Tags:
Journalism of Courage
It is Saturday evening at Lake Sukhna, the pride of Chandigarh. The Sunday madness that comes rushing through a mass of human beings was missing. Sunday8217;s at Sukhna are best avoided. Saturday is the day.
Placid evening. Placid lake. Placid sky. A handful of joggers. Some mummies with babies in prams. And a woman who was my teacher in college. Then, with looks that forced a second, even third, glance. Now greying, but still in body-hugging slacks. A sprinkling of well over-the-hill souls with wrinkled faces and twinkling eyes. The lake was perfect that day.
Back to the lake. We walked on from the reservoir end to the area where the cafeteria, run by the Chandigarh Industrial and Tourism Development Corporation, is. Good for catching a bite only if you are desperate. We weren8217;t, thankfully. So we stopped well short of it.
The aroma of fries and coffee was appetising, no doubt. But we knew better than those unsuspecting souls jostling with one another to get to the counter first. We didn8217;t stay on to see their expression change when plates of oil-oozing hot dogs with desi ketchup splashed on them would be pushed their way.
Khushi, meanwhile, was being really good. Happy in my arms, smiling at people around, especially the old folks, and in turn, drawing a wider smile, a small fraction of which would come our way too. Some would even stop to shake her hand. Quite used to the attention, with two sets of grandparents pledged to spoiling her silly, she would extend hers rightaway and beam.
Yes, it was a pleasant evening. Suddenly, the calm of the evening was broken by a full-throated laugh. Not an unpleasant one, but certainly loud enough to make the evening walkers turn around and stare in surprise. We too looked back. The sound had floated in from a distance, from a man supporting a close crop.
At first, I could only make out the top of his head and that he was wearing a grey-blue track suit. He was bending over a pram, talking baby talk. I could make out the child responding. It8217;s mother, however, seemed desperate to get away with her baby. She finally succeeded.
The jogger, that was him, sprinted on. Now, heading our way. As he passed us, he waved. Li8217;l Khushi waved back. 8216;8216;He8217;s mad,8217;8217; I heard someone say. Our jogger heard it too. He looked back, smiled, waved at the person and then sprinted away. Well past the reservoir, his steps blurring as the distance grew. I stood on, looking8230; wishing I could borrow some of his madness.
