Of morning walks along paths laden with tales

For almost a year now, I’ve been waking up early and completing my 10,000 steps. The cool breeze grazing against my skin feels divine, one can hear peacocks and see them strutting about, the sun usually is about to rise then and at that point of time there are very few walkers or runners around. A blissfully tranquil path guides me down its silent course, a meditation of sorts.

Gradually as the sun rises more people join in. There are the regular, dedicated joggers, who inspire me to be consistent and show up daily. I also love to check out their sports gears-chic, stylish and comfortable, a picture of relaxed glamour! The people who I admire the most are the elderly, the senior citizens of our gated community. They never let the agony of old age, rusty joints or a stubborn spine, hinder their enthusiastic foray onto the walking path.

Each face here, seems to be a protagonist of a tale: a wisp of auburn bangs persistently being pushed behind the ears as this young lady jogs on, a thin line of distress on her brow as she speaks into the air, the airpods reflecting work-related stress; the three ladies walk past me, they relish this slice of “me time” and rant away their domestic drudgery, by the time they complete a kilometre several tons of misery is purged off.

For me it’s a perfect time to rekindle that flimsy flicker of a tale that lit up amid mundane chaos only to be doused by heated discussions of how expensive lemons have become in our country. Well, as stories prowl around the marigold and jasmine plants, green benches and yoga mats, I painlessly jog a distance of 6 Km, seeping them all in.

Old couple under the frangipani

Today I see that old couple again, as they trudge slowly under the frangipani trees. They have been walking almost daily since I moved here. Once in a while they halt, sit on that green bench, near the fountain to get their breath back. The lady takes out a small bottle of water from her sling bag and both of them quench their thirst with a few drops.

After a while they stand up with each other’s support, the old lady holding his hand, with a gentle smile that can cajole him to walk on, she says, “Come on, here we go. Another round and we’re done.” The old man, who probably handsome once upon a time, is now hunched with age. His smile has definitely not aged and that glint in the eyes is charmingly magical. He stops by the jasmine plants, picks up a few that have freshly fallen onto the dewy grass.

After dusting the petals gently, he offers them to his wife, with a smile laced with love that belongs to an era of genuineness and simplicity. She accepts the flowers; breathes in the scent with her eyes closed, a smile brightens up her face (and my heart melts each time I witness this ritual). She grasps his hand and murmurs how scaly his skin is, “Why do you forget to apply that Vaseline lotion I bought you? Everything I only have to remember and do.”

She sits down on the bench and takes out a small tube from her sling bag, squeezes out some cream and applies it with utmost care onto his hands. He looks on, his eyes reflect the sun, the gleam mingled with admiration. Another elderly man, my neighbour, Colonel Singh greets the couple and guffaws, “You’re incorrigible, old man! You never forget to give her flowers but you forget the lotion!”

The old man winks at him and quips, “Colonel, all’s fair in love and war, no?” I leave the three of them laughing heartily, celebrating companionship, as I run on, not sweating but rather glowing, love-soaked and smitten, as I traipse along a path laden with stories.

Navanita Varadpande is a writer based in Gurgaon, India. Twitter: @VpNavanita