The walking sticks

       The setting sun has spread an unusual hue today. The park in the neighborhood is about to host some new guests. Its dusk. Its time. Some grumpy and old yet loving and caring Walking sticks- the regular visitors to the park, have got into a lot of talking with some Extra Small T shirts and some adorable Ponytails. The compulsory walk round the jogging track has been cancelled today. Counting the number of people in the park, walking alone, every evening, has anyways, never been considered an interesting past time. 

         Time- what a wonder it is! It is usually observed that the clocks, all over the world, have this mischievous habit of rushing its needles forward, when it’s not being watched upon. And just the moment before the world doesn’t really seem to be that gloomy a place to live, amidst the carefree giggles, and the much needed smiles on the benches of the park, the damned alarm reminds every one of its presence. It is 8.30- The Dinner Time. The T-shirts and the Pony tails have to go back. 

            The Sticks would have stayed, but skipping dinner doesn’t seem to be a good idea to the painful joints. Also, the rusty Iron gates of their residential building are quite apathetic. - They are answerable to the Fountain pen that hangs around the Desk in the veranda. This dull Fountain pen is too powerful, they say. It records everything, and reminds often. Walking sticks are afraid of it. 

            The Dinner is more of a liquid diet, accompanied by a handful of capsules- one of the formalities to be completed before the lamps go off. Thus, the food gets gulped down in a jiffy. 

        The bedtime coincides with another exercise- a brisk walk down the memory lane. Unfortunately, nostalgia has often been a precursor to insomnia. It’s not that bad though; as the moon journeys through the night sky gradually, heavy doses of sleep- inducing medications provide the much needed help. The battle isn't over yet. The struggles resume the next morning. 

   

           A new day calls for a new batch of hopes, right? The Walking sticks are already busy gazing out of their windows. May be some School bus stops by and saves the day. Or some NGO decides to decorate its portfolio with some fresh photographs, yet again. Those Foreign Helping Hands must have been demanding evidences of something charitable, before they help, you see.

Hope is a good thing. May be today, a familiar face comes by to check if its Biological parent is having a memorable time with its fellow Hostages of time, wondering what, when, how and why did it go wrong then. A visit from an Offspring, whatsoever may be the reason, is still worth the wait here. After all, those occasionally guilty faces, indeed are the stakeholders of this strange edifice. It’s their moral responsibility to ensure the Hearing aids, Mufflers, Walking sticks and Spectacles live a peaceful life while they fight this nonviolent battle everyday till the end.

        They all exist happily here, in this concrete structure that some people prefer to call their Second Innings House. It’s such a beautiful world out there.  Do visit.