“These doctors just keeping fleecing patients!” This was said by two middle-aged men walking briskly past me, animatedly talking to each during their evening walk. I was there for a stroll with my kids in the perfectly manicured verdant garden across my home. The warmth of the setting sun made way for a gentle cool breeze that whispered to looming trees lining the walking path.

“…and then there was one complication after another, and he charged them for every visit!” I overheard as they whisked past me in their next round, while I was bending down collecting snails with my children. I tried to analyse in my head what this case could have possibly been about but realized it was pointless; I had no context, no background, and even if I did, it would still be unfair to pass judgment.

“I’m able to get you an authentic Black Label at 50% discount if you order in bulk,” said another walker to his counterpart, where the conversation in each round contained passionate mentions of one banned substance after another. An elderly Jain couple sat on the brass benches that adorned the walk way, listening to soft bhajans. Who are we to decide what gives joy and happiness to others, I thought, as so many familiar faces entered and exited from the park.

“How do people recognize you with your mask on?” one of my girls innocently asked me, as acquaintances made courtesy waves and head nods to me in each round. “His ears are big enough for him to be recognized from anywhere!” said a charming aunty behind us, eavesdropping on the question as she walked hard, no doubt to maintain her yesteryear figure as she’d done over decades of walking.

“I don’t know why they won’t allow navjotes of children where a Parsi girl has an interfaith marriage!” said one of three ladies who had settled onto another bench, eating grapes from a box after their evening jaunt. I slowed down a bit to catch the reply but without appearing to listen in. “Everyone has their own agenda. What is right and wrong is simply a matter of perspective,” reasoned the one in the middle. I guess each one is entitled to their opinion.

On the next bench was a middle-aged couple turned sideways to face each other; the man gently running his fingers over her hand, professing his love for her in a language that I couldn’t understand. But then, as the cliché goes, love has no language. She dropped her gaze and whispered something after making sure I was at a distance; after all, all I was doing while on my walk was collecting fodder for my next article.

“Awakening cannot satisfy you; it frees you from the need to be satisfied,” came a slightly deep voice from behind me. I tried not to turn my head to such profoundness, thereby allowing the speaker, one of two young girls – iPhone strapped onto an arm, hair tied in a bun, running shorts, and a spring in their stride – to energetically zip past me. I wondered if my daughters would resemble these women two decades later; in the present moment, they were busy navigating cobblestones on one leg, tugging at my T-shirt if they felt like they would topple. The generation after us is so much more evolved than what we were at that age; for me, awakening simply meant getting out of bed and making it to school in time.

There is a jovial Sardarji with a huge paunch who walks at breakneck speed every evening in the garden. At 68, he’s trying to learn English, and every time he sees me, he shares a phrase he’s learnt recently, breaking his walk and allowing for his drenched vest to cool off a little. Today, it was “Childhood is real bachpan,” imparting that wisdom as he watched my girls getting wet at the edge of a sprinkler nourishing the grass and then creating art in the wet mud. I agreed completely, not knowing exactly what it meant but admiring his determination to learn. He could have been paraphrasing a famous Picasso quote: “Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up.

“I’m rich but I’m always alone,” lamented an elderly lady in her sixties as she spoke to someone on the cell phone while sauntering through her walk, her only companion her oblique shadow walking tangentially beside her, and that too only when she crossed one of the floodlights that brightened up the park after dark. The weight on her legs seemed infinitely larger than what her physical body was carrying. I wondered what must be transpiring in her life but concluded that wealthy people have just as many problems as the poor do; there is only so much money can do.

As the moon came up, the watchman blew his whistle signalling that it was time for the gates to close. On that pleasant November evening, I realized how enriching eavesdropping could be. I ended up wanting to change the negative opinions people have about doctors and hospitals in our country, I hoped that the guys smoking and drinking would derive their pleasure from fitter sources, I wished the Parsis would find more amicable solutions on the issues that plagued the community, wanted to shout out that no one was ever lonely, even if they were alone.

“Your girls are going to become surgeons like you,” said one of the aunties on our way out, probably once again having listened in on some interesting fact about the brain that I was trying to impart to my daughters.

“What would you like to be when you grow up?” I asked my kids as we made our way home. “I definitely don’t want to become a doctor,” the younger one said. Surprised, I asked why. “I can’t answer so many phone calls, it’s just too exhausting!” she said, lugging her entire body on my arm from the weight of that sentence . “What would you like us to be?” the elder one retorted, tired of reiterating that she wanted to be a dancing chef.

“You need to choose what makes you happy, and this decision might not be the easiest, but it’s definitely the right one,” I told my girls, quoting a line from one of their own story books that I read to them each night.