A Walk-Through Park in Bangalore
Written in 2008
I discovered a park in Bangalore in the district of Basaveshwaranagar.
Only a short walk from my guru’s house, it isn’t very far.
Designed to be a walker’s park for those with fitness on their mind.
But used for other purposes as I was soon to find.
Women draped in saris arrive after five, no later than half-past.
Resembling a flock of exotic birds, they gather for laughing class.
Starting right on time in the warm and sunny weather,
As “birds of a feather” they all move and laugh together.
Sometimes before the class begins they sit in groups of three,
Singing songs to Lord Ganesha under the giant shady trees.
Then with “Ha ha ho ho ho’s” everyone feels so glad.
Laughter is the best medicine, so no one ever goes home sad.
On Sundays the boys play a game of cricket – there is no laughing class.
So sometimes, unexpectedly, stray balls come flying past!
Tolerance is practiced here, most people turn and smile.
But veteran walkers take a different route or they’ve learned to duck real fast!
There are exotic plants to see here, only grown indoors in America:
Bird of paradise, philodendron, crimson red begonia.
Back in wintry Michigan, these leafy friends would surely perish.
But here in sunny Bangalore they thrive and bloom and flourish.
There are climbing vines and broadleaf plants, and graceful stately trees,
Like fragrant tall mimosas found in states like Tennessee.
These tall green giants line the paths with overarching branches.
They also serve as resting spots for crows as night approaches.
The park has in its center a tall vortex of light –
A beacon for the crows to see as they make their evening flight.
Turning on at six o’clock for the avian commuters to see,
As they come back home from work to their homes up in the trees.
So hear this now, there’s another side to Basavana Park,
Known to all who come to it as daylight turns to dark.
Scores of crows come flying in erratic sweeping waves,
In cawing quick crescendos they swoop and glide in groups.
Like precision trained performers – a feathered flying troupe.
It’s an electrifying sound, it always stirs my heart,
As they fly above on swooshing wings – they call and caw and dart.
Such intense reports they make of conquests and dominion,
Of daily exploits and adventures, of their battles fought and won.
But perhaps they also ask their friends,
“How was your commute tonight? How far did you have to fly?
Did you find some tasty food? How was the traffic in the sky?”
Finally settling down at last, alighting on the topmost branches,
Securing their staked-out territory, their personal room for the night,
They cease their cawing caucus and rest until its light.
Down below, neighbors and friends continue their evening walk.
Some proceed in silence, while others like to talk.
There are ones who speed around, passing people on the right.
They have so so many calories to burn before sundown turns to night.
But most are not so one-pointed – their gait is moderate to slow.
They just keep following the mud-brick path, with no particular place to go.
Young lovers sit on benches, whispering secrets, promises and plans,
Conversations to be continued when they’re once again home alone,
Carried by unseen satellites as they use their mobile phones.
Also sitting in the park, oblivious to the laughing club, oblivious to the walkers,
Staring at tiny lit-up screens, are the dedicated cell phone talkers.
Checking messages, making calls, or playing games of quiet distraction –
Like Sudoku, Bike Race, Snake and Football – such all-engrossing attractions.
No pranayama needed here, these are cell phone “devotees.”
Like their own life’s blood, they NEED their slender electronic friends.
They will never be abandoned.
Each day performing the recharging “ritual” for their treasured mobile companions.
There are others engrossed in solitary pursuits.
Like territorial creatures, they always sit in the same location,
To study, read or meditate. It’s their daily mini-vacation.
One older man I see each time, always clad in white,
(Except for his grey knit hat that he pulls down snug and tight),
Is absorbed in a private world of quietude, digesting the words of some famous author.
Like an invisible sign his demeanor projects a message to all,
“Don’t disturb me, do not bother.”
Another man recites verses from a text he keeps nearby,
Unperturbed by conversations of walkers passing by.
You see, auditory memory is still valued in India (Bharat),
But by people in Western countries, mostly it is not.
Still others sit quiet and still, cross-legged on their benches,
Decompressing from the daily grind, from jobs and other stresses.
They mentally repeat their mantras, or repeat the sacred Om,
Till dark descends and night returns, and it’s time to go back home.
The park has a few amusements for the kids, the younger ones.
Some basic play equipment provides them with a little fun.
As their parents walk around the park, the kids stay occupied,
Playing on the merry-go-round, the seesaw or the slide.
But there is another piece of play “equipment” ignored by the older bunch,
Six metal circular trash bins with papers left from lunch.
Just take out the wrappers, and with a ball make some free throws.
Then put the papers back before you leave – no one will ever know.
One day I spied three children sitting on a bench,
sipping cans of cola in their carbonated bliss.
I broke my pace, went up to them and said, “Namaskar, Hi, Hello,”
But startled by my foreignness they knew not what to say.
They laughed and giggled, jumped off the bench and quickly ran away.
With my clothes, white skin and silver hair, like some ghostly apparition,
From scary stories they have heard, I must have fit the description.
But I kept returning to the park – they saw me every day,
Finally, three days later they came up to me to say,
“Hello, what is your name, and where did you come from?”
I replied, “I am Frances from America. I live nearby, and I’ve come to stay.”
So three cool kids from Bangalore, and an old teacher from the USA,
Sipped some pop and ate some chips and walked around together.
I thought to myself, “We were born on opposite sides of the world,
But just like the laughing club flock, we too, are “birds of a feather.
Only a short walk from my guru’s house, it isn’t very far.
Designed to be a walker’s park for those with fitness on their mind.
But used for other purposes as I was soon to find.
Women draped in saris arrive after five, no later than half-past.
Resembling a flock of exotic birds, they gather for laughing class.
Starting right on time in the warm and sunny weather,
As “birds of a feather” they all move and laugh together.
Sometimes before the class begins they sit in groups of three,
Singing songs to Lord Ganesha under the giant shady trees.
Then with “Ha ha ho ho ho’s” everyone feels so glad.
Laughter is the best medicine, so no one ever goes home sad.
On Sundays the boys play a game of cricket – there is no laughing class.
So sometimes, unexpectedly, stray balls come flying past!
Tolerance is practiced here, most people turn and smile.
But veteran walkers take a different route or they’ve learned to duck real fast!
There are exotic plants to see here, only grown indoors in America:
Bird of paradise, philodendron, crimson red begonia.
Back in wintry Michigan, these leafy friends would surely perish.
But here in sunny Bangalore they thrive and bloom and flourish.
There are climbing vines and broadleaf plants, and graceful stately trees,
Like fragrant tall mimosas found in states like Tennessee.
These tall green giants line the paths with overarching branches.
They also serve as resting spots for crows as night approaches.
The park has in its center a tall vortex of light –
A beacon for the crows to see as they make their evening flight.
Turning on at six o’clock for the avian commuters to see,
As they come back home from work to their homes up in the trees.
So hear this now, there’s another side to Basavana Park,
Known to all who come to it as daylight turns to dark.
Scores of crows come flying in erratic sweeping waves,
In cawing quick crescendos they swoop and glide in groups.
Like precision trained performers – a feathered flying troupe.
It’s an electrifying sound, it always stirs my heart,
As they fly above on swooshing wings – they call and caw and dart.
Such intense reports they make of conquests and dominion,
Of daily exploits and adventures, of their battles fought and won.
But perhaps they also ask their friends,
“How was your commute tonight? How far did you have to fly?
Did you find some tasty food? How was the traffic in the sky?”
Finally settling down at last, alighting on the topmost branches,
Securing their staked-out territory, their personal room for the night,
They cease their cawing caucus and rest until its light.
Down below, neighbors and friends continue their evening walk.
Some proceed in silence, while others like to talk.
There are ones who speed around, passing people on the right.
They have so so many calories to burn before sundown turns to night.
But most are not so one-pointed – their gait is moderate to slow.
They just keep following the mud-brick path, with no particular place to go.
Young lovers sit on benches, whispering secrets, promises and plans,
Conversations to be continued when they’re once again home alone,
Carried by unseen satellites as they use their mobile phones.
Also sitting in the park, oblivious to the laughing club, oblivious to the walkers,
Staring at tiny lit-up screens, are the dedicated cell phone talkers.
Checking messages, making calls, or playing games of quiet distraction –
Like Sudoku, Bike Race, Snake and Football – such all-engrossing attractions.
No pranayama needed here, these are cell phone “devotees.”
Like their own life’s blood, they NEED their slender electronic friends.
They will never be abandoned.
Each day performing the recharging “ritual” for their treasured mobile companions.
There are others engrossed in solitary pursuits.
Like territorial creatures, they always sit in the same location,
To study, read or meditate. It’s their daily mini-vacation.
One older man I see each time, always clad in white,
(Except for his grey knit hat that he pulls down snug and tight),
Is absorbed in a private world of quietude, digesting the words of some famous author.
Like an invisible sign his demeanor projects a message to all,
“Don’t disturb me, do not bother.”
Another man recites verses from a text he keeps nearby,
Unperturbed by conversations of walkers passing by.
You see, auditory memory is still valued in India (Bharat),
But by people in Western countries, mostly it is not.
Still others sit quiet and still, cross-legged on their benches,
Decompressing from the daily grind, from jobs and other stresses.
They mentally repeat their mantras, or repeat the sacred Om,
Till dark descends and night returns, and it’s time to go back home.
The park has a few amusements for the kids, the younger ones.
Some basic play equipment provides them with a little fun.
As their parents walk around the park, the kids stay occupied,
Playing on the merry-go-round, the seesaw or the slide.
But there is another piece of play “equipment” ignored by the older bunch,
Six metal circular trash bins with papers left from lunch.
Just take out the wrappers, and with a ball make some free throws.
Then put the papers back before you leave – no one will ever know.
One day I spied three children sitting on a bench,
sipping cans of cola in their carbonated bliss.
I broke my pace, went up to them and said, “Namaskar, Hi, Hello,”
But startled by my foreignness they knew not what to say.
They laughed and giggled, jumped off the bench and quickly ran away.
With my clothes, white skin and silver hair, like some ghostly apparition,
From scary stories they have heard, I must have fit the description.
But I kept returning to the park – they saw me every day,
Finally, three days later they came up to me to say,
“Hello, what is your name, and where did you come from?”
I replied, “I am Frances from America. I live nearby, and I’ve come to stay.”
So three cool kids from Bangalore, and an old teacher from the USA,
Sipped some pop and ate some chips and walked around together.
I thought to myself, “We were born on opposite sides of the world,
But just like the laughing club flock, we too, are “birds of a feather.