My chats with God

I talk to him. Everyday. As I drive to office, I strike up a casual conversation and remind him of things that he must help me with today. And what does he want help on. Imagine that. Haha. I was slightly ashamed in the beginning, because I am not religious. Never was. But I guess he doesn't mind. Because he isn't too religious either. The sad thing is that he doesn't talk back.
I remember that when I was about..say eight or ten, I used to play cowboy and robbers. Alone. In a thick brown Duckback raincoat and a cloth Stetsun. A hollow reed with a bread knife stuck in it at an angle was my Sten (cowboys never carried Stens I suppose, but soldiers in Commando comics did. So what the hell) which never ran out of bullets. I had my Colt 0.45 of course. A beautiful silver one whose springs were broken and later fixed with rubber bands. Oh I miss it as I speak. The pillows were horses and the bed was anything from a hill slope, to a river, to a meadow. I had a sidekick, a faithful horse and many bad guys to kill. We talked in Bengali and Commando English with sound effects. BAM. POW. UGH. KHATAKHAT KHATAKHAT. RATATATTAT. No problems. I don't think I have enjoyed myself, immersed myself in anything so thoroughly. Ever.
That, I feel now, was God playing along with me.