Silence at Allen Park

 Silence. Inaction. Are those mere absence? Or, a more profound intimacy within? I am sitting now at Allen Park, watching squirrels. At the heart of Park Street, once upon a time at its beginning, this park is never calm. The honking of the cars, the abrupt growl of a Royal Enfield bike and incessant chatters of moms waiting here to pick up their kids after school instill delicate sun rays inside. But how about me? How about the teenager sitting on my left, waiting for his girlfriend? How about the septuagenarian, sitting to my right, reading The Telegraph? Are we part of the noise surrounding us? Technically, yes. But are we affected or altered easily by the things around us? The squirrels look quite active, though. But us? Are we any part of what drives the squirrels, the passers-by, the girl bargaining at the bookstall at footpath or the dog yelling at another dog somewhere around?

Somehow, it is not so. Our silence, our inaction, or our musings on such a wintry January morning at Allen’s Park go deep inside some brainy noises, toilsome tolerance with the external sounds and indomitable battle with the world outside, which valorizes physical actions. During the appraisal, your boss will look for quantifiable parameters to measure human effort. Your favourite social worker will soon bring the subalterns and aboriginals to the mainstream. Your favourite movie maker will desperately try now to popularise in the social media his unfortunate brainchild.

But here, somewhere at Allen Park, you would keep coming back every year, struggling with your sanity and creating your own version of silence. Your inaction will shine through the future squirrels at Allen Park.

17 January, 2023