Sundays, Toil, and Matrimonial Meddling

If ever there was a topic capable of shattering a man’s peace faster than a power cut during peak summer, it’s the horrifying concept of?work on Sundays. I remember the moment it was first introduced into my serene existence as vividly as I recall the time I accidentally put salt in my tea. It was a perfect Sunday morning—the sort meant for lounging, nibbling on hot pakoras, and pondering whether to attempt a nap before or after lunch.

Into this idyllic tableau marched my wife, bearing news so appalling that I briefly considered calling for smelling salts.

“Do you know,” she said, arching an eyebrow as she set down her coffee, “some people think working on Sundays shows commitment?”

The words hit me like a rogue cricket ball. I froze mid-bite, a perfectly golden samosa suspended in the air.

“Some?people,” I said, as diplomatically as possible given the circumstances, “are clearly unwell.”

She gave me that look—a look perfected by wives across the ages—the one that says, “Oh, here we go again.” My wife, it must be said, is a woman of formidable intellect and efficiency, often running our household with the precision of a general orchestrating a military campaign. It’s not uncommon to find her balancing a shopping list in one hand and solving global crises (or so it seems) with the other.

“It’s not about?you,” she said, though her tone suggested it very much?was?about me. “The chairman of some big company said that Sundays are an untapped resource.”

“Untapped resource?” I cried, nearly dislodging the samosa. “Sundays are not?resources. They are sacred institutions, designed for the noble pursuits of sloth and occasional introspection. Turning Sundays into yet another workday is un-Indian! If Gandhiji himself had worked on Sundays, we’d still be waiting for independence!”

She sighed, the way one does when dealing with a particularly trying toddler. “It’s just a suggestion,” she said.

“A?suggestion?” I retorted, now fully outraged. “What’s next? Turning Diwali into a fiscal quarter review? Making us budget our new year’s mithai supply in Excel?”

“Perhaps,” she said, her voice infuriatingly calm, “it’s just about being more productive.”

“Productive?” I bellowed, springing from the sofa. “Sundays are the one day?not?meant for productivity. They are the sanctuaries of idleness, the oases of leisure in the desert of hard work. Productivity is for weekdays, when one can shuffle papers in the office and look busy without actually achieving much. But Sundays are for pajamas, naps, and pretending to water the plants!”

My wife, who has mastered the art of ignoring me while appearing attentive, set her coffee down and surveyed me with an expression of mild exasperation.

“Let’s be honest,” she said, “you barely take?work?seriously on weekdays. Your outrage over Sundays is about as convincing as your promise to fix the AC in the drawing room.”

This, I thought, was a low blow.

“The AC,” I said, “is a?separate?matter. This is about principle! The sanctity of Sundays! The very fabric of Indian culture! To turn Sundays into workdays is to betray everything our forefathers fought for—including the right to spend the afternoon in blissful inactivity!”

She didn’t even dignify this with a response. Instead, she cleared the table and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving me to fume.

And so, I write this manifesto for all who value the sanctity of Sundays. To those who see Sundays as “untapped resources,” I say this: let us rest. Let us sleep in, eat extravagant lunches, and lie on the sofa pretending to read. Let us keep this one day free from the tyranny of schedules and meetings.

As for me, I’ll be right here, leading the charge against Sunday work from the comfort of my couch—fully armed with a cup of chai, a good book, and my elastic-waist pajamas.