From the morning walker who is temporarily out of commission

Since I've been ill and am convalescing and am supposed to rest, of course I wake up at 4a.m. and long to go for a walk. Which is not allowed for a couple of months at least. So I'm consoling myself by posting something I wrote a few years ago.

Random Mornings

Memories of morning walks

over decades,

climates, cities, faces

the familiar rhythms

as the body finds its stride

after each hiatus

caused by life-

childbirth, illness,

transfers,

traumas,

rainy days-

each can disrupt, for days and months,

the rhythm of the dawn.

What joy to be out again

In the cool of the morning

The sky, benevolent.

A gentle sun.

Biting cold Delhi December-

Fog, low visibility.

The crowds near the lakes in Kolkota-

Unnerving, at first, to one used to solitude.

Mist, drizzle, koels in Kochi-

A school-going child to be hurried home for,

To be woken, fed, dispatched…..

tea, morning papers, significant others….

The rhythms of routine will prevail

How precious this time alone

Thoughts to be thought through,

Walking as worship,

A prayer running through the mind

Sincere, though perhaps unorthodox.

But since when is one’s Maker orthodox?

Since when are the rituals conducted in His name

All that please Him?

Remembering Him,

And thanking Him, with profound gratitude,

for each new morning, each new day……..

The elderly lady murmuring her ‘paath’

Black-haired “Speedy” with his Walkman,

The lady with the squeaky sneakers

( had she paid for them, I wonder- one shoe squeaked the entire year)

Apsos and alsatians,

Labradors, leashes, the pug near the lake,

(much before Hutch made pugs a household dream )

Mr Muscles, so many others

The amazing interactions,

and their absences

At each new location

The paranoia of this day and age

Underlined vividly in many ways….

The dawn of the new millennium

On the waterfront at Kochi

Three cheerful young men wishing all and sundry

A Happy New Year,

And offering toffees from a bag

It would be churlish to refuse.

But- sweets from a stranger?

Never- one of the earliest taboos….

Not me, not my child, not my maid, nor her child….

No child whom I know or do not know…..

Poor, innocuous little sweet

I slip it discreetly into the water,

Hoping that the fish forgive me…….

How do I perceive myself?

Middle-aged, plump, cheerful, female,

Most definitely non-threatening…….

But after months of traversing the same roads,

At times I wonder……..

Once established as a regular, familiar, solitary walker,

Albeit a stranger,

Strangeness wears off, interaction begins

Usually just a smile, a nod,

An acknowledgement

Of a fellow human being,

part of the community of walkers-

what more does one need?

There was the woman who refused to smile

Perhaps it was part of her socialization-

Smiling at strangers leads to Trouble.

Her persistent non-smiling and my persistent smiling

became a part of our routine.

Surely the joy of the morning had to be shared….

Illogically, stupidly,

it became a mission to make the wretched woman smile.

The entire year I lived in that town, walking,

Watching the purple sunbirds,

The jacaranda and the Pride of India

Purple resplendent everywhere

Crossing her path every morning

She refused to smile.

Until the day after I had my hair cut short

She beamed at me

Why, I cannot say………

The older walkers lack such threat perception

They cheerfully acknowledge the new human being

Who has, for however long, entered their orbit.

With them, it doesn’t matter whether you are male or female,

Young or old, whatever shape or size….

They also crave acknowledgement of their humanity,

Glad that courtesy can exist beyond convention,

Never mind that you haven’t been introduced……..

XXXXXXXXX

Courage flowers in many fields-

The early morning roads bear witness

to extraordinary valour ,everyday,everywhere.

The elderly lady in Lucknow,

her rolling gait, her snail-like pace,

bore witness to the pain she bore,

but she walked every day,

each step an achievement.

The couple in Kochi-

Elderly, he with crutches,

Devoted wife alongside,

Adding a few yards every few days,

Progressing from crutch to stick,

The lane outside their house a witness

To their courage and determination.

The neighbour who had undergone

by-pass surgery-

In this new phase of his life

the erstwhile desk-bound workaholic

learns to walk each dawn

as though his life depends upon it.

The octet of elderly gentlemen

Laughing aloud each morning

Their anecdotes slowing their pace to a stroll

Now only three remain,

But they keep on………

Slower, older, shorter, no longer upright

Sticks and canes for support

But their conversation continues, unabated,

as do their walks…….

The very old lady

Bone thin, bent over-

Skeletal hands

Clutch skeletal thighs-

Propelling herself, independent of all

No stick, no cane, no walker, no helping hand…..

Perhaps just the mercy of the Lord

Whose temple she circumambulates, smiling,

at dusk and every dawn.

XXXXXXXX

A luxury, an indulgence

That’s what these walks are,

Leaving the comfort of bed

the only difficulty,

soon transcended.

Early rising becomes a habit-

The body wakens you-

It’s time to get up, time to go

Out into the glorious morning.

Sheer pleasure…….

Lazy days,

lie-abed days soon diminish

of their own accord…..

Walking

as a mode of transport,

as it still is for so many-

walking over all kinds of terrain

when there’s no alternative….

That’s hardship.

But we morning walkers,

Self-indulgent creatures,

Walking for the joy of it

Reserving the best part of the day

For ourselves.

We also bask in the admiration

Of those unfortunates

Who can’t make it in the mornings….

Strange, what moral stature

Early morning walks can grant you.

There are so many more who walk

At dusk, in the evenings,

Sun-setters, not sun-risers

But……..

City skies are smoggy by then

There’s the traffic of returning commuters

Dinners to be prepared,

Homework to be supervised

Sudden demands for a notebook

Or pencils, or maps (physical and political)

To be fulfilled.

Guests who drop in for evening tea.

Many more potential interruptions-

You can’t call your soul your own,

Most evenings.

August 2004

Gummidipoondi