停下来，慢慢走.docVIP

停下来，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 gover