No, thank you, early risers!

If the world is divided between owls and fowls, then I am the top guy on the first list. During winter, I even adorn added feathers to my late-rising plumage that flutters defiantly when asked to leave the snug morning bed. Behind the dark curtains, I see neither any sun nor reason to step out from the warm embrace of the satin quilt into the step-motherly world of icy chill.

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I have no quarrel with early risers. But why do they have to wear their ‘disordered’ circadian rhythms as a badge of honour? The early bird catches the worm but also has more chances of catching a cold, a flu—and God save us from that Greek-sounding virus!

Though none of the neighbours has a pet rooster to awaken us at dawn, one of them does have a noisy Royal Enfield Bullet that he must start every morning to go for a spin with a mighty roar. Whether he goes to the lake or to the outer Himalayas for his walk, I don’t care, but the high-decibel sputter of the mean machine makes me stuff ear plugs or pull over a pillow on my head to muffle the cacophony. It is the first onslaught on my tranquil soul.

There seems to be a divine conspiracy to surround me with early risers. For instance, take my previous golfing foursome. Except me, all others were firm adherents of the ‘tee off at first light’ code — come winter or summer, rain or shine. When I questioned the logic of playing in the bone-chilling fog of January, I was quietly dropped from the morning rendezvous call.

Nowadays, though I play with an afternoon group, the guilt trip has not been assuaged. When we catch up on gossip, political news and daily routine — they startle me with their formidable discipline and commitment to exercise. Most wake up between 4 and 5 am with the zeal of a lark and burst into a round of yoga, followed by meditation and an extra dose of pranayama or mindfulness, before reporting for breakfast.

Contrast it with the day unfolding in my bedroom. I’m all snores and grunts till the good old cook Vir Chand does his morning whispers. It is already 7.30 by then. Another 15 minutes and he rolls in my morning tea with the newspapers. By now, the reluctant soul has somehow stirred to life. A peep outside dispels the myth that it is still midnight, as the neighbourhood morning walkers are now returning home from their 5-km mandatory constitutionals or walking their dogs.

Frankly speaking, the only morning riser I like is the newspaper vendor. Come rain or shine, fog or mist, the bundle of papers is always at my doorstep…every morning, winter or summer without fail.