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.
