One fine sunday morning, in fact today, I have started running like I was feeling healed by air and its lively fragrance; air was too political than polite, soothing my lung. I was little bit faster than usual, in fact, not ready to remain there; I was there but not there. I was there with no sense of belongingness; it was a routine work; nothing like a Sunday, a break. All my workout remained there without a help. I was thinking about jalebi; it doesn't matter either you run with die-hard spirit, or visit a gym, food compensates your labour like a true heeler. Newspaper, particularly The Hindu is notoriously a Sunday consuming project. You read it, I bet you won't feel like reading it, in fact, The Hindu tests your perseverance. I claim with little bit exaggeration, there is no scope of finishing it like any other newspaper. Sunday project is always in making like a Kafkaesque parable, closed but open at the same moment. There was nothing really interesting to do, but to restore the energy one has consumed in a project like tracking of The Hindu .
Once I started to visit the library for research work I felt like face is burning; unsurprisingly Sun was at its best, making its day with dedication. The best thing for my Sunday was that I was away from godly media and their inglorious campaign for democracy. Of course, they know more about their TRP than democracy. However, they're the self-championed guardian of democracy; it is their business to remain truthful with their vision of democracy; earn and exploit at the cost of cacophonous nightmares and unrestorable sense. I started reading for an hour when a friend of mine knocked my cellphone. I got a gift, a book to read. It was the best moment of otherwise exhausted Sunday. I was in search of a meaning of what I'm doing, why am I doing? I got the answer; I was running not for the sake of TRP, of course, but for the sake of taking a break from the boredom of routine. A book is always a better friend, a trustworthy fellow, a meeting space of thousand lives whose company is pleasant and soothing more than fragrance of air, more than Jalebi of roasted taste, and of course, more than the venom of informations in a post-ideological era. And, to me, a friend who loves to share it is more valuable than many ones who love to gift me some luxurious items. A person is dead, I feel, the moment he is in awful love with consumption, only a book remains as an emancipator, a guide amidst infinite Universe of success stories. My Sunday has been really good so far; with a book and solitude!
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