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The Privilege of Boredom

The sun is shining, and so will the moon tonight. The leaves rustle in the quiet wind as the squirrels' squabble about the low boughs of the peepal tree outside my balcony. It is a balmy day; undecided, breezy in bits. I have only just finished my second cup of tea as I watched the few, random cars pass by from the window. There is no honking. The air feels lighter. To me, this Saturday morning is one made of all childhood dreams.
Our colour TV was switched on only for an hour once or twice a week. Sunday cartoons were a privilege, and that meant waking up minutes before the Jungle Book came on the telly. Warm, buttered toast followed by a tall glass of Bournvita milk followed. We watched Mowgli glide through our screens as we stared back open-mouthed in envy of his adventures. Ducktales and Talespin made for great laughs too. Soon enough, the end credits rolled, and we were rushed to a bath. Our hair was combed into neat braids or ponytails. And the plan for the day? Boredom. Oka…

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