Every day I go for a walk in the morning,
in the valley where I live, part of the routine now. I have a cane, which I use
not because I need it, but because of the dogs that inhabit my route. They have
become friendly, however, the odd one still barks at me. I go around 10 a.m.,
which is when I finish my yoga and breakfast.
There’s a curious mix of people I meet on
my walk. One is a neighbour, the wrecker of the hills where I live, the local
rich man. He owns a stone crushing business and has denuded the hills around my
house with his industriousness. Through the night and day he mines the granite
in these hills and sells it to the railways. He owns half a dozen cars and says
he is doing well. Whenever I pass his house, I hear the loud admonitions of his
wife, a dowdy, querulous lady. His is a joint family, which means his sons and wives
and grandchildren live with him.
Sometimes he waves me good morning. Sometimes
he doesn’t. That may be because he is planning his next business move to take
notice of me. Gujjus being quite admirably money minded they always think about
business. He bought another plot of land and is building a huge bungalow there
complete with lift and lots of glass. He is the uncouth kind of man, rough of
character, who, though he owns several cars, wouldn’t spend money to have them
washed.
Then there is Ramu, the ironing man whose
job is to iron all clothes in the locality. He is a resident of the valley for
a long time, having been born here. He didn’t study beyond fifth standard
preferring to loaf around with friends. Now his father has gone to his village
and he looks after his ironing business. He and the eunuch, sorry, transgender,
about whom I wrote a story (Lalla: the Eunuch),
live in adjacent shacks.
Then there is this distinguished gentleman
from Kerala, who tells me stories about VK Krishna Menon and KPRS Menon,
because he himself is a Menon. He worked in a corporation for a long time and
is in his eighties. He has maintained his health very well though he has a back
problem, which he is bearing with admirable fortitude. He reads a lot and we
discuss some writers and their works.
Then there is this gentleman who is a
Bengali. We greet each other, in strict cordiality. He has never asked me about
my background, nor have I about his. From general appearance he looks like a
government servant, a babu, the sort who pushes files in government offices. He
speaks with great care, mincing each word, cautiously avoiding any
unpleasantness. He also is quite well off and has a big car and lives in a big
house near the gymnasium. We only say “how hot it is,” or “how cold it is,” to
each other, after our morning greetings.
I rest myself after my walk on a garden
seat near the gymnasium. There is a steady stream of people in cars and bikes
who visit the gymnasium to work on their bodies. I look at them and marvel
their rippling muscles. I wish I was like them. One lady, a nicely muscled one,
comes with a packet of biscuits which she distributes to the dogs, who, not
being hungry in the morning, grudgingly hover around her gift. The dogs brawl
over the food, but don’t eat it, leaving the biscuits on the street. I guess
they are learning to hoard food from us.
Then there are two Malayali friends who
always walk together. One is known to me, therefore he greets me. They talk all
the while about politics, Kerala politics. Now, to be honest, I don’t know much
about Kerala politics except that Oommen Chandy is the chief minister and Sarita Nair is
somebody involved in a scam.
The dogs bark at me even though they know
me. I wave my stick at them, a sturdy Wildcraft climbing stick. They seem
unfazed. It’s their privilege to bark, let them enjoy their entitlement. I am
not bothered.
