Lazy Sunday Morning ...

[I wrote this blogs many years back while in India. Forgot to post it but it reflects my life in India]

Sunday mornings are the same everywhere. Whether in US or India or other parts of the world. I always enjoyed them as anybody else. I recollect my Sunday mornings growing up in India. I couldn't wait to finish brushing my teeth so I would grab the paper before my father gets his hands on it and devour it with the toothbrush still stuck in my mouth through out the one hour session (this weekly soaking session of my teeth in tooth paste may explain why I never got cavities ;-) . 

In US my Sunday morning routine was to pick freshly baked bagels from nearby bagel shop, brew fresh coffee and sit with my pile of New York Times weekend edition on my backyard deck and read the papers while listening to the twitter of birds in nearby woods. Since we moved back to India four years back that routine has changed. Life is never still and calm in India. While my wife is busy "managing" the maid, I collect my newspapers and sit in the balcony of my apartment (which is in a cluster of about 14 apartment buildings so close you can hear the neighbors shout at each other) and go through them while I get my coffee. Sun light streams delicately through the clouds. The temperature is a balmy 78F. 

While I settle with my papers and coffee, the sounds I hear are very different from those I would hear in my house in suburban New Jersey. My neighbor is on a full flow this morning with her maid and her children. I hear a child shouting for her still-sleeping friend to come out and play. I hear somebody sweeping their driveway with a broom. I hear the clanging of the dishes while people are preparing their breakfast. Mothers shouting at their kids to wake up and others shouting about their homework (Indian parents will never lose an opportunity to nag about homework). The white noise permeates but doesn't bother my reading. The only thing missing is smell of a nice masala dosa wafting through the morning air. My wife picked puri for breakfast today and it doesn't have the same aroma as a dosa or a peserattu

The one thing I used to miss in this picture is the New York Times. Call me whatever you wish - uber liberal - I love this newspaper and every section of it. I try reading it religiously. I tried to subscribe this paper (International edition is available and called "International Herald Tribune" IHT) in India but it is as expensive as $1/day. So I opt for the online edition which does not have the same experience as reading a paper. Surprisingly I found out that you can purchase IHT from news stands in Hyderabad for Rs 30. So I picked the weekend edition and settle down with it and two other Indian newspapers.

In spite of the din I enjoy the day. Times of India Sunday edition called 'The Crest" has an excellent article on archeology and history in India. This same newspaper becomes trashy on the weekdays with pictures of bimbos, dimbos (desi bimbos) and curvy woman. I ogle at these pictures hoping my children aren't looking at what I am reading. I adjust my glasses and move on to more mundane things about whether US will have a double dip recession. I give up in the middle and move on to more hedonistic topics about how Bollywood movie actresses take up movies in south Indian movie industry to make extra money or revive their flagging careers (I am perpetually puzzled why south Indian movies prefer North Indian actresses and South Indian actors). 

The music teacher arrives to teach my younger son Karnatic music. So the morning is filled with my 11 year old struggling with his mournful Sa-Re-Ga-Ma. My wife comes to wag her finger at me to remind me about another one of the innumerable "function" we have to attend in the afternoon where they will read a an hour long story that I heard more than hundred times since I got married (as a child and bachelor we were exempted from this ritualistic torture). I give her a puzzled look hoping she will let me escape. She doesn't. Finally I have to drop my facade of ignorance and reluctantly agree to attend. My blissful Sunday morning ends and I return to the safe arms of my Mac laptop to write this blog. Now I have to plot how to escape form this function.