But I Shall Tell

Chapter 16 - The Park.

2005

"Smile" was written on a wall near a park fence. Following it, on the other wall "And you get a smile in return." Like most of the parks, Queens Park too gets its share amount of visitors. Ranging from the youngest, kids with elders to the oldest, people in their eighties. The air is fresh and the sprinkler just adds to its freshness. Cons: tiny tiny rats can be seen sometimes running freely from one shrub to another. The tallest of the trees are just outside the park, which is ironic. The lamps give out sufficient glow, which is not straining to the eyes. Slippers, sandals, shoes, all look different. Some walk, while some run, and most like jogging.

Who's fond of having an ex-loony as their neighbor? "Good Evening, there," came a voice.

"Hello! Mr. Gandhi," Maan said.

Three weeks ago, a van parked in front of a house whose gate was opened. Few people in a uniform carried many sealed boxes from the van through the gate and into the house. The previous owner was a retired business man, who had to sell the house in order to pay bills for his wife, who was suffering from cancer. They now live happily with their son, in a different region.

The sky was free of clouds and morning birds had gathered with a lot of chirping. After around 40 - 50 minutes, the van moved from the spot leaving its track marks on fallen dried mango leafs.

In a school uniform, and hair neatly combed, Maan stepped outside from the entrance. Closing the door behind him, he walked down the stairs. It was the last day of high school before the summer breaks, but no excitement was seen on his face. "Hello here! Neighbor," came a voice from across the fence at the right.

He stopped and looked at the man in his white t-shirt, blue jeans and brown leather shoes. A middle ages man, he thought. The man waived his hand with a smile. "Hello!" Maan said.

"I'm Christopher Gandhi," the man said. "What's your name?"

A mixed name, half English half Indian. It wasn't a surprise at all, seeing many local Christians naming their child with English as a first name and keeping their Indian Sir. name. "Mansingh Patel," Maan said. He wasn't in a mood for a conversation. "Sorry, I have to go, getting late for my school."

Mr. Gandhi kept his smile all this while, like it was taped to his face with a very strong chemical. "Sure, see you around."

Maan turned to his left side and marched forward to the gate and towards the school.

"You come here often, don't you?" Mr. Gandi said, nearing him, but still jogging. He was a fit man and worked out an hour every day. He was wearing a short which ended just above his knees. A blue t-shirt which had "no one knows" on it in block black color.

"I guess," he was in his favorite shoes, I mean the color, white. A couple wedging them passed to the other side.

"No one knows here how to ask a decent excuse," he sighed. He was staring at the couple(the girl) from top to bottom from behind. "They are going to get a proper answer some day," Mr. Gandhi said, turning his gaze to the boy standing across from him. "Did you hear the news?" He now had stopped jogging and was standing, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve on his t-shirt.

Any news from Mr. Gandhi was meant to make your mind hurt or thing deeply. "Which one?" Maan said, will less interest.

"A maid who found her owner's daughter, who was a school girl, in the owner's refrigerator." There was excitement on his face. An old man sitting on a bench near them looked at Mr. Gandhi suspiciously. "Apparently, the killer took his time in chopping the girl into little pieces, just leaving the head in one piece," Mr. Gandhi said.

"Maids look everywhere," a small rat just jumped on his shoe and disappeared. "Don't they?" Maan said, looking at the trail the rat took.

"I hear, the girl's parents were out on a trip and found out after 2 days when the maid next visited the place." Mr. Gandhi said. "By the way, what are you doing after this walk?"

Answering anything in particular was like asking for an invitation from him. Fortunately, Mr. Gandhi's phone rang.

"Sorry," plugging in a thing wire - a head phone, he started jogging. "Got to go, kid," Mr. Gandhi said, and went through the gate and out.

A small kid war running aimlessly on the grass in the middle of the park. Chasing him was his mother. She was calling his name out loud, to look out for the spiky branches but there was no stopping him. Who can stop a happy kid from having fun?

It was time for the sprinklers to do their work, spray some water drops on people resting on the grass. "Oh! Shit," some one grinned. "Watch the water," said another.

"You should be away from that man."

The voice came from the bench. The old man was sitting with his legs folded, slippers on the ground. His hair was fully white, as white can get. So was his beard and his eyebrows.

"He isn't good with his head, I hear he was in a mental asylum for over a decade. Released a month ago, but I doubt he's going to stay here for a longer time." The old man said.

"I know," keeping his hands in his pant's pockets, "I've heard that before," Maan said.

"You saw the way his eyes glimmered, when he spoke of the poor girl." His voice had ages of pain stored in it. He was still sitting on the bench.

"Maybe he is trying hard to change, you know," Maan said, with a faint smile. "Everyone deserves a chance."

"Maybe, son, but if I were you, I would keep my distance from him." The old man said.

"Sure." He removed his one hand from his pocket, and waved at the old man.