A dishevelled man lies on the grass staring into the distance, a ragged cigarette smouldering lazily in one hand. It's midday and hot as hell, sunlight warming patches of drying grass as it passes through thirsty tree branches. People hunt for spaces and sit on benches, some with partners, some alone, unwrapping sandwiches from paper bags and blowing on steaming cups of coffee. Shyamla and I are eating lunch; plastic bowls heaped with prawns and noodles and a healthy amount of chilli.
Most everybody is dressed for work, men in suits (what else?) and women in skirts, some prim, some tarty. Couples engage in intense discussions; these ones are in love, this pair are breaking up, they say nothing at all. A middle-aged man snores quietly, slumped over so his chin almost hits his chest, spectacles perched on a scalp well past it's used-by date. A young girls giggles into a mobile phone, so animated and bubbly, thoughts of work as distant as the person she chats to.
Shyamla and I talk, small talk, big talk, jokes and observations. It's nice.
Time passes. People pack up their lunches, some leaving the containers and bags behind, some stuffing them hastily into trashcans overflowing with waste. Sleeping beauty snorts and looks around with glazed eyes, scratching his skull while his operating system reboots - back to work.
The park is nearly empty now, just people walking here and there, somewhere to go, back to screens and meetings, booths and cubicles.
As we say goodbye and retreat to our lives, we pass the dishevelled man, smoking another ragged cigarette, lying on the grass, soaking up the remains of the day.
