In the frenetic, high-stakes world of Indian television drama, where love is often declared in rain-soaked ultimatums or broken engagement parties, one character dared to fall in love differently. She fell in love on Sundays.
For fans of the cult classic Iss Pyaar Ko Kya Naam Doon? (IPKKND), Khushi Kumari Gupta (née Mukherjee) is not just the chirpy, jalebii-making, goddess-fearing girl from Lucknow. She is the architect of a unique romantic language—one built on stolen glances, metaphorical shayari, and the quiet, seismic significance of a single day off.
While Arnav Singh Raizada, the "ASR" of the business world, conquered takeovers in forty-eight hours, Khushi taught him (and the audience) that some things cannot be rushed. They require the sacred pause of a Sunday.
One of Mukherjee’s most beloved Sunday storylines features the couple Ankit and Rupa. Ankit is a cardiac surgeon who cannot afford emotional volatility; Rupa is a travel photographer who is violently allergic to stagnation.
For three years, they meet every Sunday. No phone calls during the week. No emergency texts. No "I miss you" on a Tuesday.
The genius of this storyline is how Mukherjee depicts the erosion of the rules. Initially, the Sunday boundary is a relief. But as the story progresses, the reader watches Rupa almost break her knuckles gripping the table to avoid texting Ankit when her father is hospitalized.
The climax does not happen on a Sunday. It happens on a Thursday, when Ankit shows up at her doorstep in the rain, breaking the contract. He doesn’t declare his love. He simply says, “I couldn’t wait for Sunday. I was worried you’d forget what my voice sounds like.” khushi mukherjee sexy sunday join my app prem work
Mukherjee argues here that the Sunday relationship is a training ground for trust. By denying each other six days of the week, the couple learns to carry the other person silently. It is a high-risk, high-reward storyline that resonates deeply with long-distance couples and avoidant-attachment personalities.
No analysis is complete without critique. Some argue that Mukherjee’s Sunday storylines are overly melancholic. They accuse her of normalizing quiet misery, of making passivity look poetic.
A viral tweet read: “Not every Sunday has to be a relationship audit. Sometimes it’s okay to just be happy without analyzing why.”
Mukherjee responded (rare for her): “Art doesn’t have to show you the happy Sundays. Social media already does that. Art shows you the ones you hide from your friends.”
Her defenders argue that she is not depressing—she is realistic. In an era of performative romance, her work is a mirror. And mirrors, as we know, are not always flattering.
In romantic storytelling, the setting of Sunday provides a unique backdrop for relationship development. Unlike Saturday (which is for high energy and parties), Sunday is for intimacy, recovery, and preparation. In the frenetic, high-stakes world of Indian television
The "Sunday Morning" Trope:
Of course, not everyone is a fan. Literary critic Ayesha Khan wrote in The Bangalore Review: “Mukherjee’s Sunday relationships are beautifully crafted neuroses. They are for people who want the taste of love without the digestion. Real love happens on a rainy Tuesday when you have the flu and a deadline. Real love is ugly weekdays.”
Mukherjee responded to this critique in a rare podcast interview: “Of course it’s unsustainable. That’s the point. Sunday relationships are not meant to last forever. They are meant to teach you what you are willing to wreck your calendar for. Sometimes, the relationship ends because Sunday isn’t enough. And that’s a successful ending—because you learned you deserve a Monday.”
Before diving into specific plots, one must understand the cultural weight of Sunday in urban India. For the working class, Sunday is the only day that belongs entirely to the self. It is the day of unwashed hair, stale coffee, lazy afternoons, and the terrifying freedom of unscheduled time.
Khushi Mukherjee weaponizes this setting brilliantly. In her universe, Sunday is not a backdrop; it is a catalyst.
In storylines like "The Sunday That Wasn't" and "Breakfast at Dusk," Mukherjee shows how romantic tension either escalates or dissolves in the vacuum of a free day. Unlike weekdays, where distractions (office, chores, commutes) offer an escape from difficult conversations, Sunday forces couples to confront each other. Her protagonists cannot hide behind Zoom calls or traffic jams. They must sit across the table and deal with the silence. (IPKKND), Khushi Kumari Gupta (née Mukherjee) is not
This is the genius of her "Sunday relationships"—they are relationships stripped of performance. There are no office clothes, no makeup, no pretenses. Only raw, unfiltered intimacy.
Before diving into Mukherjee’s specific storylines, we need to define the term. In her literary universe, a Sunday relationship isn't merely a casual fling or a "weekend-only" arrangement. It is a deliberate, often agonizing choice made by protagonists who are hyper-aware of their own fragility.
Mukherjee’s characters don’t do Sunday relationships because they are afraid of commitment. They do it because they are terrified of erasure.
In her 2022 breakout collection, Frayed at the Edges, the protagonist, Meera, explains it perfectly: “Monday through Saturday belong to my ambition, my debts, my family’s expectations, and the performance of living. Sunday belongs to the one person I don’t have to perform for. But only Sunday. Because if he had Monday, he would see the cracks. And if he saw the cracks, he would leave.”
This is the core of Mukherjee’s philosophy. The Sunday relationship is a time-bound fortress. It is romanticism compressed into 24 hours—intense, immersive, and built on the unspoken premise that the outside world does not exist.