Sleepy Thoughts

I was amazed how early my granny got up every morning. When most of us were still two/three hours away from reviving, she’d be up and teeming with activities - taking a shower, with cold water, then performing all sorts of rituals on her shrines.

I tried to emulate her. I went running. Athletic championship was coming up in my school, so I had to build up stamina. Early mornings was the best time. Also, I was expected to win, so I had a reputation to live up to. The motivation got me out of the bed, and I ran, for about two months. But during those mornings, I still hated getting up so early. Even going to bed became a dread, as my mind was preoccupied with the thoughts of getting up early. When the championship ended, and I won, I abandoned emulating my granny.

She’d been performing these early morning chores for as long as I could remember. She’d had a hard life, and she was a very pious person who prayed every morning, very auspicious time for the Hindus. So getting up early, I thought, came naturally to her. But she said she needed to sleep less and less, as she grew older and older.

“These days, I hardly need five hours sleep,” she’d said.

If there was one thing I fancied about growing old, it was this fact. Requiring just five hours of sleep sounded amazing. You’d have time to do many things.

Despite abhorring early morning starts, I did enjoy what I’d seen in the wee hours. The freshness. The road devoid of smoke-belching lorries. The sight of milkmen, riding a cycle. Birds chirpping and hopping on the asphalt. And most only runners greeting you. During the day, the world is choatic, not as romantic as in the morning.

Then, while returning home from the run, the crowing cock, the early morning bajaans (religious Hindu songs) filtering out from people’s houses, these joyous moments I could enjoy if I slept just five hours.

I needed eight hours sleep, those days. During holidays, I slept even more. And still, despite that amount of sleep, getting up always felt lousy. I couldn’t wait to change that.

Eighteen years have elapsed since my granny’s revelation about her early morning starts. She’s turned eighty, and I’ve crossed thirty. But even until now, while my granny continuous to rise early, I remain a zombie well into the day if I get up early. My body still demands eight hours of sleep.

But I’m in London now, experiencing fast life, and not in the laid back Kathmandu. Eight hours of sleep is a luxury here. You’ve got be up and moving. You’re lucky if you enjoy seven hours of slumber. So, I’ve had to adapt, which I’ve found it hard. Initially, when I reported to work at seven, getting up at five thirty in the morning, I did nothing but yawn and drag myself all day. At 9 p.m., I’d be fast asleep, to recover from my early start. But again, despite putting in the hours, I’d get the same result next day, if I got up early.

It’s been two years since the radically alternation of my lifestyle. It still doesn’t feel right. I can’t read a novel or I’ll fall asleep, even in a moving train. I can’t be creative in my writing. I feel too tired to think. Also, my mind works slowly, when people crack jokes. But I’ve had to stick and sweat it out.

It’s got better though. You do get used to it, I guess. I mind may still hark back to the glorious days of sleep-filled life, but my body's moved on. These days, I get up without an alarm. When I hit the bed, I don’t waste any time. I’m snoring immediately. My six hours of sleep is deep, without any dreams, and very satisfying. So I’ve improved, I guess, even though I've not got used to it.

But every morning, when I stagger out of the bed, my granny’s words always reverberate in my ears. I’d love to be like her. She’s always been my inspiration. Now, I need her sleeping pattern also. Just five hours sleep!

Surely, I should be getting close. Maybe in next ten years, it’ll happen.