My memory of the city I grew up in is rather unfairly occupied with parks. Parks with rows of stone-cut statues, parks on main arterial roads and parks surrounded by houses on all sides, as if they were courtyards to those homes; for their residents, and more often than not, non-residents, to gather in and, literally, find some common ground.
I moved out of Lucknow in 2010, the year I commenced college. At that time, I made short visits, either during vacations in the summer or winter, or, once I started working, during Diwali or Holi. The year(s) I found myself unemployed, the frequency of those visits increased, even if their duration remained the same.

Man, friend
On one such short visit in 2018, I came to know about a guard at a bungalow in one of the colonies in the city. In the neighbourhood of the house Mr. Bachchoo Lal guarded, he was known as the man at whose early-morning call, a scurry of squirrels would come running, gathering either in the park situated in the middle of the colony or around his feet, waiting for him to inform and instruct them of their morning routine. Squirrels are known to be restless and timid creatures. It is hard for them to stay put, especially in the presence of a human being. But I was told that Mr. Lal had the unique ability to station those furry rodents around him: a product and a careful mix of his voice, his gestures and a few crumbs of Parle-G biscuits.
Curious, I arrived at the neighbourhood to witness this strange inter-species intimacy. Dressed in an immaculately white kurta-pyjama with a tilak on his shining-bald forehead, Mr. Bachchoo Lal stepped out of the bungalow. He was a short, middle-aged man of a few words; he didn’t have much to say except the regular ‘namaste’ quickly followed by ‘chaliye’, gesturing towards the fading-red boundary wall of the park in front of the bungalow.

Early visitor
At first, Mr. Lal stationed himself in the middle of the road. He crushed a few biscuits in between his palms and looked in all directions, as if sniffing the morning air for a hint of the direction from where his diminutive friends would arrive. A few minutes had passed before we spotted a bushy tail peeping out from behind the bark of a tree. Gradually, a set of pin-sized eyes emerged, tiny glints of the morning sky reflecting in their deep black sheen. Holding on to the biscuit crumbs rather determinedly, Mr. Lal began mouthing ‘aao, aao!’. At first, no one moved: neither Mr. Lal, nor me nor the squirrel. I wondered if its reluctance stemmed from the presence of a stranger accompanying its familiar morning friend.
A lesson in behaviour
It was then that Mr. Lal asked me to move my eyes towards the park. I spotted, not just one, but multiple bushy tails making their way down tree trunks, three pale yellow lines running down their small backs. Some of them stopped at the boundary wall while some gathered the courage to brave the presence of a stranger on their turf. Gradually, most of them, rather reluctantly, congregated around us waiting for their morning friend to sprinkle their morning snack. No sooner had Mr. Lal dropped those crumbs than chaos ensued. Where there was hardly any living presence moments ago, an army of squirrels had descended upon the scene, each demanding its fair share. Some rationing had to be put in place, and Mr. Lal coupled it with the castigation of a few of his invitees for their unruly behaviour.
Routine vignettes (swipe left for more)
Once the situation was relatively calm, Mr. Lal seated himself on a plastic chair at the boundary wall of the park. I tried questioning him on the whys and hows of this relationship but he didn’t have much to offer. “Yahan hariyali hai…itna bada park hai…varna shehron ke shor mein ye kahan bahar aati hain?”. This morning affair didn’t last long, half an hour at the most. After all, the squirrels had to scurry back to the safety of their own shelters.
~
For the past three months, I’ve been home; although under completely different circumstances. For the first month, no one set their feet outside the house. Everything and everyone was communicated with over boundary walls, avoiding any possibility of human contact. However, with time and recovery, I started stepping out, especially to take my dog for her daily and much required walks. At first, we roamed the perimeter of the park outside our house but gradually, started making our way in. It was marked by an absence of any living species. Swings, slides and see-saws found themselves rusted and broken, multiple coats of paint lathered on them over the years peeling off at places.

In memoriam
Mr. Bachchoo Lal had left the company of his squirrels and humans in 2019. I came upon this information as abruptly as any such information has arrived this year. I have not been able to ascertain the cause or place of his departure and the few times I have enquired, it’s been answered with “arrey wahi: budhapa!”. I wonder if his squirrels also accept this explanation, or do they still wait for a balding man dressed in a crisp white kurta-pyjama to come to the edge of the park and commence their morning with a familiar routine?
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