The Walkers

 “If you cannot find a good companion to walk with , walk alone , like the elephant . “ Buddha . 

(Buddha goes on to say that there are plenty benefits of walking alone rather than with someone .For instance , he talks about hindring of progress , whatever that may mean )

In our colony , too, there were people who walked . In twos , threes , or solo . 

Mr M walked alone . He lost his wife to a protracted battle with cancer , but it hampered his walk just for a day or two . He didn’t let that interfere with his daily goal of 15, 330 steps . Each round of the colony accounting for 2,190 steps . Seven rounds . Four in the morning . Three in the evening . 

Mr M has no time for niceties . For each greeting , he looks up precisely for three seconds , nods his head unsmilingly , and lowers his head . Five seconds and he is gone . Like a hurricane . He walks purposefully , taking long strides , counting steps , gaze lowered to the asphalt , leaping across potholes , manholes , and rainwater ditches .As if they do not exist . 

Mrs J and Mrs B walk in the evening . They are retirees , both in their early sixties . That phase of life , when you are not old enough to sit at home , watching TV ( like their husbands do ) or young enough to join the club ,( where younger fair maidens singger at your back ). They were both head mistresses in their hey day . Both belong to the same community , and speak in the vernacular , mostly . However , it is not long before they break into English , specially when recounting their glory days . Both are immaculately dressed in pressed crisp cotton salwaar kameez , with flowing dupattas , which they adroitly manage , and wear all the pearls and shiny baubles they used to , when addressing their schools , from the podium every morning , at assembly . Their hairs are immaculately done up , and they are wearing the perfumes and ittars of a by gone era . 

Seeing them walk , sedately , their sneakered legs moving in tandem , is almost like watching a retro movie . With breeze softly carressing their chiffon chunnis , and grey hairsprayed hair , they are like a balm to frayed nerves . Like fairies from the past . 

Unlike Mr M , they are not besieged with the pressure of goals or steps or rounds . They walk for an hour or so , till darkness descends and the street lights come on . Then they stand on the doorstep of one of them , chatting till they run out of gossip , or some one calls them in . 

They are in no hurry . 

Two retired colonels walk in the garden . Each walks alone , on a different path . Both wear sneakers as a reminder of their disciplined existence and walk with crisp , long strides , almost marching . Both have tidily tied turbans . Both meet at two points in the loop around the garden . Both nod silently and move ahead . One , however , carries a 2kg dumbell in his hand , swaying it , changing arms , when he is alone . Other , chants a prayer , almost audibly . 

One , the chanter  , sports pristine white beard , cleanly trimmed. He is also the older one  . The other has his long beard tied up neatly . 

The older has a serene calm radiating from his visage , the younger one has a fierce intensity . He also has a salt and pepper beard . 

They have little in common , except for the evening walk , where the younger one’s calisthenics and the older one’s chanting collide twice every round . 

The older one takes five rounds . The younger one keeps swinging his arms and striding into the dark night , long after the Mrs J and B have retired and Mr M is back at his home , trading online , with same assiduity , in the dimly lit apartment , where he lives alone . 

As the darkness falls , other motley groups emerge from their houses . It has been a warm day , and cool evenings are inviting . Some families take walks , post dinner , chatting late into the night . 

A celebrity couple emerges in this dark cool. The husband , stocky , dark as night , is a popular singer . The wife , a fair wispy lass , who has decided to dye her hair blond , in pink tight leggings and a neon green t shirt , she is the cynosure of all eyes . She hooks her hand in the crook of her husband’s arm and giggles fetchingly at each syllable uttered by her husband , who in turn , breaks into a snippet of a raga , without any particular reason , rendering the evening very very interesting . People stop to gawp shamelessly at this duo . 

Portly matrons stare at the couple from behind surreptitiously lifted curtains , men gawk openly , some are brave enough to greet them . All greetings go unanswered as the couple is so absorbed in their own world . This invites scowls , and whispers . The couple is , not very popular , as would be expected . 

Soon , night deepens . The one odd late night walker has departed . The singer has  taken his sporadic ragas to his apartment , from where bursts of music and laughter are faintly audible . 

The colony returns to its solitude and lampposts brood within their  circle of clarity , surrounded by inky blackness . An owl flutters back to its post on top of the lamp post , where a feast awaits him . Insects hum around , occasionally erratically thumping into the iron tube . 

The earth takes a long sigh and retires for the night . Walkers will return again tomorrow .