. I wave to him. My feet hurt as I am wearing safety shoes with metal strip at the tip. I run nevertheless. I have to cut across and run zigzag as dogs and cows both take over the streets.
I am allowed to wear casuals on Saturdays. I wear a dark yellow check shirt and dark green chinos nevertheless. The neighbour kid wears blue t-shirt and grey track pants with white sneakers. The mom puts both sets of uniforms out on the terrace as the sun is out. The veg restaurant is filled with people waiting for masala dosa orders and filter coffees. There are no middle-aged men holding cigarettes at the condiment store. Men wearing worn-out polo t-shirts wait outside the dairy farm for milk. I have to carefully walk through the highway underpass as there’s a man lying on the floor. Broken beer bottles all around the place.
Sundays I wake up earlier than usual, to the sound of the garbage vehicle’s whistle. The neighbour kid takes his dog out for walk. I go to the veg restaurant to have a plate of poori. On Sundays, I wash my hair and clothes. I wear fresh clothes, take my journal and go for a walk in the park. I am the youngest person in the park as only 60-year-old couples come there. I sit on the concrete bench watching birds and write about how I don’t have to worry about Monday blues. I write about the nightmare I had the other day, where I saw myself holding a cigarette and a filter coffee at the condiment store.
Sayonara.
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