The park

One determined old couple silently walk on the dew – dusted concrete path , interspersed with grass. It is their daily routine . Even the birds know them . The bulbuls don’t fly off at their sight . They have to make way between groups of babblers , babbling away in the early morning pale light . 

Unlike the babblers , and the mynahs hopping , tweeting in the trees , the couple are silent . All this years of living together , they are comfortable in each others’ silent company . There is nothing more to say . They march almost , feet falling in rhythm , as they walk , in the park . 

The park needs some dedicated attention . The artificial lake has dried up , and the water hens have disappeared . So have the ducks . The fountains do not work , and the benches would do with a fresh coat of paint. 

The lawn grass has been freshly mowed and the air is thick with the grassy smell. Cut grass swept into heaps , lies , waiting . The bower top vine has also been trimmed , and it no longer grazes the old man’s head as he passes beneath it . He is a very tall man , still upright despite the years .

Though years of care have drooped the shoulders of the old woman , and she walks with a slight stoop, slightly out of breath , trying to catch up with her athletic husband .