Bone tired. That is what I have been since Wednesday, which was a national holiday being Republic Day. Instead of being at home with WFM, I spent it at work wrapping up a last minute lecture for a conference that a colleague of mine and I had organized from Thursday to Saturday. The last three days were tough; on my feet the whole day, sleeping for 4-5 hours a day and delivering a total of eight, forty-five minute lectures. By the time the conference ended last evening, I was ready to drop dead.

I always look forward to Sundays, but yesterday the intensity of that feeling was magnified a hundred-fold. What got me through Saturday, was the knowledge that I would finally be able to unwind, relax and get over my tiredness the next day. With the exception of this entry, there was nothing else that I would have to do. Which is how most Sundays work out anyway.

Sunday is a precious day. It is the one day in a week where both of us get to do nothing, where we can laze around, catch up on our reading, watch some television, do some writing and generally forget about work. Over the last couple of years, unless I am traveling, I have made it a point to avoid all professional and social functions on Sunday, so that I can spend this day at home.

On a regular day I am out of the house by 6.45AM. On the other hand, on a typical Sunday I don't get out of bed till about half-past eight or so. Sunday is the only day I have a proper breakfast. I treat myself to a juvenile breakfast of "Fruit Loops" or make a huge Spanish omelet for the family and then linger over a large cup of masala tea, usually my first cup of the week. On a regular day, breakfast consists of fruits that I have in the car, while driving to work, and I have been off tea and coffee for more than six months now.

I then read the "Times of India" and "Sunday Mid-Day" and sometimes even the "Economic Times" cover to cover.

Sunday is also the day when I do not always bathe or shave and horror of horrors, brush my teeth.

If there is something interesting on television in the morning we try and catch it. For the past few weeks, I have been watching "Xena - the Warrior Princess", a fantasy serial starring Lucy Lawless, who I guess is supposed to excite adolescent hormones. I find it funny and interesting and each time I see an episode, I remember Mike, since all the episodes have been shot in New Zealand. WFM makes it a point to watch "Hercules" which follows, "Xena", probably in retaliation. In the evening, for the last year or so, we have been watching "X-Files" and these days we try and catch "Star-Trek - The New Generation" followed by a late night film at around 9.30PM. While watching television, I usually surf the net or catch up on my email and WFM keeps doing some other work.

Lunch just after noon is a family event and heavy. All of us sit down together, the only day in the week that we can do so. This is also the only day that I have "dal-bhaat", local lingo for "gravy-rice". On a regular day, this would put me to sleep immediately, which is why I love having this dish on Sunday. From around 1.00PM to 5.00PM, we close the windows, draw the curtains, put on the air-conditioners and go to sleep with the answering machine on, so that there is no disturbance at all.

Sometimes in the evening, friends from the neighborhood drop in, often without prior intimation. I then get a chance to experiment with the small bar that I have. Otherwise, we often do nothing but talk.

Ever since I started writing, I use Sunday to catch up on my writing and site updating. This is not "work" as far I am concerned and these acts just blend in with the rest of the day. It feels great at night to have finished a couple of pieces, sent off a notify mail to my subscribers and to have made the site current.

Bedtime is usually around 11.00PM, since I have to be up by six, the next morning.

.................

I just re-read the piece and I feel a little stupid. Though I am supposed to be taking it easy, it reads to me as if I do land up "doing" a lot of things on Sunday. The issue probably is not of "not doing anything", but I guess, of doing something which is totally different from what one would do on a regular working day.

And in our part of the world, Sundays are even more precious, since Saturdays are not holidays.

I hate football. I do not have the TV turned on.

But I know that I am safe today. I can do what I want today -- in fact, I just woke up from a nice, peaceful nap today. I may not make sense today, or get to the point today and why? Because millions and millions of people will have their TVs turned on and they will be absolutely riveted to the big noisy screen.

These are the alpha people. These are the straight-arrow shooters and the go-getters and the do-it-yourselfers. The shouters, the rabble-rousers, the ring- and band-leaders. These are the people who get the job done. The people who won't take "no" for an answer or the easy way out.

And today they will be occupied for a few brief hours. They will be stuck in their deep brown Barko-loungers. Their hairy paws will be buried in bags 'o chips. They will be pounding their fists on Naugahyded and StainGuarded plaid armrests and cigar smoke and beer bubbles will fill the air.

It's a magical time.

You have your drunken shouts! There is the high-pitched whine of the announcer John Madden (or some other former overdeveloped musclehead, incoherently lamenting about something obscure and out of his control. Chump change will be passing from hand to hand in some kind of gambling ritual. It's all so ... manly.

And if I merely close the door to the den, step away from the big TV in the first-floor bachelor apartments, drift out of reach of the electrical wires ... I will be free. Free as a fragile bird to wander the streets, the mall, the parks, and the museums ... without worry or pause that some big bruiser is going to stomp on me and make me wish I'd stayed home. It is the wimp's holiday. We can take to the streets and do a twinkly-toes skip for joy because all the more extravagantly muscled folks are otherwise engaged.

Now, don't think I don't appreciate a bunch of tight-white latex uniformed men as much as the next guy. I do. But they don't show nearly enough of that. And don't think for a second that I don't love the ultra-expensive commercials as much as the next money-hungry grubber. I do. It's just that they don't show nearly enough of them, either.

Nope. It's just too much football. Too many camera shots of over-my-head mayhem. That execrable half-time maximus horribulus. Too much yelling for players too far away to matter. In fact, I didn't even like football when I was in high school and college. Too cold, for one thing. The stands are always too rickety and when people jump up and down on them, there's always the possibility of liquid spillage all over your favorite car coat. I did like the big chrysanthemums, however.

No, I'd rather have my sports figures wearing shorts, if at all possible.

And really, with the helmets and the padding and all the general hard-plastic armaments of football, you might as well be watching the Borg engage. Too much violence and attempts to avoid the obvious outcome of violence. I don't know why the players don't just give up, stay home, and manipulate virtual versions of themselves. That would be safest of all.

But then, what do I know? I just got up from my nap. Is it Sunday? I'm a wimp.