Sunday Service To Self

Sunday’s are among the most significant of human discoveries. A day where you live your day with you and only you in it. I woke up at noon. Sleep never seems as restful as on a Sunday morning. I gathered self and slowly, savoring each moment of my lazy demeanor  switched some music on and got the newspaper.

Having treated self with coffee and food, I read my courses in peace for sometime. It was about 4 or 5 in the eve when I felt my eyes grow heavy, and telling me that they need some respite. So I placed a bookmark and closed my book. An impulsive thought beamed within and I, in calm cheer, fetched my purse and left home.

I caught the very next train. The platform was sporting a feeble population of commuters, almost countable. The train ride was nice and calm. No hawkers, no beggars and no office-going commuters showing their sleepy dark-circles.

I got down at the station that leads to my college and started off. I entered through the gate and the environment inside was just pristine quite. I could see just one or two people walking across. The huge trees on either side, lulling in slow motion in the breeze that was strolling through. A sparse mattress of yellowing leaves was scattered on ground and I walked through, in the breeze, in the rustle of the leaves to the stone bench that sits at the fag end.

3278378871_143333e0eeI sat upon and eased my back, resting against the back rest. I thought of nothing. I aspired nothing. I wanted nothing. I feared nothing. I was just there, with my senses sensing the beautiful calm lull around and my heart feeling restful.

I remained there till late. It was nice. All along. The quiet, the peace, the calm, the lone contentment. Yes, the lone contentment. So much have I messed my life with. Knowing people, striking relationship with them, and making them love you. Have done it all in want of love. Yet always telling self that am sufficient and need nothing from this world.

So much have I faked to self. But then, had the truth that I tried faking be real instead. Had I been content alone, lone, in self. Power corrupts, very succinct and true. It indeed does. But not up till you have a motive in heart, though honourable.

I retrieved the mobile that I had in my pocket. The contact book has so many names. So many relations I have woven. And I water. This small block of plastic, how much in touch with others it puts me. And how many times I have wished mobiles were not invented!

The lull is still there, and so is the breeze. But the night is falling quick. I still hold self alone in there. The trees, their leaves, the department buildings, the stone bench and me. Just me. Lone. Alone. How much I wish that moment to stretch till long, real long… Content, lone. Lone contentment.


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