When I came to this country a decade back, one grey morning I decided to take my son to the park. Fat swollen clouds swirled in the sky, hanging so low that I felt if I reached out I could touch those fluffy balls. The park was a swathe of green with lots of leafy walks, a pond where ducks swam in gay abandon and a play area for the children. There were hardly any people in the park, one little boy was in the swing, rest everything was empty. The clang of the metal swing pierced the air, the sound sharper because of the all encompassing silence. My boy pointed out with his plump fingers that he wanted to go on the swing too. I followed him to the swing, waited uneasily, stiff as a wood. Then another little girl strutted in, her rapunzel like hair tied into a braid swaying behind her. The father who was pushing the boy lifted him from the swing and said, "Let these children have a go. You have been on the swing for a long time".