The dark clouds in the sky heralded the coming monsoon. Mumbai's maddening rains. But ah! The first whiff of the rains, bring a song to most hearts, the winds whipping you around, the heady perfume of a parched earth celebrating the oncoming rains, wafting in the air.
The perfect day to go for a picnic I thought, before the onslaught of perpetual rains, and the resulting crazy traffic snarls. Gathering a few eatables and my highly excited four year old daughter, we set off to the verdant zoo. It wasn't as much of a zoo as a botanical garden. How we loved strolling through the winding paths, lined by tall trees, until we reached a small knoll. There we spread the blanket and sat. Locked in our own small world we revelled in our surroundings, the trilling of the birds on the trees and each other. There was no one around to hear the poems and songs we sung loudly together. Too soon it was time for us to leave. My daughter helped gather up our belongings, the small sheet we sat on, the picnic basket, with a few left over biscuits and sandwiches.
Getting out of the gates, I carried my little one as she slept, juggling her weight with everything. Hailing a cab, I got into it . Halfway home, we stopped at a traffic signal. My daughters eyes opened as the driver braked. "Look mummy," she said excitedly. "That boy is having a picnic too." Surprised I looked to see where she was pointing.
There besides the curb, sat a little boy about her age. Sitting on a small piece of cloth, he tugged his meagre belongings towards him, trying to protect them from the crowds rushing by to cross. Beside him was a cradle into which he peered ocassionally, rocking it gently. "Quick mamma," shouted my child. "Give him the basket. " So saying she leaned out, and gave him the biscuits and sandwiches. "Happy picnic," she wished him, as the traffic lights changed, and the taxi moved on.
I hugged her close to me and sat. How could I explain to her that life is never a picnic for these little discards of an inhuman society.
The perfect day to go for a picnic I thought, before the onslaught of perpetual rains, and the resulting crazy traffic snarls. Gathering a few eatables and my highly excited four year old daughter, we set off to the verdant zoo. It wasn't as much of a zoo as a botanical garden. How we loved strolling through the winding paths, lined by tall trees, until we reached a small knoll. There we spread the blanket and sat. Locked in our own small world we revelled in our surroundings, the trilling of the birds on the trees and each other. There was no one around to hear the poems and songs we sung loudly together. Too soon it was time for us to leave. My daughter helped gather up our belongings, the small sheet we sat on, the picnic basket, with a few left over biscuits and sandwiches.
Getting out of the gates, I carried my little one as she slept, juggling her weight with everything. Hailing a cab, I got into it . Halfway home, we stopped at a traffic signal. My daughters eyes opened as the driver braked. "Look mummy," she said excitedly. "That boy is having a picnic too." Surprised I looked to see where she was pointing.
There besides the curb, sat a little boy about her age. Sitting on a small piece of cloth, he tugged his meagre belongings towards him, trying to protect them from the crowds rushing by to cross. Beside him was a cradle into which he peered ocassionally, rocking it gently. "Quick mamma," shouted my child. "Give him the basket. " So saying she leaned out, and gave him the biscuits and sandwiches. "Happy picnic," she wished him, as the traffic lights changed, and the taxi moved on.
I hugged her close to me and sat. How could I explain to her that life is never a picnic for these little discards of an inhuman society.
what a lovely touching gesture but..
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