Sunday is a blueberry muffin
I stood a long time at the coffee dispensing counter. Unable to decide what to order. I was sure about the coffee. But not about the muffin. The blueberry muffin looked ravenous and the walnut brownie looked pretty. In a moment of indecisiveness I said, "I want a ..." waited for a moment to swallow and mumbled "... a blueberry muffin!" And then I waited at the table for the coffee and the muffin to arrive. It was a cold saturday mid day. And I was thinking about the coming Sunday. And much like the indecisiveness in choosing the muffin, I was indecisive about the plans for Sunday. I had only one agenda: "No regrets later." The more I thought about it the less I wanted to commit to any decision. So I let it be. And waited for the order. I looked around at the sparsely populated cafe, the warm sun streaming through the glass door. I was trying to resist the temptation to flick out my smartphone and indulge in some depraving social media rant. Still, no sign of the order. Now, I was getting impatient. There was a smartly turned out steward in a neat black turban. He was flitting about the tables efficiently but apparently not much to the satisfaction of any of the customers. To distract myself from my growing impatience and fidgetyness I tried eavesdropping in to the conversation of a couple sitting at the next table. They were engaged in some swift Gujarati talk sprinkled with a sporadic english word. I couldn't decipher the context. I remembered hearing somewhere that Gujarati (and Malayalam) conversations have the maximum number of words per minute on an average. A figure of 140 loomed in my mind but i could not vouch for its veracity. Still no coffee and no muffin either. I gestured to Mr Smart Turbans who approached my table with a well rehearsed efficiency. "Your order is being prepared!" He offered me water as consolation. The order arrived finally. The muffin looked a bit smaller than what it looked in the display. I dug in ferociously into it and it disintegrated messily on tot he plate. Too fragile! I struggled clumsily to pick up one of the larger disintegrated pieces with the fork and finally managed only a smaller piece. The taste was good, initially. And then it left a slight bitter aftertaste of the blueberries that made me want to have another piece quickly. And then another. Soon i had devoured the blueberry completely, even the tiny ill disciplined fragments. Meanwhile, coffee was waiting and getting cold. I realised it was an effort to eat the muffin. And it was only the coffee which was a relaxing drink. I sipped it leisurely. No hurry. No chasing after vagrant disorderly disintegrated pieces. Phew! And then the thought came to me, almost as a revelation. The blueberry muffin is like a sunday. Too much awaited. Too fast disintegrating. The ephemeral pleasure. Leaving a tinge of tange in your mouth wanting to devour it with ferocity. And then gone too soon. The coffee is like the week. No pleasure but sip on it leisurely.