In the Times Squire, the evening chill of January descended like a drizzle. Puffs of vapor shot from wrapped faces.

Visitors flowed in whispers, laughter and shouts. The sneakers, boots, loafers, and high-heels tapped the pavement.

A variety of accents loaded the raw air. A mix of nationalities, ages, dresses and attires rolled by like a turbulent stream.

Hanging from the tall buildings, enormous monitors flicked enticing pictures of products. Models paraded in streams of enticing commercials.

The sound was deafening.

In the street blocked to vehicle traffic, people congregated in groups. Crowd mixed in swirls like a river cascading through the rapids.

A large group formed a tight circle in front of the McDonalds.

The passersby stopped to take a peek. The intrigued onlookers formed layers around the first circle. People in the back stood on their toes to get a better view. In the rapid mix, arguments began to grow.

The buzz became pronounced.

Around the growing circle, the street was a sea of overcoats, furs wrappings, caps, turbans and hats.

People, like loose particles, started to coalesce around the original circle. The circle acquired a size for worry to law enforcement.

The group swayed as in an earthquake. The energy squeezed out the weak.

Two NYPD cops stood some distance from the ballooning crowd, hands-on their gun-belts. Their alert eyes scanned the crowd with concern.

‘What a miserable evening,’ the senior cop said.

He was built like a barrel, short and squatty, in rough bull-dog face eyes two slits and a pinched expression. Tense muscles bulged under an overcoat.

‘This is the weather to sit near the fireplace with hot coffee,’ the junior cop said.

He was like a tall stick. He had a bushy head and bearded-face, eyes always on the prowl.

‘Except for the wife’s bitching, the thought’s brilliant.’

‘This cold’s worse than any bitching. Look at the crazy crowd. It’s a stroll on a Florida beach.’ 

The pictures raced on the enormous monitors. The scantily-clad models sashayed across in streams of commercials.

The senior cop looked up. A commercial on the side of one of the high-rises lit up the street below and arrested his attention.

A Yogi in a loincloth stood on one leg, a stork in the vast expanse of a snow-covered mountain, holding a can of beer. The dark chocolate skin stood out against the white snow.

The subtle smile on Yogi’s face mocked the absurdity of the commercial.

The senior cop smiled. He went back to watch the throngs.

He saw a group of people bloat in front of the McDonalds.

 ‘It’s time to check out before trouble starts,’ he told his partner.

He adjusted his gun-belt. The weight of the gun, the baton, the handcuffs and accessories started to bite into his stout belly. Despite his size, he hustled to reach the fringe of the crowd.

People parted to let him in. He cut through the assemblage and stood amazed at the strange sight.

The crowd stitched around him like parting waters around a log.

The junior cop stood a safe distance from the throng. He was loath to risk. He’d rather wait until the situation cleared and it was safe to venture in. There was no reason to take a chance.

Up the street, a series of pops, like shots from an automatic rifle, took everyone by surprise.

The crowd scattered in fear.

The senior cop darted up the street where a column of smoke billowed to the sky.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

The junior cop stood amidst people dashing from the site and called for help on his radio.

Police cars in the vicinity responded.

Screaming sirens approached from all directions.  Vehicles stopped with squealing tires. Smoke rose from the pavement amidst general commotion in the adjacent streets.

Holding their guns, cops shot out of the vehicles. A contingent reached the site of disturbance in no time.

Soon, a helicopter hovered above the crowd, whipping up the frosty air. Additional vehicles with sirens piled behind the ones already there.

The senior cop was the first one at the scene of explosions. Other cops followed, their hands on their guns.

The junior cop trailed behind, delaying his arrival. He yelled into the radio, communicating with the helicopter.

Fortunately for the crowd and the police, it was a prank. Someone had lit a string of firecrackers in a garbage bin.

The senior cop looked around with crinkled eyes. He was aghast at the stupidity of humanity. As if there weren’t enough real issues to wrestle with.

The remaining cops walked off, shaking their heads.

The junior cop finally caught up with his partner.

‘Do you know what’s going on?’ he said.

The senior cop glared at him.

‘I know no more than you do.’

People stopped scurrying.

The two cops grabbed the garbage bin and dragged it close to one of the squad cars.

There was no way to apprehend the culprit.

Moments later, the throngs forgot the incident and acted like nothing had happened.

The group in front of the McDonald’s reformed.

The junior cop stopped to get a cup of coffee. He scanned the crowd. After finishing the coffee, he sauntered back to the newly-formed group in front of  McDonald’s.

The senior cop sighed, pulled up his gun-belt, and looked at the newly-formed group with a frown.

The life of a cop was not easy. You never got a break.

He barged into the circle and stood facing the object of fascination for the crowd.

A chocolate-skinned man in mid-fifties sat inert on the ground in the middle of the oglers.

His eyes were shut. A faint smile played on his face. It appeared he was not breathing. If he did, his breathing was so shallow his chest remained still.

He had an angular face. A drooping mustache cascaded around a white goatee. Deep wrinkles circled the closed eyes. The long bulbous nose had a prominent wart on the ridge. A scrawny neck with bead-strings shot out from angled shoulders.

He was clad in a saffron shirt and a dhoti. A bush of graying hair covered with a turban framed his calm face.

His back was straight, his legs folded under him, wrists on the knees. His fingers fanned, thumb holding the index finger. 

With only in the thin cotton shirt in the intense cold, he appeared oblivious to the waves of chill swirling around him.

There were no shivers, chatter, flutter or blueness of the skin. He seemed impervious to subzero temperature.

He was in deep but alert sleep. His silence seemed supernatural against the backdrop of the crackling crowd and blaring monitors.

Such focus seemed uncanny.

The senior cop bristled at the novel situation. He didn’t know how to tackle it.

Every day he encountered bizarre situations. But here was a guy in a trance, causing no harm to anyone, and still posed a law and order conundrum!

The crowd stood in awe, their mouths agape with wonder.

‘The man is so still he could be a stone. It feels so unreal,’ the senior cop said. He shook his head.

He leaned in to see if the man was alive. Well, he won’t be sitting if he were dead! He smiled at his own ignorance. 

The junior cop finally made into the core of the crowd. It seemed safe. There was no chance of a bomb, or a crazy pulling a gun.

He leaned beside his partner, amazed at the stillness of the man in the punishing cold without any outward reaction.

He wished he had thick skin like this guy when dealing with his wife. He ended up losing his temper, yelling and screaming, and later apologizing to her.

And it was distasteful.

  ‘What’s wrong with the guy?’ he said, turning to his partner.

‘I’ve no idea. Of all the weird things we see every day, this one takes the prize. The guy’s not dead but seems asleep or in a trance. He could be on drugs. But how could he be so still?’

‘Is there a doctor in the crowd?’ the senior cop said, turning to the spellbound crowd around him.

A short, balding man with beady eyes nudged his way through to the core.

He leaned close to the still man with effort, huffing and red in the face. He held the wrist of the still man in the tips of his fingers and thumb. He counted under his breath, steady for a minute. Then he turned to the cops.

‘His pulse beats are very low, but rock steady. The man IS in exceptional health. It appears the cold is not affecting him in any way.’

‘He’s a Yogi. They can control their breathing, heart rate and body temperature after years of rigorous practice. And if you dig into his past, you’d find interesting facts. The West got the superficial part of Yoga; what lies underneath is truly amazing,’ a girl standing across from the cops said.

She was tall, slim, bundled in a red coat, dark hair framing an intense white face. Her eyes glittered with an inner radiance.

The audience looked at her, and then at the still man in a new light.

The junior cop scratched his beard, his eyes scanning the still man and the crowd. He turned to his partner.

‘What’s the next step? We can’t allow the crowd to swell anymore.’

His partner thought for a moment.

‘We can haul the guy to the station and manage the situation away from the crowd.’  

The junior cop relaxed his shoulders.

‘How are we going to move him?’

‘We need a hand-cart. Just plop him on it and haul him to the van. He’s pretty small and skinny. It doesn’t appear he’s going to wake up!’

‘Strange, to be in another world and be sitting so still.’

‘Can you arrange for a hand-cart?’

The junior cop jostled out of the crowd and got on his radio.

   A few minutes later, a young cop wheeled in a hand-cart close to the throng.

The senior cop yelled at the crowd to part.

‘Give me a hand,’ he said to his partner.

They grabbed the still man by the armpits, lifted him to the cart, and hauled him to a van waiting in the side street.

The gawkers dispersed and became a part of the fluid crowd.

‘Let’s put him in a cell with a hardened criminal and see what happens,’ the junior cop said, clicking his seat-belt, eyes dancing with mirth.

The senior cop grinned as he gunned the engine.