“Loll-Bagh”

He was done with Lalbagh for good. Not that he wanted this to happen, but the doctor had told him to cut down on his exercise, and that meant giving up his daily morning walk in the park. After all, he was now into his eighties, and sometime or the other he was bound to call it a day. And now, he was done with breakfast as well – a couple of idlis with chutney, and then a cup of coffee, and all those medicines to swallow, and then that was done.

He had been making a list of memorable days – memorable for him, of course, not something that his children would be interested in – while he could still remember things. His list had only things that were pleasant – he felt that there was no point in recalling things that had made him sad. Fortunately, for him, he had both the ability to remember and the skill to forget, something that he had cultivated over the years. 

He had not written down this list – it was an entirely private thing held only in his memory. And, it would be only there, if his memory held true, and didn’t break down, which was always a possibility given his age. When he had been a child in shorts, he had longed for the day when he could go around in trousers. And then, as he had grown, he had wanted a whole lot of things, most of which now -at his age-  seemed pretty pointless. He sighed, reflecting on the troubles that ageing brought with it. But, in the meantime, it was pleasant to look back on his completely inconsequential life…

There was the day that he had first entered school, the cricket matches: the thrill of seeing his name on the school’s notice-board for the first match of the season, the day that he had first travelled by himself on a train, the first day at college, the day that he had met his to-be wife for the first time…a whole of days, and so much to remember. Now, he had to add one more day to that list – his last walk in Lalbagh…

His mind was filled with shards of memory, of walks in Lalbagh with his father, with his brothers and his cousins, and others. There was a time when they all lived in a little house on Lalbagh Road. The house was long since gone, but the photos of all the little ones who had once lived there were still around, all digitized now, thanks to his granddaughter who took the trouble to get it done. But his mind wandered…

There was that huge rock-how big it had seemed when he was small, and how scary it had been to scramble up! Then there was the quaint dove-cot, still standing, but bereft of the doves, and of the coo-ing that had once added to the soundscape of Lalbagh.

Just beyond was that caged enclosure for deer – he still remembered how his mother had plucked grass for him to feed the deer, and how grand the antlers looked, and how greedy the deer were! Further down was the road lined with mango trees. And if you didn’t go down, and turned left you would go down to the Glass House. And if  you  felt in need of a rest you could sit down on one of the many benches that had been kept below the trees. And when you are a little chap or an old man, you were always grateful for a bit of a rest. Now, the benches are not there – instead there are huge sculptures made of wood. He had watched them being made, and had wondered why people went to such efforts to create such ludicrous artefacts. 

And by the side of  the steps leading down from the Glass House to the fountain – which sometimes played, and on top of which the little statuette twirled, spraying water – were the red-coloured lions – how he loved scrambling up those statues! No one had made a noise about it, and he could hug the lion for as long as he wanted to, and imagine that he was that brave warrior who had vanquished the lion, in one of the stories that his mother had told him.

Vijaya, his granddaughter, come to the balcony. It was her daily practice to read to him her latest post on her blog. She had just finished graduation and her mind was full of the project that she had worked on in her final year. All about saving the environment and so on. He half-listened to her, made the appropriate noises at strategic moments to keep her going. At last, she finished and went back inside, leaving him to his ruminations. 

He would, he thought, call Gomathi, his secretary and dictate to her, putting down in black-and-white all his thoughts about Lalbagh. This was all very well, but he completely forgot that he was no longer working, that he had no Secretary, and that Gomathi (who indeed had worked for him) had passed away some years ago. 

His thoughts continued to meander around the park – that field where he had learnt to walk- at least, that was what his father had told him – no longer existed. It had instead become a rose-garden, and fenced off, too – you couldn’t smell the roses or walk among the bushes anymore – only the gardeners were privileged to do that now.

Then there was the little Japanese garden – at least one part of it was designed that way, and there was the little bridge, and the stones on which you could hop over from one side of the little small body of water that was there to the other side – great fun  for little children. And he remembered how Jaya (that was his daughter) or was it Vijaya- who had slipped while hopping across and had fallen into the dirty water, ruining her dress. He smiled at the thought and remembered picking her up, and calming her down, whoever it was, Jaya or Vijaya. He remembered the stucco goddess, in fading colours, and the darpana sundari, who looked out into empty space, and the frog, and the crocodile, and the other garden ornaments around.

And the grape juice stall, just near the Glass House, a regular stop for him, and whoever was accompanying him, especially during the summer – how could he forget that? Grape juice had never tasted better.

The Aquarium – how could he forget that? He had never seen one in his life before, and when he read in the papers that the Aquarium in Lalbagh had been revived, he was really excited, and pestered his parents till they agreed to take him there one Sunday. The fish had enchanted him, and so had the quaint building. It is an  old red-brick circular structure with four entrances, one in each direction of the compass, and is situated between the statue garden and the terrace garden. But before the fish, this building  had housed rabbits – he remembered them distinctly – perhaps because of the smell, and the number of the creatures – even more than he did the fish. But now the edifice is crumbling, the rabbits have long since gone away, and so had the tanks that housed the fish, and no one cared any longer about the building, which was now being used as toilets by some people. Sometimes, he felt angry about it, but then he remembered that he could not do anything about it.

He had once been a member of the Horticultural society, and the little building where the meetings had been held, near the statue, had now been torn down. All that would soon remain of that building would be some old photographs. No one would now remember Krumbiegel, or New, or the others who had made  great  efforts to improve the park, he thought. Still, Hombe Gowda – no that’s not right, he was the Chief Justice  –  it was his brother Mari Gowda who had nurtured the park –  had been remembered, and there was that bust of his put up in the tree enclosed space just as you entered the park from Lalbagh Road and headed towards the floral clock and the Maharaja’s statue.

He remembered the tree that Tippu Sultan had planted, or so the board tacked on to it had once  proclaimed.  And nearby were the other trees – all the famous people who had come to Bangalore had planted trees in Lalbagh. There was Nehru’s tree, and nearby was his daughter Indira’s tree, and there was Queen Elizabeth’s tree, and was there one planted by that Russian Bulganin, or was it by Kruschev, nearby? He didn’t really care, and now the boards that had proclaimed the names of these worthies had gone, too, rusted. But he could always say that he had seen these trees, and he had a faint recollection of being picked up by someone and plonked on his shoulders to see one of these people, maybe one of the Russians or Nehru, perhaps. Those were the days when Nehru was in his element, and everyone in India looked to him for  a vision of India’s future. He could say, with pride, that he too had a connection with Nehru, and those other important people who had planted trees in Lalbagh. Too bad that no one ever invited him to plant a tree there, he thought.

And there was the bench where Rabindranath Tagore had sat and composed something or the other, or so he had been told, near where the statue of the king now stands. It was nice to think that he too might sat on that very bench, even if his writing abilities were nowhere near that of the poet. Maybe something of that might rub off on him as he composed his book on Lalbagh, he thought.

And then his thoughts turned to that other poet who had visited Lalbagh – Edward Lear, that maker of whimsical little verses. He had visited Lalbagh in the late 1800’s, and had hoped to meet New,  the Superintendent of the Gardens then. He had come in a dog-cart, as he called it. But in the event, Lear couldn’t meet New, nor could he make an extended visit to the park. Perhaps his stomach had started troubling him – a case of diarrhoea, brought about no doubt by overindulgence in curry. He smiled at the thought – as he imagined Lear rushing away in his dog-cart from the park.

He could indulge in a bit of versifying himself, and put this into the book that he planned to write about Lalbagh, he thought. And so he began playing around with words, in his head: 

In 1874

To Lalbagh,

Came Edward,

or so he sez,

“in a- dog cart!”

To talk about Kew with New.

Alas! the cummerbund 

Came undone ,

And away went Lear,

With a leer,

And a tear !

No one knows now

About Kew and New.

As he looked around for a notebook to write his verse in, his eyes fell upon the Art books that lay strewn around. He was a regular reader, and tried to keep up with the latest literary trends. But, of late, his interest had turned to Art, and nowadays, books about paintings and painters kept him company. He picked up a book – a book of prints of paintings  done by the Daniell  brothers – that he had recently received as a gift and turned its pages idly.

And then, he found himself looking at the painting called “Loll Baug”, a depiction of his favourite park as it had been a couple of  hundred years ago. That’s a nice coincidence, he thought, as he looked more intently at the print, trying to see everything there, once more, with his old eyes screwed up.

“Loll- Baug”  – or perhaps “Lull Bagh” – that would be a great title for his book. A wonderful place to soothe the soul and lull oneself into a deep peace, he thought. 

And then, almost before he knew it, his mouth fell open, and he began to snore gently. The pleasant mid-morning sun had worked its magic, and he was soon fast asleep.