But on Sunday I am a little relaxed. I like to be flexible. I don’t want a clean shave even. I want to take my lunch much after the lunch time. I want to think willy nilly. I ask myself many questions. The little Mahi is dead in spite of so much efforts by our jawans. I wrote articles praising our jawans. But on Sunday I don’t like to praise them. They take 86 long hours to reach the 70-feet-deep borewell. The child is unable to survive. At first I blamed the jawans. Then I suddenly start blaming the person who dug the borewell. Then I felt the mother of Mahi was careless. The girl child was not taken proper care of as usual in India. We want mother, sister, and wife, but not daughter. I don’t blame Mahi’s mother, she was waiting so eagerly for the child but my Sunday self differed on this. A child is left alone to play near such a dangerous site and the mother was sleeping. Now the child is dead, she is crying, lamenting and demanding her child. Whose carelessness? The Jawan’s or the digger of the well, or the authority who didn’t follow the Supreme court directives for digging wells.

My Sunday self is very comical and to some extent sardonic. You can call my ramblings whimsical. It is not the table talk of Hazlitt or the confession of an opium eater. It is unusual, unprompted, and to some extent ‘a spontaneous overflow of rather uncertain feelings”. My Sunday self could so easily criticize talented young actresses of Bengali films who are now being described in the media as ‘Girl power’ of films. While everyone in front of the Inox is praising highly, the Bengali chick flick Aami Aar Amaar Girlfriends, in which Swastika Mukherjee, Raima Sen and Parno Mitra played their best roles, my Sunday self says something else to me. The performances were not up to the mark and there was more a competition to exhibit physical properties.

The storyline is simply tedious and only on Sunday you can enjoy such bogus things. That one moves is movie and this picture did not move. Nowadays everyone talks, writes and speaks of love. My Sunday self says, this is because, now love vanishes and the hearts are sold in a toy shop. Earlier heart was concealed deep inside the mind. I am a Facebook addict. But on Sunday my unusual self fights shy of it. I don’t like to chat. I feel that a man who smiles too much has some secret griefs to hide. I feel the man who eats too much at the hangouts of the city malls is a depressed one. I feel that the man who wants to talk so much on chat, has actually nothing to say. All these are the ramblings of my Sunday self. So don’t blame me for it on Monday. Only on Sunday I feel all these unusual things, probably because I don’t want to feel anything at all.