The Philosopher's Smile

The Smiles from My Shelf [7]

He was spotted on the bench by the side of the children’s park last evening, observing the couple of kids playing around with a soccer ball. I’m not sure if it is already in vogue in these parts of the world but he was spotting the Iniesta hairstyle, of course the scarcity of resources denying him the luxury of the Ahn Jung-Hwan one. His keen eyes were following the movement of the ball as the kids were running around dribbling and kicking it around. They had no pretensions of a Messi in the making. Neither showed an early promise to curve it like Carlos or bend it like Beckham in the distant future at some soccer arena. Yet the wise one on the bench kept on watching with the glowing eyes not revealing any emotion. The kids had a lot of running around so typical of those full grown men in their national colors. But unlike the adults they grew tired and fell to the ground without much delay and lay there still, staring at the moon. Released from the bench, the wise one now made a rapid movement towards the ball and with the admiring crowd eagerly watching he applied the dreaded hand of God on the globe on the ground. The all powerful book of rules had no mention of the card to be flashed under the circumstances to cunning little fellows moving around on all fours. And as he opened his mouth wide, revealing not the universe but his real intentions, with a swift movement of surprising agility belying her age but befitting the Granny of a wannabe soccer star, the elderly lady took off from the bench and lifted him away from the ball and deposited him back on the pouch on her back from where he kept on smiling the philosopher’s smile.