Somewhere between the smell of filter coffee and the gentle hum of temple bells,
my Sunday waits for me in her eyes, in her laughter, in her hand resting on the scooter throttle.
Eight years, and still, it feels like a fresh monsoon.

She arrives, the sun braided into her hair,
whisking me away on that battered Scooty that knows every corner of my heart.
Sometimes we bow our heads to the gods, sometimes to the idly steaming at Raghavendra stores,
sometimes to the swirl of ice cream at Amrith when the air grows too heavy.

Malleshwaram breathes along with us,
its timeless pulse beating in old buildings and new dreams.
We wander through railway platforms around five,
hands brushing, hearts slipping out of their cages,
talking of silly things and secret things,
while the dusk paints gold on iron rails.

And as the clock strikes six, we ride again
through lanes slick with rain, winter wind chasing us,
wheels spinning like our hopes,
through roads that remember our names,
past shops, past homes, past a hundred memories.

If there’s time, we raid bookshops like mischievous foxes,
she tugging out ancient texts on Vedic healing,
telling me of herbs that can mend a broken spirit,
looking at me with that reverence that makes me want to stand taller,
as if I’m a crowned king in a simple hoodie.

She teases, a playful spank while we walk,
and my grin goes feral,
I swear I was born for this moment
for this one girl who can read the Sanskrit in my soul
and still giggle about the mundanities of the week.

Then, as night folds in,
she rides me home, the same Scooty humming her anthem,
she drops me at my gate,
and the moonlight watches her disappear into her world again.

I barely remember a Sunday without her.
Because she is my Sunday
the temple of my calm, the feast of my cravings,
the ride through my storms, the healing in my veins.

Yet, somewhere between the aroma of dosa batter and the scent of old station rails,
I realize we are not meant to be together, not forever.

She is my Sunday, yes.
But a Sunday is not the week.
She is the pause, the exhale, the lullaby that soothes my storms
but I cannot live only in lullabies.

We belong to each other in pieces, not in permanence.
She gives me warmth for a day, not a roadmap for a lifetime.
We orbit different suns: her faith woven into Vedic rituals,
my spirit forever searching, restless, refusing stillness.
She dreams of roots, I dream of flight.
She wants a home, I still want horizons.

And so, we dance on these Sundays,
holding hands only until the dusk comes
but we cannot build a house on a day meant for rest.
We cannot weave a lifetime out of a single, golden afternoon.

She deserves someone who can be her Monday to Saturday too,
who will hold her worries, walk through routines,
carry her grocery lists and not just her dreams.

And I I am too incomplete, too wandering,
made for open skies, not closed walls,
grateful beyond measure for her presence,
but aware, painfully aware,
that some loves are not meant to stay,
only to heal, only to make us whole for the next chapter.

So I will keep riding with her through Malleshwaram’s rains,
I will let her be my Sunday
but no more than that.
Because the week must go on.