Revisiting the town park

 

A revisit to the town park after a month; enough for father time to show you its freshly cooked plans. The female sweeper in peacock blue dress is working without her white lab coat today. But with more colors visible, although partly, she has a cute round girlish appearance. It’s the day after karva-chauth night, the fasting day for the welfare and health of husbands even if they spoil yours. Her hardworking hands have henna for the occasion, an indication that she has a tolerable husband whose life can at least be celebrated once in a year. Like the last time she sweeps quite methodically and instructively.

Instead of the old man today it’s a younger cleaner who comes paddling the rickshaw cart laden with dry leaves, the thin strands of not so prominent north Indian autumn. He gives a snuffling and moody appearance, in contrast to the peaceful and composed old man. Where is the old man, I get worried. Hope he hasn’t been fired or fallen sick. Some genuine souls—even strangers—leave you with invaluable keepsakes in your memory just with a few glimpses of their kind, gentle presence.

There I find him! He is doing something important today—preparing seedbeds for winter flowers. It’s a laborious task using a spade. But he seems to be a gardener first than a mere park cleaner. Any opportunity to create more blooms must come solicitously, quite naturally. Then sweating and hard labor don’t matter. He has worked on a long, narrow row along the walking track, freshly dug soil giving a trajectory of his nice work since early morning. Imagine the winter flowers along the track after a few weeks! He is resting on a bench, probably giving some respite to his stiffened joints. He has a grandfatherly ticklish look into my eyes, as if to say, ‘You can exercise with the shovel on the seedbed.’ I toddle on with a little movement of head, acknowledging his great flowering job in this deflowering world.

The election fever has gone down with the formation of a new government by the same party. So the politicking group is talking about mundane things that matter. The park feels far more calm in the absence of political vainglory. They are off the entranced political cart, hence the bass voice has normal drawl, no tension in tenor. Today I don’t feel the heat like I did the last time as I pass them. The old, gaunt, wheel-chair bound figure of last time, sitting languished and petering out of the stage of life, has improved. He is off the wheel-chair, and although still very fragile, looks taking a clasp at life in spotless whites, sitting on the ground doing pranayam while others talk about mundane issues of life. He has a very firm ostrich like face looking determinedly to improve his health.

A sixty plus grey-haired man with his unique set of exercises. He has a good athletic physique for his age; a focused man humming in accord with the fresh autumnal air. His shorts, sneakers and T-shirt muffling the bugs of age through a punctual exercise routine. He spins in circles with a vigorous shake of hands, as if redeeming energy from the not yet spent coupons of energy in muscles and nerves. He then jumps on one leg; then the other; followed by unique twists and turns; then copiously inhales morning air through anuloma-viloma breathing exercise.

Two gentlemen walking with firm steps, both of retired age, one carrying a jailor’s cane. His friend seems a jolly guy, somewhat undoing the rigid authoritarian air carried by the cane-wielder. I keep distance from him. The cane seems an extension of his striking promptitude.

A fat woman with hennaed hands and lots of sindoor in her hair parting lazily sitting on the grass. She is busy on a video call on her phone. Her face is slightly blotchy but lustrous black hair cover up for that. She has a husky, jeering tone. Given her happy spirits, no gainsaying that the man on the call is fond of her.

Another fatter woman, very short in stature, in fluorescent green top and tight dark leggings and shiny pink shoes. She seems to pursue the rapturous prospect of thinning, slimming rather, and gives an ominous blaze of enthusiasm, bulldozes past me, almost toppling me off the track just by the stormy wind unleashed by her passage. I’m shell-shocked for a moment but then with a benign look wish her many-many rounds and the fat getting melted from her body. But my exemplary, honorable thoughts come to a naught. She barely makes one round, runs out of wind, or maybe finds it silly and boring to rush around like that while better things can be accomplished. She dumps herself on a bench and gets busy with her phone, the best buddy who isn’t bothered about her weight. She gives me a brief look of vague hostility as I breeze past with my slim structure. Maybe she is wishing to pump some of her extra fat into my thin frame for betterment at both ends.

Two old women walking briskly. One thin, the other buxom. They waddle determinedly, chests thrust forward. Real mothers who fed milk to many kids. Their copious breasts bouncing on their stomachs.

A few old women sitting resignedly on corner benches. The last time they were singing devotional folksongs. But today the song is missing. In fact one of them is lying on a bench; one sitting with legs drawn up. It gives a sad, resigned look to the group. Their well-worn clothes evincing a hard-fought life in the villages, fighting the abominable reproaches of a patriarchal society, their fate wrung out as much by providence as by the back-breaking household and farming chores. Wriggling to forestall newer and newer tests. Then tiredly shambling after their sons who shifted to the town. Tagging up to bring up their grandchildren and forcing their way into new set of chores to keep them relevant.

Seven or eight high school boys in school dress; boys from poor families, thus going to the highly crippled state schools. Giving a free way to their unguided, precipitous, adolescent energies. They are setting up an infuriating new benchmark for the monkeys in the domain of silly pyrotechnics. Convulsively shouting, jumping, throwing cuss words, hanging from the upper bars of the swings, hurling big pavement tiles at each other with full intention of breaking bones.

An elderly man rushing in with the evident hurrying intention of finishing few quick laps. He has sprinted forward like a deck-based fighter jet on an aircraft carrier. But then screeches to a halt putting power breaks. His big car is parked by the park’s gate. He gets unsure whether he unlocked the car or not. There he raises the key remote in its direction, presses the button with owner’s pride. ‘Qui, Aye, Yes, I’m locked,’ the car beeps and blinks. He waddles forward and I exit through the gate, startled by the sudden activity in the car.