I decided to go for a run today after finishing some work. I wanted to clear my mind for a while, so going for a run was the best thing I could do for myself.
I put on my running shoes and earphones and started running. I should have warmed up a little by running slowly first, but today, the purpose of the run was different. My ankle started cramping, but I just wanted to run quickly. I had not run for months so soon my running progressed into walking and running alternatively. But soon, I reached the place I wanted to.
There is a set of benches beside the road where I often sit down after a good run to relax. I usually don’t want to be bothered, so I take up an empty bench, and as I catch my breath, I start noticing various things.
Most cities today are devoid of public spaces, so these benches where people can sit and relax before going onward is a nice little space. A bustling road runs just a few meters away, and I’ve passed through it in a vehicle hundreds of times, but I never notice these benches. Only when I sit on one of the benches myself does this lovely place reveal itself.
This place is terrific, but I don’t see many people on these benches.
There are various distinct kinds of people, though.
Mainly, there are old people well past their prime. You don’t see them during the dark; they’re only here when the evenings are bright and the night’s darkness has not overtaken the sky. Being young is a blessing, sure, but there is something about seeing old people that makes me wanna just sit on my verandah reading a newspaper and sipping tea without a care about my career, relationships, dreams, and aspirations. The time of my hustle is over, and I am only here to relax.
Old people’s discussions are always the same. They talk mostly about politics, or when alone, with a cane in their hand, they stare aimlessly into nothingness.
There is another set of people I often see here. These are the people who’ve been running all day. A single almost empty bag on their shoulder, the bag probably containing a tiffin box, the contents of which have been long eaten and digested. These men are on a journey; they are toiling in dead-end jobs that don’t pay enough, and on their faces is the look of sadness and tiredness. They are too tired to talk to themselves and approach the benches with blank expressions. They are happy to finally have a place to relax, for home is still a long walk away. They remove their bag from their shoulder and sit on the benches, relaxing them. I don’t think they are overthinkers; they probably don’t have dreams or aspirations. Dreams are for the people who don’t have to worry about earning the next meal or paying the fees of their school-going children. These people stare into nothingness, too, except this time, this nothingness is inside of them. They don’t sit for long; their stomach growls in hunger, and they soon are on their way again.
The other type of person I often see here is not a single entity, although it might feel like so. They’re a couple sitting close together, basking in some moments of togetherness. Decent people generally leave them alone. They’re in love, possibly one of the best feelings in the world. Even before the dawn of the written word, love has been omnipresent.
As I catch my breath, it’s time to head home, but I don’t return empty-handed; I return with a story.