This is my fourth round in the park this morning. After three rounds of jogging I’ve eased into a walk, bringing my breath under control and opening my eyes to the surroundings.
This is a small park. More of a lawn. One round on the walkway along the boundaries should be just about 600 metres, perhaps 500. The grilled boundary walls have mostly come apart, making it easy for people and stray dogs to jump in and out of the park at will. Any time, anywhere access—the demand of the new high-tech world.
Jetting into the otherwise square park in one corner is a temple with its comparatively new boundary walls. Besides the jogger’s path, there’s a paved walkway across the park along the centre. All these paths are flanked by several kinds of small trees, mostly flowery ones. Right at the middle there’s a monument kind of structure, which is also a huge, say, 25-30 feet tall, concrete-and-tiles signboard screaming ‘Kaushambi’. That’s the name of this residential area. A much smaller, true-to-life signboard along one of the four roads bordering the park says ‘Central Park’.
Yes, the park is at the centre, surrounded by roads. The ones on the north and east are small bylanes with hardly any movement except for stray dogs and cows and occasional passers-by and vehicles. But they are not quite. Parallel to the northern bylane is a very busy highway, the one connecting Delhi to Meerut and beyond. The other two roads are bigger, with a steady flow of vehicles and people, one being the main entrance to the colony. These two roads are on either side occupied b a number of street vendors—selling tea, tobacco, traditional fastfood like chole-bhature and channa-kulcha, kulfi, fruit, vegetables, flower and ‘machine water’, to mostly lower class people from sweepers and rikshaw pullers to labourers and housemaids working in residential and commercial buildings around, in nearby malls, construction cites and on the building of Metro rail that’s supposed to change the way Delhi travels.
There are people sleeping on park benches. Almost every bench is occupied by people of different age and built, sleeping in different positions, all with similar expressionless faces. Some kids are playing around an old see-saw, closer to the centre of the park. I think its seats are broken as two kids are hanging on their belly on either side, they jump when their dangling legs touch the ground. Three-four other kids are watching them, a couple of very small kids are carrying even smaller kids. All happy. In their torn clothes. Have they had their breakfast today? I doubt. But they are all smiles, everybody.
There are squirrels running around almost every tree, chirping. Love birds are flying around busy, without any apparent display of love. A couple of pigeons are drinking from one of the small pools of water left by overnight rains. It’s still overcast. The sun is peeking out of the cloud every now and then. But it’s hot and humid. Mynas are chasing each other from tree to tree in groups of two, three, four. The grass is green and mostly wet. And all the flowery plants are in full bloom. There are some small gardens of flower plants here and there. Now, hundreds of white flowers are glowing in the sun in a small garden. Right in the centre there’s a much bigger yellow flower, held high by a taller plant, relishing in the sun like a beauty queen.
A couple of men are trying to fix a small machine, perhaps a pump to flush out the rainwater from the park. There are people drinking tea and smoking and eating, sitting on the cemented base of the boundary grills, all with long lines on their forehead. A boy—perhaps the son of one of the street vendors—is crying. He stops seeing me looking at him. I see fear in his eyes. He resumes his cry once I pass him. A bored flower seller boy is sitting and yawning, leaning on to one of the cemented pillars that follow every 30-40 grills. An old man who was doing yoga earlier is now sitting on his mat, looking at me expressionless. A lone woman is cutting and amassing grass. A sweeper is pushing fallen yellow flowers towards the tree trunk with a big broom. A bearded young man is standing and talking to a couple of girls sitting on a bench. A couple of his friends are watching them from a distance, waiting.
Now, after a round I notice that the kids playing near the see-saw are no longer there. Perhaps they have gone to their parents. Perhaps they have gone to the nearest traffic signal, to beg. I let out a sigh. I feel nothing. I’ve no complaint.
There’s a well-dressed man lying under a tree, on his back, in ironed white pants and a maroon shirt inserted, his head resting on a brown leather bag, his right leg on his erect left knee, polished black shoes glowing. Now a couple of girls are walking parallel to me on the bylane by the park. Are they trying to keep pace with me? No, they have given up. I am walking brisk. It’s sort of a march with my hands rising almost to the level of my shoulders.
The two men have fixed their machine; it’s a grass mower. If this is here, why is that woman cutting grass at the other corner? Perhaps she’s collecting grass for her goats or for the roof of her hut. Or, is it that, as a society, we are adamant that one must work even at the cost of underutilised machines to earn one’s bread? Perhaps.
The crying boy is not crying now. He’s talking excited to another boy, perhaps his elder brother. Two men on a bench are watching me with some interest. Perhaps I am doing better than what they had expected from a heavy body with a grey head to match. The guy with the girls is now without the girls, talking to his friends on the roadside. The girls are on the same bench, waiting, I guess. The bored flower seller remains a bored flower seller, his disinterested look is now following me. The woman cutting grass, the squirrels, the birds, the trees and plants and flowers, too remain the same, busy with their own activities.
The yogi is now lying on his mat. The man resting under the tree is gone perhaps to catch an appointment. Perhaps to get a Dispirin to fight back a headache. A man sleeping on a bench has woken up. Now he’s walking on the walkway with unsteady steps. He looks drunk. So early in the day. He’s in an ash uniform. Perhaps a sweeper, perhaps a driver, perhaps a guard at one of the housing societies. I notice a couple of other men in similar uniform drinking tea, out there by the road. Another man is pissing, standing on the road, facing the park, on its boundary wall. A lot of people do that. I don’t like it. But I’m not agitated. I just avoid looking out of the park. And ignore them. I feel nothing. I’ve no complaint.
The grass mower is doing pretty well. It has cleaned up a fairly large area. The crying boy is now laughing and talking to a couple of men sitting on a mat on the lawns. His brother is still with him. The bored flower seller too is smiling and talking to a young man in a yellow shirt.
I break into a jog. I realize I don’t notice many things when I run. I just look ahead and run. All I see is the pathway. And the hanging branches and leaves of the flanking trees. All I notice is me—my breath, my heartbeat, my burning head.... But today I’ve been observing more than I have in ages and I can’t but notice that the woman cutting grass is still cutting grass and that the yogi is now fast asleep on his mat.
I notice my legs are tired and there’s no freshness in my movement. My breath is becoming heavier.
The crying boy is now playing cricket with his brother. Some newcomers are watching me now, slightly amused, I guess. The sun has by now established itself in full bloom and is eagerly drinking away all the wetness from the surface of the earth. I can feel sweat running down from my head, all the way to my toes. Some more steps and I’ll be done.
I see the bored flower seller is no longer there. The guy in yellow shirt has taken his place. And he’s not bored, yet. My breath is becoming faster, my body is getting heavier. One, two, three…each of my step is now being registered in my chest. Now I have my mouth open. Now I bite my lower lip. The corner from where I started the run is less than 100 metres away. That's my finishing line. I shut my mouth and blink my eyes. Six, seven, eight…it’s hard to move now. Squirrels are still chasing each other from tree to tree, still chirping. Ten, eleven, twelve…I’m almost there. Love birds still show no love. Fifteen, sixteen…I hear the violent braking of a car and then a thud.
I stop. I look around. People on the street are rushing towards the main gate of the colony. I walk onto the road. There’s a white Innova car standing in the middle of the road, people around it. Some people are picking up a toppled cycle rikshaw from a side. Some others are helping a lean, thin, shirtless guy to the pavement. Now he’s sitting there, examining his back, now knees and legs, now elbows. Somebody hands him a glass of water. Now a big man in a grey suit is standing in front of him, shouting, gesturing animatedly, now pointing his hand here, now there. I’m too far to make out what he’s saying. The injured guy slowly raises his head to glance at the big man, then looks down again. People are nodding to the big man. Many of them are now talking and gesturing. Some are explaining what has happened to those who missed the scene. I feel a slight headache.
Now the big man is going towards his big car. There he goes. Has he given any money to the injured guy? Perhaps he has. Perhaps he has not. How badly is this guy injured? What will happen to his rikshaw? I have no clue. Some people are still talking to the guy on the roadside. Most are moving away. I feel tired. I wipe my forehead with my left palm. I stare into my wet hand full of sweat. I look up at the merciless summer sun. I shut my eyes. I turn around and start walking towards my home. I feel nothing. I’ve no complaint.
