My Kind of Sunday

There’s something magical about Sundays when they unfold on their own—no alarms, no to-do lists, just the slow rhythm of presence.

This morning, I let myself wake up naturally, without the buzz of a clock tugging at my sleep. I rolled out the yoga mat and gave my body thirty gentle minutes of movement and breath—a quiet ritual to ground me.

Breakfast was extra special today: hot, crispy pakoras—potato and onion fritters, deep-fried to golden perfection. I made them the old-school way, with a touch of ajwain and love. My husband and I sat together, dipping them in chutney, chatting slowly between bites. Time stretched and softened.

Later, I painted my nails—a small, girlish joy that never fails to lift my spirits. Then came some lazy TV time, just the kind of indulgence that Sundays give us permission for.

And now, I’m here—writing this post with a full belly and a full heart. These quiet, nourishing Sundays remind me that joy doesn\’t always come with fanfare. Sometimes, it comes wrapped in stillness, in home-cooked food, in the warmth of shared moments.

This is my kind of Sunday. Slow, soft, and truly mine.