Sundays are always like this - slow paced, musicless days.

I can hear drops of water falling on the window sill. There are some birds chirping in different voices. If I pay more attention, I could hear all the commotion in the building. The 'Kachrawala' is collecting 'Kachra' somewhere on the second or third floor. Some women, probably three, are talking in Gujarati, perhaps on the first floor. Outside, two boys are waiting for other friends to show up, after all it is a Sunday morning.

Doing something, even thinking something on such days is difficult. You just idle around and nothing else.

Alone, at home, there is nothing to distract me - not even my own thoughts. Right now, at this moment, I can be anything or I can be nothing and it wouldn't matter because not even me can know it.