Sunday Poem by BASAB CHAUDHURI

Every sunday arrives late than other days,
the morning rolls slowly -
several cups of tea, a bit thicker newspaper,
a smell from the kitchen that slowly engulfs the rooms,
a quieter neighbourhood where the fruitseller's voice becomes shriller:
'Mango' - he goes by.
Buses are few, auto rickshaws make their presence felt through a sound typically of their own.
Morning becomes afternoon,
then suddenly evening and it goes fast afterwards.
Sunday moves through speedbreakers,
It makes me feel its journey through the hours.
Such feelings: slow and fast,
makes Sunday so special, so endearing!
Every sunday weaves a memory -
sharp and distinct.