Monday Vs The people

“The defendant Monday is hereby ordered to stand in the presence of the kangaroo court and the Supreme Justice Jandy. What, if anything, have you got to say in your defence, you snivelling miserable day, you?”

“Sir, I start the week.”

“You weak-starter! You ignoramus! I am not a Sir. I am a Your Honour. If you weren’t so sluggish after your weekend party, you woulda known the difference.”

“Your Honour, I am not sluggish. I am always sharp and bright and hard-working.”

“I know I know. That is the problem. Why do you slap everyone into shape for the hated Monday morning meeting?”

“Your Honour, it’s called discipline. Look at Friday, that slacker – no meetings, no discipline, half the day planning the weekend...”

“And why can’t you take a break for a little fun, huh? Why must you be such a killjoy? Giving everyone the Monday morning blues.”

 “Your Honour...”

“And do you know more people are sick on Mondays than any other day, huh?”

“Your Honour...”

“Don’t Your Honour me...”

“But you told me to call you Your Honour, Your Honour.”

“Are you arguing with the Supreme Justice Jandy? You are hereby sent to life imprisonment. With no chance of ever getting out! You will never show your face again. From now on, the work week will have 4 days, starting with half a work day on Tuesday, and Thursday afternoons off too. Begone Monday!”

The UnColour

My favourite colour is black. There I said it! That’s not a colour, right, you’re thinking, didn’t she do her light spectrum in school... black is the absence of all colours. Black is the uncolour.

I love black. Black hair. Which I never missed as much as now that it’s turning – well, not black.

I love black clothes. You look like you’re in mourning, mourns my Ma. You look like a crow, snaps my aunt. You look like an extra in a heavy metal band, said a friend. You look like you fell into ink, said a not-so-well-meaning in-law.

And so I stubbornly black on... I even buy my lil boys black clothes. Hey – black shows no dirt from the 15^th fall down the stairs, black shows no blood from scraped knees, black shows no darn marks from the tear in the trouser crotch that all boys seem mysteriously to get. Black’s wash n wear n no-iron.

I bought a black Kancheepuram sari for my bro-in-law’s wedding in Kerala, and was promptly escorted off to buy a more ‘auspicious colour’ which turned out to be blistering maroon with a golden pointy blouse that would make Madonna’s iron bra pale in comparison.

Nah, black is definitely me. Literally. I am the colour of burnt toast myself and so proud of it. And I don’t wanna look like the million other pink-is-in or pasty pastels you get a dime a dozen. After all, I’m the only mourning black crow in a heavy metal band who fell into ink – and wow, that’s a self-image I love enough to live with!