In The Park

There is a park in my neighbourhood, opens at 5 AM and shuts down at 8 PM. Being an injured man these days, I have nothing better to do than take never-ending walks in the park. Big trees, trimmed grass, flowery plants, fountains, benches, and a bit of unavoidable voyeurism – that’s the order of the day, on a good day.  And there is no bad day in the park.

There is an old woman, comes at sharp 7 AM. I hear that her name is Hope. She looks like she could die any minute, but never does. She does her laughing alone. I think she could use a trainer. ‘How does the air taste?’ I jokingly asked her once as she laughed gaspingly beside me. And staring back at my newly refurbished soul, she murmured, ‘Bitter’. Since then I avoid talking to her.

But everybody loves a bit of Hope in the park. Especially the couples and the police guard.

While the elders jog, some children sing Twinkle-Twinkle as they play games. There is a separate arena for them, and other performers and practitioners alike. Games have changed. Some joggers are reluctant, especially the one that I call Dudeji. He is from Patna and has grown up in Bangalore. He has got many friends, two cars, and a girlfriend of ten years that his life revolves around. 

They are going to get married next year. That’s eleven years before marriage. He tells me that they had met in the same park. She also used to jog then. I immediately imagined a fitter version of her. But my imagination is very wild, so I stopped. Eleven years is a long time to process, I wasn’t even the same man eleven months ago.

Sometimes Dudeji likes to share a spliff in the park. I am reluctant but fundamentalist. The police guard knows me, let’s not get into how. Me and police go back long before you learnt to read or I learnt to write. He is a cool guy, wears civilian clothes and does not bother those people who do not bother others. I’m one of those people, but not Dudeji. 

Dudeji is what Hope calls an exhibitionist. He plays Michael Jackson in the car parked outside the park so that he could hear it while sitting inside near the fence. Beat it. Hope is inside the park on most days. I have not seen her much outside the park. I wonder if she has a family, people who care for her even if the old pouty woman wouldn’t give a pigeon a grain.

It seems to me that Hope wakes up every morning completely lost. And then she finds the park, every single day. And in the park she finds a new favourite spot for herself every day. And thereafter this mad woman finds all these people to gesture, smile, and stare down at. And then she laughs till her heart rate does not pull her blood circulation out of danger for that day, every single day, till Dudeji takes her home, till there isn’t a bad day in the park.

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