I’ve been living abroad for a while now, and every Sunday brings a strange sense of nostalgia. It takes me back to the simplicity of my childhood back in India, to a time when Sundays weren’t just another day of the week—they were special. Those lazy mornings and afternoons were filled with a routine that I didn’t think much of back then, but now, I would give anything to relive them.
I used to start my day sitting on the floor in our living room, with my legs crossed like I was doing padmasan. In front of me was my stainless steel plate, the same one my nanny gifted me when I was little. It was sturdy, and to this day, I remember the way it clinked whenever I set it down. My mom would be in the kitchen, the smell of goat meat curry simmering away in the pressure cooker filling the entire house.
The curry was one of her specialties. It wasn’t fancy or complex by restaurant standards, but to me, it was pure magic. She’d serve it hot, straight out of the cooker, along with rice bhakri, a flatbread that was perfectly soft and fluffy. I’d sit there, waiting impatiently as my stomach growled, but I’d get lost in whatever show was playing on TV at the time.
Teletubbies was a staple for my younger self. I’d watch it with an intensity that only a kid can, fascinated by the strange world of Tinky-Winky, Dipsy, Laa-Laa, and Po. Looking back, I can’t quite figure out what it was about that show that held my attention, but it did. It was like a morning ritual—wake up, sit cross-legged on the floor, watch Teletubbies, and wait for lunch.
Once lunch was done, it was time for the real highlight of the day—Shaktimaan. Every Sunday afternoon, I’d be glued to the TV, watching India’s favorite superhero take down villains with his superhuman powers and iconic spinning transformation. The excitement was unmatched. Sundays weren’t Sundays without Shaktimaan. The show filled me with a sense of wonder and awe that I’ve rarely felt since. It was like the perfect end to a perfect day—food, fun, and the comfort of home.
But now, here I am, in a foreign country, trying to make my Sundays feel as complete as they used to be. It’s not easy. I’ll sometimes attempt to recreate those dishes, but it’s never quite the same. The curry doesn’t taste like my mom’s, and the smell that used to fill the house is missing. The sense of completeness is gone.
I think what I miss the most is how connected everything felt back then. There was a rhythm to Sundays, a flow that just felt right—waking up to cartoons, the smell of food filling the house, sitting down to eat with the family, and then diving into the action-packed world of Shaktimaan. Now, Sundays are quieter, lonelier even. I’ll still watch TV, but it’s not the same without that old, stainless steel plate, my legs crossed under me, and the comfort of knowing everything was just… right.
Being in a foreign country is hard enough, but Sundays make me realize how much I miss those little things. The simple joys of home, the food, the shows, and that feeling of belonging. Maybe one day I’ll go back and experience it all again. But until then, I’ll keep holding on to those memories, letting them fill the gaps that this foreign land just can’t seem to.
And maybe, just maybe, I’ll find a way to make Sundays feel a little more like home again.