Midnight Gospel: From The Mind of Cubbon Park

By Chetana Agnihotri

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Good evening, welcome to the beginning of my day. I’m Cubbon’s child, it’s nice to meet you. 

The beginning of my day, unlike what you might think, is the night. It is when I truly belong to myself rather than the cradle for the people of Bengaluru. Let us not get into what my ‘purpose’ is, I’ve been around for over a century, and I think I have reached a point where I don’t ponder over it anymore, though everyone around me loves to think about it. I am the ‘lungs’ of the city, a place to hide, to talk about the world, to stay silent, to scream, play, laugh, even be intimate if the humans in brown clothes do not catch you. And it is fun to hear them talk about it; it does not get old. I sleep during the day, because it is tedious to be awake amongst so many people who come to me, craving for their peace of mind and relief from their worldly stress. Their conversations during the daytime are fuel for my dreams, which I like to think back on when I awake in the night. But during the day, I am the servant of the city.

At dawn, I belong to the walkers. They arrive quietly, in pairs or alone, carrying worries folded neatly into their pockets. Some talk to me as they walk; most don’t realise they are listening when I answer with rustling leaves and filtered light through tree branches. Runners tread my paths, every heavy footfall burying many pasts in my cobbled stones. Yoga mats bloom briefly on my grass, bodies bending in gratitude or discipline. I hold them all, patient and cool, letting their breath sync with mine, as I sleep on.

By mid-morning, the city begins to seep in. Office-goers cut through me as a shortcut, believing they are passing through, not knowing they are being held together for a moment longer. Schoolchildren spill laughter onto my paths, their uniforms bright against my older shades of green. Cameras appear with curiosity and leisure. I have been photographed endlessly, but I never get tired of being seen. I have never seen the pictures, but the satisfied sigh or the click of the shutter is enough for me. Noon is the lull in my sleep, my midnight. While the city grapples with life under the sun, my shade becomes solace for those who visit to escape their day. Couples sit tenderly apart, friends sprawl freely, lone readers lose time entirely. I watch people unlearn urgency and rework their priorities here. I watch them sit with themselves. Some call this idleness, but I call it repair.

Evening brings the crowds back, louder now, fuller. Children chase pigeons who pretend to be surprised every time (it’s true, they have been doing it as a gimmick; they do not care). Cyclists trace familiar loops, though not as many as there used to be. Old friends reunite over shared memories that predate smartphones and traffic apps. I hold nostalgia gently, and gladly, it is heavy, but I have strong roots, get it?

As dusk settles, I listen to the city again—tired now, but still restless. Lights flicker on beyond my boundaries. I let go slowly. My gates begin to close, but I do not sleep. I keep the day stored in my soil: footsteps, laughter, solitude, protest, romance, routine. And I wake from my sleep, talking to the squirrels and the pigeons and the ant clans, about the things they saw and did during the day. They tell me about the ones who shed tears on my grass. I always say a small prayer for them, hoping to ease whatever pain they are sheltering. 

I have watched generations grow taller, slower, faster. I have survived urban development plans that forgot my legacy, and citizen movements that remembered me fiercely. Every day, I do the quiet work of staying green in a city that keeps forgetting why it needs me. Tomorrow night, I will wake up again, heave a big sigh, and reminisce on behalf of a city that only looks at the future.