According to the teachings of Hindu mythology, every Monday of a lunar calendar is an auspicious day which is dedicated to Lord Shiva. Devotees observe a complete or partial fast to get his blessings for a peaceful living.

In the spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love, said Tennyson. For some time now, on Monday nights, our thoughts turn to mundane matters.

The youngest of the family shuts her book with a snap and stares at the cover. “Finished already?” I ask. Surprising, how quickly they can get through their homework on Monday nights. On other evenings, they have to be wrenched away from their books and literally dragged to the table for dinner. The teenager is glancing through a woman’s magazine. “Strawberry gateau,” she murmurs, smacking her lips, “Dundee cake.” “Sh!” says my husband reprovingly, looking at the luscious photographs out of the corner of his eye, himself. She is almost breaking one of our unwritten Monday evening rules; no one talks of food!

It seems to me that tea-time was an eon ago. Did we demolish those piles of samosas just a few hours back? I pick up the day’s paper. At least that ought to be free of temptation. But, no. There are pictures of tins of delicious cheese and biscuits and jams galore. Boxes upon boxes of chocolates stare me in the face as if they knew of the one weak spot in my armour. Chocolates! M’m! Hastily, I turn over the page, mentally making a note to write to the editor to stop putting in food ads on Mondays and torment the long-suffering public.

Honestly, I ought to be the happiest of the family, at the prospect of having no dinner to turn out, an evening of blissful leisure to do what I wish. But, right now, I would give anything to be able to pop a whole lot of potatoes into the frying pan and hear them sizzle. I twitch my nose nostalgically but can only smell the fragrance of jasmine.

“Anybody care for some bananas?” I ask tentatively. They all look at me distastefully as if I had offered them something out of the dustbin. There have been days when bunches of bananas have disappeared off the table before one can say ‘peel’. But not tonight.

“Anything interesting at school today?” asks my husband. “The teacher said we’ll be going for a picnic next week” said the youngster. “To Aarey colony. We have to take our own lunches with us. I’d like some tomato sandwiches and —“. She stops suddenly and subsides into silence. Monday nights, I believe now, are jinxed for us. Invariably, we seem to get around to the same topic.

“It is not really meant for children, you know” I say glancing at the small face bent over her magazine again. She gives me a scorching look, draws herself up to all of her four feet and marches off to bed.