The other day, I met marigold boy and had a very enjoyable time away from work and other unrelated stuff. Laughs were laughed over double barreled french fries, 'very light luggage', some train clothes and other such extremely unlaughable topics like what people look like when they don't know how to operate their very snazzy cameras and whether standing opposite a shop in C.P means standing in front of or diametrically opposite it. I managed to categorize 'Delhi girls' in a highly unflattering manner, laugh about this highly unwatchable and definately avoidable movie called Race and listen to stories of couples, albeit eavsdropped.
Today was one of those frighteningly productive days. I worked and I worked. Then I was rewarded by a, I quote, "bland conversation" full of politeness of the diabetic variety. And then I decided to wrap up the evening with a walk in the park. Only, I was too tired and went and plopped myself on the first bench in sight. Anyway, going to the park has to definitely be one of the brighter things I have done this year (apart from buying Lucy Peck and not keeping resolutions of course).
The park was atwitter with birds. Sparrows and bulbuls, doves and pigeons. A mynah and a crow. A windblown nest, a twitching squirrel. April was clothed in her garments of green, mighty peepals in tender greens, the neem covered in numerous little serrated edged leaves, the semal tree recovering from losing its treasure of sanguine flowers, shyly blushing its way into a burst of new leaves. But the mulberry tree was my treat. I greedily picked up dusty fruit from the ground, brushing off the debris and unamused stares from peeping toms, relishing the syrupy sweetness of the tender caterpillar-like fruit. M and I jumped in a gravity-defying manner, willing the tree to stoop for us to pluck some more. I scowled at my physical disadvantage at this sport. Mulberry trees certainly weren't made keeping short people in mind. And that too those who were particularly passionate about the fruit. Gaah.
The breeze was blowing in a breath-taking lilt. If you spread your arms wide enough, it actually tickled your armpits. The fragrance of unidentified flowers merged with the laughter of two conspiring kids that were hiding in the hedges as they plotted the intracacies of a very serious game of chhuppan chhupaai. A bunch of old punjabi ladies sat down and hooshed us away good-naturedly. Two school boys made us feel rather old as we carried our grocery for the day. Two liters of milk. One loaf of very tasty garlic bread.
Just when you are exhausted of your mundane existence, days like these skip along reminding you its all worthwhile. Can you help but smile?