No Artificial Colours

I sat on the bench after my morning walk was over , eyes rivetted on a couple of sparrows passionately kissing on the branch of a tree fronting my bench , as a couple of youngsters jogged on , talking to each other in fake American accents
 Bhajans based on popular hindi songs wafted across to me from a group of very old ladies sitting  under a gulmohar tree behind me ,  singing their hearts  out , their words being occassionally cut off by the vacuous guffaws bursting forth  from the laughter club members to my left, throwing their arms upwards and rocking the park with their artificiality.
Some mouthed  artificial songs to invoke the gods , some resorted to artificial mirth for good health- everyone was entitled to one's share of artificialty . I thought.
It was 5.30 am and the sparrows were shaking the  neem tree with beakfuls of mirth - there was no artificiality  about their good cheer.
No artificiality about the ten year girl  lovingly prattling to her two year old brother about the birds and the butterflies , who lisped on, clutching on to her sister's hand .
On an impulse , I walked up to them , and scooped the tiny bundle in my arms and kissed him on the cheeks. His chubby face lit up with so bright a smile that it submerged all the artificiality within its expansive girth  . He hugged me with two tiny arms , and planted two tiny kisses on my cheeks . Yes, there was absolutely no artificiality about those tiny kisses  .They were as natural and spontaneous as the kisses of the sparrows   perched on the tree , indulging in an orgy of love.
When his sister tried to take him back, he clung to me and refused ot get down . The girl looked at me apologetically , but there was no way the child was going to go back to his sister .But then his eyes were caught by  a tiny monkey , who was probably looking for his mother, and he quickly slithered down  and stumbled after the monkey .
 I felt cheated at being dumped for a monkey !  But , was atonce carried away by the antics of the two babies . They made such a wonderful pair , indulging in baby talk.
There was no artificiality there too. No fake accents , no fake love .
"There is a dustbin there." I suddenly heard this voice , and looked in the direction of the voice . it was a young father telling his three year old son to throw a paper plate into the dustbin , which stood at the centre of a heap of litter . He did as asked but then when the father asked him to come with him , he outrightly refused, too busy  throwing everything around in the dustbin ! As he bent down to pick up a woman's slipper, who was walking bare -feet on the dew -drenched grass, he was playfully whacked on his small butt . This made him give vent to a huge  roar in lusty protest . He  started to  beat his father on the head with his three year old fists  , struggling to get down to carry on with the delittering process, but , as I  watched on helplessly, he was carried away, his spontaneity throttled , his childish antics sacrificed at the altar of expected artificial  behaviour .
An old couple plodded along, the husband stopping after every few steps to look back to cheer on  his wife , who was walking slowly on arthritic legs . He walked back , held her hand , both smiled at each other , and  now walked together  , carefully avoiding the pebbles and other lurking dangers on the way , their spontaneous smiles buoying them on .
I looked towards the east  where another day was breaking in bright splashes  . The radiant sun was magnaimously throwing off its shining mantles - brilliant scarlet, saffron gold, pink and orange .The colour of pure bliss .
There were no artificial  colours here .