It was just the other day that K & I were at Central Park in New York. We had walked down the entrance from The Pierre for a bit till we came across a large pond. We paused there to take some photos, then relaxed for a bit. I felt the peaceful, easy feeling that I feel when I’m at a park during our holidays abroad. I took in the surroundings— ducks at the far end of the pond, some of whom had swum across and climbed onto the embankments, much to the amusement of those around. I recalled having a delicious duck confit Massaman curry at a Thai restaurant called Chalong the night before. I pushed the thought aside. Two young boys were fishing; the older one had caught a small fish that wriggled on his fishing rod, while his younger brother was jumping and squealing with delight. People were sitting on benches nearby—mothers with prams, weary tourists, readers lost in their novels. K had asked me before our trip what I most wanted to see in New York. ‘Central Park,’ I replied. It symbolised the city more than the lady with the torch. I looked more closely at the pond and noticed slime and moss along its banks, along with some trash. Suddenly, Central Park felt more real. I remembered the pukurs (ponds) near my grandparents’ house in Kolkata during the early 1980s. I used to pass them on my way from home when we stayed at their place.
There used to be a sense of stillness and quiet around the pukurs in the afternoon. Punctured by the sound of a dheel (stone) thrown into it by a child. Or that of kids playing football. Of someone taking a bath in it. Or washing clothes. Stray dogs barking for no rhyme or reason. The rustle of leaves as the breeze swept by languorously.
This was a world far removed from mine. My life had a clear purpose: to study and do well in life. There was no time to sit still by a pond. Yet, here I was. Forty years on. By a pond. Standing. Still. In New York.
Mumbai, 5th September 2025.
