The Solomon Grundy State of Mind

I don’t know about you, dear reader, but every single day of the week, I get a feel-good message from somebody or the other pointing out helpfully that it will be the harbinger of great cheer. These lyrical messages are invariably embedded in some scenic or flowery imagery enhanced by some schmaltzy instrumental tune. I ruthlessly employ the delete option no sooner than I spot it. These images are usually forwarded with little effort on the part of the sender, having done the rounds millions of times on the internet. Nevertheless, I felt it incumbent to take serious note of these missives for a solitary 7-day period, going from Sunday to Saturday. That was the least I could do. And the most. With a little help from a couple of nursery rhymes.

Sunday’s child is fair, wise, good and gay. Let me start with Sunday, when somebody I do not know from Adam unctuously informs me that this traditional day of rest will turn out to be full of excitement. Whether I need excitement on the day of Sabbath when the Fourth of the Ten Commandments has enjoined me to put my feet up, I am not sure. Mind you, my own religion prompts me to no such instruction. Still, that is what the message on my mobile says and I wait for excitement to escalate on Ravivar with bated breath. To kick things off, the power supply in our apartment block gives up the ghost for over six hours. This is followed by our back-up inverter downing tools and consequently my mobile phone running on empty. Cannot approach the neighbours as they face the same fate. The service provider informs us that the breakdown is due to an unforeseen snapping of cables down our street, something they haven’t tumbled to in years. By the time power is restored we are completely bushed, order a pizza online, the promised 20-minute delivery arrives in 90 minutes, the pizza looking like something the cat had brought in. The WhatsApp soothsayer was right after all! Incidentally, I may or may not be fair, wise and good, but I am most definitely not gay! At least, not in the ‘gay’ sense.

Monday’s child is fair of face. Let us move on to Manic Monday. My social media astrologer is all pumped up. Time to make some smart moves. Do not fret about the stock markets. This is the ideal time to invest. Trump is starting to go soft on India, tariffs will be reduced, H1B is being revisited. Above all, NDA is sweeping Bihar. Markets are set to soar. Oh yeah? What about these ammonium nitrate terror blasts in Delhi and Kashmir? What if we attack Pakistan and Trump has a rethink what with all those crypto deals at stake? I am not a salaried employee anymore. I shall revert to bank FDs. Better safe than sorry. As for being fair of face, I looked in the mirror and I think the jury is out on that score.

Tuesday’s child is full of grace. On cue, my WhatsApp well-wisher informs me that the colour of choice for the day is blue. If you are buying a car, opt for variants of blue. Wash your clothes with Robin Blue. Is the brand still around? Fill your fountain pen with Royal Blue ink before signing important documents. Blue Curacao liqueur will be a nice way to finish off a special meal, if you are eating out. Doesn’t miss a trick, my WhatsApper. Only catch is that I am not buying a car and I have not the faintest idea what brand my clothes are washed in. Fountain pen, that’s a laugh. My trusty ball-point will do the job, however critical the documents I have to affix my signature on. The Curacao would have been nice, but curd rice, lime pickle and one green veg is on the menu tonight. Washed down with Aqua Guard filtered water. I am full of grace in my domestic bliss. Not much scope to go blue in the face.

Wednesday’s child is full of woe. Who wrote this twaddle? The sun came up bright and early this morning, the birds were chirping merrily. Wordsworth would have trilled. Our cricketers, men and women, are having a ball. ‘Wot me worry?’ as Alfred E. Neuman of Mad Magazine fame used to intone. ‘Woe is me’ is not my mantra for the day, whatever nonsense that WhatsApp chappie will have me believe. Then again, if I get knocked over by a two-wheeler while crossing the road or nipped in the ankle by a rabid street dog, I might have to change my tune. That said, till Thursday comes along, I am staying put at home riveted to my television, watching some great tennis and some not-so-great fire and brimstone on the Bihar elections. And woe betide anyone who tries to change my routine for the day.

Thursday’s child has far to go. This time you nailed it, my friend. I will be driving to the airport to receive a close relative arriving from Chennai. Which will take a good two hours, more than twice the amount of time it takes to fly in from Chennai to Bangalore. You might say I am literal-minded and that the WA fellow was speaking metaphorically, that I have a long way to go in life before I call it quits. Or something of that sort. Given my age, I am not sure if he even got that right. Anyhow, I will take my chances with the airport drive, traffic snarls notwithstanding. Add two more hours on the return drive, and I should be ready to hit the sack. I don’t know about Thursday’s child, but this social media nuisance is going too far.

Friday’s child is loving and giving. On the cusp of the weekend, my Friday prediction points irrefutably to visitors turning up at our place when least expected. ‘You will be startled and surprised when the doorbell rings and you open the door to welcome a couple you least expected!’ Now this is a double-edged sword. The WA message thinks it is handing out very pleasant news, whereas visitors who turn up unannounced screaming ‘SURPRISE’ can be very off-putting. Do we take this seriously and order something special for lunch? Should we make up the beds in the guest bedroom? Questions, questions. The end result is that we wait the whole day anxiously biting our fingernails, and when no one arrives till 11 pm, our joy knows no bounds. We had been put to a great deal of angst for no rhyme or reason. Perhaps the mystery guests might have been ‘loving and giving’ but we were not complaining.

Saturday’s child works for a living. This I can vouch for to be utterly true. My wife was born on a Saturday and was a working woman all her life. Still is. When she retired well before her time, colleagues asked ‘Why?’ and not ‘When?’ What is more, even after retirement, she runs the house as she would a corporate organisation, never resting till the domestics have cleaned up every last speck of dust in the flat, and if needs must, doing it herself. Every now and then, I would implore her to rest her weary bones. An unwise call because back would come the curt response, ‘Someone has to do it. Would you care to take over the domestic duties?’ At which point, discretion being the better part of valour, I quietly slink off to work on my next blog.

That’s the seven days my friends from the ether so caringly give me a heads-up on. I normally never even look at them but I should be grateful that they give me enough ammo for a blog. The Beatles had a huge hit during the 60s with Eight Days a Week, but they led a blissful life with no social media to ruin their peace of mind. Though what they would have done with the eighth day, heaven alone knows. Solomon Grundy had the right idea. He was born on a Monday / Christened on Tuesday / Married on Wednesday / Took ill on Thursday / Worse on Friday / Died on Saturday / Buried on Sunday. And that was the end of Solomon Grundy. R.I.P.