停下來，慢慢走

IN winter， I often walk in a nearby park during lunchtime. The park is quiet， as few have the time to enjoy the winter sun on a weekday. The two people that often break my 1）solitude are a middle-aged father with his little daughter. She’s in her school uniform， pigtailed hair with red ribbons tied neatly around the ends. The father looks like he has all the time in the world—he refuses to hurry along the jogging path； instead he matches his pace with that of the little girl. Sometimes when I see them， they’re eating oranges. Sometimes they’re 2）lolling lazily in the sun， laughing and chatting.

Since I walk solo， I often have little better to do than 3）speculate about people I pass. How does the man find time in the middle of the day to play in the sunny park with his daughter？ He certainly doesn’t look unemployed. What sort of job must he have that gives him the flexibility to walk in the park in the middle of the day？

A few days ago， the child caught me looking at them and smiled at me. I smiled back. Yesterday， I threw a ball that had strayed from them in my direction. And today， we finally sat on the rocks and had a little chat.

“You must enjoy the park very much to come here so often，” I said.

The father nodded. “We love coming here…there’s no park near where we live and little Guddi enjoys playing here while we wait for her mother to get free from work，” he said.

The child’s school was next door， as was his place of work， a private business where he was an accountant.

I couldn’t help myself. I just had to ask.

“How，” I asked curiously， “do you manage to leave your office every day in the middle of the day？”

The story that the father， Satyendra Dubey， told me showed me how， if we dig underneath the surface， even ordinary people’s lives can seem quite extraordinary.

“I used to be no different from any of those thousands of office workers 4）scurrying to work every morning in buses，” he began.

His wife （a teacher at a government school） and he 5）were comfortably off but rarely managed time off for leisure. Their daily routine consisted of dropping their child at school， going to work， picking her up from daycare and going to bed exhausted.

One morning， on his way to work， Dubey was hit by a bus. “I awoke in the hospital， unaware of the extent of my injuries， afraid I was going to die，” he said. “As I waited in that cold room for my wife to reach me， a terrifying thought crossed my mind. ‘How would my daughter， then only four， remember me if I died that day？ Would she think of me as a 6）stern man who worked very hard？ Or more 7）uncharitably， as a father who had little time for her？’”

As he lay there， racked by pain， he realized that his child would probably not have many memories of just “being” with her father.

Dubey made a full recovery from his accident， but something in him had changed. “I started having recurring dreams about floating high up in the air， watching people like myself turn into little ants scurrying mindlessly from office to home，” he said. “High above them， I could see that few of them were actually enjoying any bits of their lives. They seemed too busy trying to go from one day to the next！” he reflected. In the queit of the night when he lay awake after one such dream， he 8）resolved to be different.

The day he went back to work， Dubey used the excuse of his recent accident to take some time off at lunch. He picked up his daughter from school and took her to the park. The child was hesitant； she’d never seen this strange side to her dad.

At first the father and daughter didn’t quite know what to do with each other. Then， slowly， they evolved a set of shared activities they enjoyed together. “We talk， play， laugh and sometimes just sit silently. Our time together in the park is the best part of the day for me！” he said. “Now， when my wife finishes work early afternoon and comes to take Guddi home， I feel quite 9）bereft. And then， I return to the office.”

“Is it easy，” I asked， “to take time off every day？”

He smiled. “My co-workers work much longer hours than I do. I know they’ll probably get better postings and promotions. But are these things really important in the larger scheme of things？ I’m happy I stopped to think about this instead of blindly going on and on…”

It was actually a very small change he’d made to his life， he said， but it amazed him every day to see the difference it made to his life. “It brings me so much joy that I can’t believe why others haven’t thought of doing the same thing，” he said simply.

I got up to 10）resume my long-forgetten walk， unexpectedly happy after hearing his story. When I passed them again that day， they were having a race. Just as he was about to win， Dubey noticed that Guddi’s energy was 11）flagging a little. Immediately， he bent to tie his shoelaces while the child triumphantly sailed past the finish line， laughing gleefully. As she lay down on the grass next to him， I couldn’t help but smile as I thought about the man who’d dropped out of the race， only to see how much nicer a slow walk in the sun was.

冬天，我經常在午休時到附近的一個公園散步。公園里很安靜，很少人在工作日里有時間享受冬日的陽光。打破我獨處的是一位中年父親和他年幼的女兒。她穿著校服，梳著辮子，紅色絲帶整齊地纏繞在辮子上。父親看起來似乎擁有無窮無盡的時間——他拒絕在慢跑道上匆忙行走，反而跟隨著小女孩的步伐。有時，我看到他們在吃橙子；有時，則懶洋洋地躺坐在陽光下談天說笑。

由于我獨自一人散步，所以除了推測我遇到的人的身份外，我通常沒什么更有建設性的事情可做。這個男人怎么會有時間在中午陪女兒在陽光明媚的公園里玩耍呢？他看起來一點兒也不像無業游民。什么樣的工作讓他能有時間在中午到公園散步呢？

幾天前，小女孩注意到我在看他們，并對我笑了笑。我也回以微笑。昨天，他們的球飛到了我這邊，我幫忙扔了回去。而今天，我們終于得以一起坐在石頭上閑聊幾句。

“你們很常過來這里，肯定很喜歡這個公園吧，”我說道。

父親點點頭。“我們喜歡過來這里……我們住的地方附近沒有公園，小古蒂喜歡在這里邊玩邊等她媽媽下班，”他說道。

小女孩的學校就在隔壁，他工作的地方也在附近，他是一家私人公司的會計。

我忍不住了。我必須問出口。

“你怎么，”我好奇地問道，“能夠每天中午都離開辦公室呢？”

那位父親，薩特延德拉·杜貝告訴我的故事表明，如果我們深入挖掘，即便是平凡人也可能有著不平凡的故事。

“我以前也和其他千千萬萬的白領一樣，每天早上趕公交上班，”他開始說道。