During childhood, we would go to the park to play with friends. I remember we used to be a group of 8–9 friends, and our favorite game was hide-and-seek. After playing, we would enjoy ice cream—orange-flavored, 5-rupee stick ice cream—our little park meal.
Once, my school, Happy Hours Public School, took us to park for the Republic Day celebration. It was a fancy-dress competition, and since I wasn’t dressed as any particular character, I became a "foreigner" by default. My teacher chose me because of my fair skin. Haha! My brother became Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose, the great freedom fighter of India. Well, those were childhood memories—the age of the park.
Soon, we migrated to another place, not far away, just a different colony. The park became a distant dream as I got indulged in a different world. Now, in my mid-twenties, I have started going back to the park—but this time for a morning run. I wonder how much has changed. They have created separate walking and running tracks, and I love running on the track in the morning.
But soon, things started changing. Going to the park started feeling different. First of all, I was already battling career tensions, future worries—my mind occupied with a thousand unnecessary thoughts. When I came to the park, I felt it was too crowded. People were walking on all sides of me—front, back, left, right, up, down. Soon, I realized that going to the park was not supporting my mental health. My mind wanted open space in the morning. So, I left the park and started doing yoga on my house terrace. I felt relief !
Soon after, spirituality came into my life. Suddenly, I felt an inner calling to sit in nature. The weather, too, favored me—December winters, where one can comfortably sit in sunlight for hours. I found a park near my library, where I used to go for exam preparation. A strong urge pulled me toward the park. Finally, I took a bold step—took my iPad, phone, and drove there.
It was 11 o’clock on a winter morning. The park was silent, with very few people. The sun’s warmth refreshed my mood. I believe artificial light is in complete contrast with the brightness of the sun—it feels like the contrast between heaven and hell. I picked a seat near a Trigis tree and sat there. First, I observed the Trigis, standing silently in front of me.
Something had changed in the park. But more importantly, something had changed within me. I could feel the invisible. I could sense the non-presence. I could hear the wordless. The Trigis comforted me, soothing my mind, which was both utterly restless and tense.
Since I don’t have the habit of sitting idly—which I should have—I felt the need to do something. A voice constantly whispered to me: Read SynchroDestiny by Deepak Chopra. Obeying the voice, I purchased the book online. I started reading the sample pages, and soon, a mysterious feeling took over me. I observed strange sensations in my heart. As I continued reading, my heart started expanding, as if it had been waiting for this moment for long.
The book was highly relatable to both my mind and heart. It logically and scientifically explained ancient Vedic wisdom, which satisfied my mind, while its simple and direct spiritual truths connected deeply with my heart. Both my heart and mind felt fulfilled.
Now, I have started coming to the park daily at the same time. I realize the trees in the park await me. I read more and more books related to spirituality and God—especially Eastern spirituality. The trees, too, seem eager to read with me, as if they also want to know God. They bend slightly toward me, showing their curiosity, their general interest in understanding some deeper truth of life.
One day, a big tree caught my attention. I started thinking—maybe Lord Krishna used to sit under such a tree, playing his flute in the moonlight. I don’t know why this thought struck me. I continued my imagination—when Krishna played his flute, all the women of Vrindavan, including Radha, came to dance to its melodious tune. They danced around Krishna in circles, entering into a flow state.
Maybe the trees had witnessed this divine scene. I wish I could too.
The moon must have shone even brighter to enhance the Raas Leela. I kept imagining—how lucky the moon must have been to witness Radha and Krishna dancing.
Sitting in a park is a far richer experience than sitting in a car. Me, the book, the trees, the grass, the stones, the squirrels, the ants, the monkeys—all give the park a soul. Otherwise, the city becomes a dead place.
Thanks to Nagar Nigam for maintaining such a beautiful park, where one can truly feel the presence of nature. Though other people remain constantly busy in the blunders and messes of their lives, they have no interest—or perhaps, no eyes—to see the beauty, the presence, the life around them.
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