Short notes from Sundays

First Sunday of May

This Sunday was different from the others. I wasn’t too tired. I woke up to the music of my mother’s voice, sharing her frustrations about household matters. Today, it was the water pump. Next thing I knew, I was in jeans, knocking on the door of our electrician’s house, disturbing his balmy slumber. Although he wasn’t thrilled to see our faces, Karunapala did turn up, allowing me to return to my sleep.

While my mother was gone to buy groceries, I took it upon myself to tidy the kitchen. The boxes of coconut milk and milk powder in distant corners of the pantry, green tea opposite the noodles, pastas along with the bottles of flour and a half-empty bag of pasta from last month (which did not deserve my scorn).

I refilled the bottles of chickpeas, washed the empty bottles of basil and pepper and left them to dry, restocked atta flour, and found a jar for my father’s MSG. I had forgotten how much I enjoy mundane housekeeping tasks. My thoughts stopped racing each other. I was indulging in the sound of chickpeas falling into glass and the smell of coffee.

A perfect Sunday often felt like a burden. How careful should I be not to cross any anxious thoughts? But today, for some reason, it felt a lot easier. Maybe the space you were looking for finds you among the things you’ve been putting off. Maybe what you’re looking for is actually waiting for you to discover it among the clutter.

“Are you fine with bread for dinner?”
"No, I will bake buns”
I heard myself say.

So, I proceeded to make the dough. There was trouble with the yeast. Today I learned that expired yeast still works fine after a few months. The dough turned out soft. I used last week’s sausages and lots of onions to make the filling. My grandma was lingering, peeping into my workspace, half-worried, half-curious if I had left her out of dinner. So, I made her buns with only vegetables.

Suddenly, the pain of heartbreak that belongs to someone else fills me. It’s a feeling that’s hard to put into words. It’s not empathy; it’s coming from within. It’s not an entity separate from me. We are one. My heart breaks along with his, and again for him. This feeling is beyond mortal. It’s here, I can feel it in my palms, where my soul is. If I could take this pain away, I would, in less than a heartbeat.

The evening run was challenging. Running 3 kilometres at a stretch is new to me. So are other things. I suppose that’s what all of this is about. Running from and running into.