Snatch the ball from MOWGLI.: 14th of Feb 2004.
02/14/2004 02:26 p.m.

Snatch the ball from MOWGLI.: 14th of Feb 2004.

I am not in any dilemma... Nor there is any conflict. Computer, today, doesn’t look attractive to pull me out of my quilt. It’s so cozy here. I am so comfortable lying in my bed letting my thoughts carry me wherever they want to. Though it’s getting a bit warmer. But I shall not get up to adjust the fan or switch on the AC. I am comfortable in ignoring this discomfort.

I am thinking what thinking is thinking. I will not remember because I am not present nor do I care. (I have to be present if I care) I am simply NOT. I have spent half of my life doing (ha-ha as if this is my doing. How we misuse the words and their meaning) what’s happening. It doesn’t matter anything to me because I am NOT.

 But a single thought brings me back to life. It’s getting late, I realize. The realization provides me sufficient energies to detach my attention from my thoughts and direct it to see and measure the amount and intensity of light from below the heavy curtained glass paneled doors of my room, which open in the lawns. It’s from here my son MOWGLI will appear any moment, kicking the door with his front paws, shouting, non-stop. It’s a daily ritual. He will kick and I will open the doors. He will kick me on my chaste in blatant display of his anger if I have caused delay in opening the door. He will hardly allow me to put on my white KURTA over my white pajama and sandoz BANYAN (a kind of vest) and my Kito, rubber sandals. That’s all. He will not give me any time for throwing some water on my face. In any case, the bathroom will be occupied by my wife at this point of time. I will wash my face in my study in the course of this ritual later.

Yes, the morning ritual will not end here. He will bring one of his footballs from some corner of the garden and would play rugby. He is a master rugby player and I am no match for him. The rule is that there’s no rule for him. The rule is that I will stick to the play of football. And he will kick me, bite me, and wrestle with me, if I tried to hold the ball in my hands or under my foot.

Well, I will utilize this opportunity to the best of my ability and moods and walk and jog and do some running. Ninety nine point nine nine nine nine times out of hundred, the ball will be in his control. Holding between his teeth’s he will run round and round the house till he is distracted by the birds and I will chase him shouting repeatedly-‘snatch the ball from Mowgli, snatch the ball from Mowgli’. I am always thankful to him for compelling me to do some running. Because this is the only exercise, the only game I play apart from the intentional psychological games I play as and when I play. Apart from the role-playing I am bound to do to deal and communicate with the ANT COLONY.

 Sorry, I will have to stop thinking. I will have to forego this comfort for the comfort of being with my son Mowgli. He has arrived. He is kicking the door and sounds a bit excited. He will punish me for thinking which I AM not thinking.

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The other day

My son bit a dog

The paradox is that

My son has four legs

The dog was biped.

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Three Bull Dogs appeared at my mines yesterday with an army of dogs and seized all the equipments and stopped all operations on fictitious grounds. I have just received a call through a messenger of the Bull Dogs that I ought to have thrown some bones. I will, so far, the watch-dogs are bipeds.

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