It was 6:43 on a Friday evening. The sky had already darkened before we reached our destination. The road leading up to Richard’s Park was dimly lit with a canopy of tree branches from the footpath, preventing any remaining light from entering. On the pavement right outside the park, were a group of friends playing badminton and some were tossing around a football. There was an ice cream cart parked right next to the green painted entrance gates.
The cobblestone pathways went in a square around the entirely of the park and were all connected to the white and blue amphitheatre in the centre. In between the pathways, boxed in by a long running fence lush greenery of various hues and shades. On the left-hand side of the pathways, sat green (which seemed to be a clichéd reoccurring theme) benches which green dustbins on their left. This part of the park was interspersed with lampposts with harsh white lighting, half of which did not seem to be working. This was in direct contrast to the warm yellow lighting from the lampposts surrounding the park. The children’s playground was empty as it was tightly locked.
There was an exercise unit directly adjacent to that which seemed to be the hub of activity. A couple were exercising together silently as two ladies in burkas walked past, talking in Urdu. Three young children, one of them was wearing a bright yellow salwar kameez, were running around laughing and shouting in Kannada. Near the amphitheatre at the centre, were two men playing badminton while conversing in Hindi. My parents walking behind me, were murmuring quietly to each other. The park seems to be a hub of languages.
On the left side of the park, from the entrance gate, sat a bright orange one-storied house which seemed to be where the watchman lived with his family. A slender middle-aged woman in a navy-blue nightie sat on the front steps, brushing her teeth, gazing onto a curiously tall mismatched stone structure in front of her. On the opposite side of the park, one of the pathways was misshapen in front of a bench. It curved upwards and then rapidly went downwards.
The tall trees swayed in the late evening’ almost a stiflingly warm breeze. A few mosquitos were buzzing around the bushes while moths hovered around the lit lampposts. A bright blue shape whizzed directly above me, too quickly to discern. Perhaps a bird judging by the size.
Contributor: Ananya Sampath
About our Writing Program Student
Ananya Sampath is a 11th Grade student studying at Legacy School, Bangalore. She enjoys reading, playing badminton and dancing in her free time. She is passionate about history and enjoys learning about new cultures and mythologies.