Sun, the life source of our planet, rises every morning, with dogged certainty, ushering all beings into the cycle of mundane routine. With as much certainty if not more, I have failed to wake up in sync with him, day after day for every single day of my three and half decades of existence.
Sun or no sun has never made a difference to this sleepy-head. With the circadian rhythm at work, all body cells are said to wake up to a certain level of activity along with the rising sun but somehow my brain cells have remained oblivious to this day-night cycle. The moment my head comes into the faintest contact with any pillow, I stay knocked off for as long as I am in touch with it. No amount of efforts by any of my family members has ever succeeded in warding off my slumber and I am still left searching the Internet about ‘waking up early’.
For the first 25 years of my life, my father struggled with the Herculean task of waking me up every morning. After the alarm clock battery cell died out calling out to me, my dad would bring out other weapons in an ascending order of irritability. He would try to rouse my brain through the ophthalmic route once the auditory pathway had failed to evoke even a twitch. Beginning with the zero watt bulb, he would turn on all the available sources of light in the room, simultaneously sliding away the curtains. My room, the cosy little dark haven of peace, would then turn into a flood-lit torture chamber, quickly inciting a minor contraction of my brow frowners. As though reflexively, I would then turn around and find solace in the darkness created by the quilt that I pulled over my head.
With the visual and auditory stimulii failing to stimulate me, he would then approach the other senses. Turning on the fan to its highest speed, he would see to it that cold air penetrates through my quilt and sends the chills across my skin. Painfully jerked out of my dream world by the heinous act, I would sit up in bed, till my dad left the room. Once the dad figure was out of sight, my body would again turn into a lump and crumble into the bed. My dad would then use his Brahamastra, the mother of all weapons — my mom.
When my dear working mother, who would already be hyperventilating under the stress of the morning chores, would hear that I was in bed way beyond 7 a.m., she would rush into my room with heavy steps, fuming with rage, muttering the routine set of scoldings under her breath. With either the rolling pin or the sambar spoon held threateningly in her hand, she would roar in her trademark voice, a voice that has sent shivers down my spine right from childhood. It would drag my senses from the deep crevices of my dream-land and trash it right onto the ground of reality. Only then would I realise that I am actually on planet earth and that I need to go to a college situated 25 km away, dangling in a crowded bus. The thought alone would rule out all the possibility of me slipping into anymore sweet naps, and I would eventually wake up.
Years flew by with the exact same routine repeated every morning, till my parents packed me off in marriage. The gentleman who held my hand, to my amusement, turned out to be a classic Type A personality. He was someone who would wake up even before the alarm rang and wait till it was time to turn it off. He was absolutely unmindful of the existence of species that do not wake up early. And I must say he was more than shocked to see one such creature lying next to him. After the irreproachable honeymoon phase, when reality dawned on both of us, we realised that we were pretty rigid about our respective diametrically opposite practices. After failing in every trick under the sky to wake me up early, he was finally resigned to the fact that I was unarousable. He also made peace with another fact: that he was the one who had to boil milk and brew coffee for us, every morning, for the rest of our lives.
As though the number of perfect people in my family were not enough, there arrived my extra-active little girl. As a toddler she would sit up hurriedly in bed the moment she woke up and exclaim to me, pointing to the window, "Mummy, the sun has come! Wake up!" That was the day I realised how dominant my husband’s genes were!
Everyone around me turned out to be an early-riser and I stood as a misfit among them. My mom termed me ‘lazy’ and dad called me ‘irresponsible’. While my husband diplomatically said ‘unbelievable’, my little girl is yet to find a suitable term for me from her limited vocabulary. But I have been trying to defend myself using the term ‘creative’. Creative people dream more, and most dreams begin early in the morning.
While the whole world seems to be running amok either in the gym or in the kitchen, I stay afloat in the ethereal world of my fantasies. A few minutes of bliss before I wake up to another day of mere existence, a few moments of being myself before I dive into the role of being something to someone, those few extra minutes in bed before I begin my day, charge me and plant a smile on my face for all day. Dear family, please understand and don’t wake me before 6.30.
I seem like I win the argument, yet, every day I go to bed with the fond hope that somehow tomorrow I will wake up early and start my day before the sun does, and before my superhuman family members do.
Till that day I will doze away......
mridu_doc@yahoo.com
