Conversations and characters in the story are fictional and are for representative purposes only. The park might not be fictional. Or might be.
The park around the corner reopened on Diwali.
It had donned a mask and PP suit through the pandemic.
Have you lost your marbles, you ask? How can a park wear either?
It’s called creative license!
The park was under renovation (assuming the term applies parks and not just buildings) through the pandemic. Tarpaulin across its walls. You could barely see inside. It was difficult too figure out if work was going on inside. The world had other priorities during those terrible times
The park reopened this Diwali. The work yet to be completed.
Locals, who had not taken part in the process but have a point of view on what happens in the neighbourhood, felt that it was just a facelift. Given there was a councillor involved, a local politician, there were those who preferred to praise him and the work.
I went to the park to walk a couple of weeks after the park reopened. I was impressed by the new and bright lights, manicured walking tracks, grassy lawns in place of where a pile of dried twigs and leaves lay in a messy heap. A toilet that does not stink (till now), unlike earlier when you would cut corners while walking to avoid it. New benches and a blue asphalt play area for kids. I felt that our park looked a lot more spiffy than before. Felt proud of it.
The wife disagrees. She went earlier and felt that the change was superficial, but then she feels I see the world through rose tinted glasses.
An unfair allegation. I do wear glasses now that I am in my late 40s. They are reading glasses. Definitely not tinted.
Creative license you say? You have to take her side don’t you?
I went back for a walk in the park last evening. Three weeks after I last went. I had run out of excuses to not walk. Apparently daily yoga nidra complements walks and asanas. Do not substitute them. The world has no place for us sloths!
I began walking and remembered how boring walking in the park can be. You just go round and round. With no variation. Waiting for the clock to relieve you from your ennui.
So different from when the pandemic hit us. I would walk down the bylanes that circle our apartment building. Initially seeking sanity as the city was under curfew. Later to meet my kitty friends who lived round the corner. And our two friends who came to feed them. All of us were masked up. Socially distanced. Yet joined by our mutual love for cats, which soon grew into a beautiful friendship between 4 hoomans.
This walk had fewer, but much longer rounds, compared to walking in the park. With enough activity around us to keep us enthralled. Typical of the bylanes of India. Lockdown or not.
The wife listens to music on her mobile through air pods while walking. She often takes work calls while walking. Boss lady that she is, her each minute is accounted for. This is the only way she can walk. And yet work. I keep my finger on my lips in such cases when we walk together.
I like to keep my mobile away when I walk. Which makes walking in the park a bit of a drag. There are only so many songs from the 80s and 90s that you can hum without someone saying, ‘uncle please’.
I resorted to what I love to do in cafes, while walking last evening. People watching. Eavesdropping. Before you get as paranoid as the Princess of Wales in the latest season of Crown, let me clarify that this is entirely harmless.
My teachers used to tell my mum that I often daydream in class. I was 8 then. I could not be expected to think of Boolean algebra or the Baltic wars then, could I?
Watching strangers. Or buildings with crumbling facades. Conjuring stories in my head about them as I walk, is the ’40 yrs later’ manifestation of the daydreaming of a chubby, right brained kid. Forced to sit in a classroom and learn things which were of no interest to him. Of no use to him later. All he wanted to do was to write and tell stories.
I looked around and noted that the demographics of those around transcended gender, age, class (to an extent) and religions. In some cases I heard snatches of conversation. In most cases I wrote my own script. What follows is what you can expect to see in our park.
There are the mums of toddlers, sitting on benches of the play area. ‘Listen to didi and don’t climb too high’… they said as giggling tiny tots ran unsteadily towards the slides and swings and roundabouts. Ayah (is it ok say that these days?) in tow, carrying a water bottle and a bag filled with food. You could hear a sigh of relief emanating from the back.
Dads walk around, carrying their wards in their arms. The child has managed to elicit a gas balloon, or one of those sticks with paper wheels that circle in the breeze or a water bubble kit or at least a ride on a poor exploited horse or horse drawn carriage outside, or a round in the tiny merry go round parked on the pavement, before walking in. Prodigies in the art of negotiating.
The park veterans sit in a group by the gate. Talking of parks that have been taken over by the (god forbid) municipality… of outsiders who come to the park these days and made the park lose its charm…of park guards who are conspicuous by their absence and whose job it is to police the park.
There are the pre-teens, who scream and play tag in the children’s play area. With the air of self importance that pre-teens sport in the presence of those even younger than them. “Let’s go home. It’s getting late!” “Just 5 more minutes mamma. Pleaaaaase.” Even leaders of the pack have someone to answer to. A life lesson learnt early in life.
The middle-aged walk in mixed gender groups. Men in short and tight tees. Wearing shiny sneakers. Women in salawar suits, saris or burkhas, wearing keds or flat healed covered shoes. Their conversation revolves around food. Of eating intermittently, of having aata instead of rice, more fruits, less fruits, and then where to get the best biryani, the alu parathas their mom in law makes, the new ice cream flavour launched by the milk cooperative from Anand, the stunning prices of Frappuccino that their kids order in cafés…they troop out together and stop at the chaat-wala’s cart before they get into their cars and are driven home…usually to the next lane.
In contrast are the young runners with well toned bodies. Hoodie clad. Track pants. Arm band attached to their arms. Not a rainbow band. Or a black band. This one measures steps, pulse rates, heart beats, the way it would be in the emergency room of a hospital. They run purposefully, rhythmically, solitarily, silently, earphones plugged in.
You will find couples in the early stages of their marriage. Who till recently might have been one of the silent, hoodie clad, serious runners. They no longer run. ‘Brisk walks are the best.’ Muttering sweet little nothings into each other’s ears.
“The plumber needs to be called. We can’t have a leaky tap forever.”
“You always forget to pay the electricity bill and we have to pay a fine.”
“Should we just order in today and catch the latest Trevor Noah special.”
“Can we talk about this later please? I have had a bad day at work. My boss is insecure. Makes my life hell. HR is useless. All they do is organise antaksharis on Friday evenings when you just want to pack up and leave.”
They step out of the park and walk home together. Cheerfully or shrouded by the miasma of angst and reproach, depending on how the conversation in the park went. This is the same park where they would once sit for hours. Till the lights went off. The gate were shut. And they went home. Homes, to be precise.
Our is a ‘family park’. You won’t find coochi-cooing couples. You would find them sitting outside on the boundary wall. Stealing a kiss while earnest feeders feed the mohalla cats in front of them. While disinterested dog walkers walk past them, eyes or ears glued to their phones, wards dragging behind. Stopping to sniff or do their business while their chaperones look away. This is Mumbai. Kindly adjust.
In the park you will find youngsters, crowded around a mobile phone. As people would around a bioscope a century back. Giggling or laughing or hooting depending on their gender, while watching the latest BTS video or influencer reel.
There are those who sit alone & friendless. Hoping that the stand up comic’s gag playing on their phone, or the cricket match, will nudge away their sadness. Even if for a bit.
Elders who have come alone or with their grandkids. Living with their family and yet lonely. Chatting with each other about times when they were not just part of the furniture. When their children were small and them adults, unlike now when it seems to be the other way round. Some come with walking sticks or in wheelchairs. The others saying a prayer of gratitude for each new dawn where they still need neither.
Not everyone comes to the park for recreation. Take the slim bearded gentleman in a terrycot shirt, trouser and shoes, talking angrily into the phone, “I am just an external vendor. What more can I do?”
Or the group of three real estate brokers of formidable girth, in shirts bursting at the seam, formal trousers and shoes. Smiling and looking happy, as those who are not skinny tend to do. Don’t agree with this observation? Ask Julius about it. No, not the one from Bandra Gym men. Caesar! ‘Aah Bosco.’
Then there’s the guy with a receding hairline. salt and pepper stubble, tee with cat memes, shorts and cheerful blue sneakers. Carrying a tote bag with kibble inside to feed his friends around the corner. Composing his next story in his head while walking desultorily.
He can’t wait to finish and get back to his cats.
