Musings on my Morning Walk

by Chandramohan Nair

Chandramohan Nair reflects on his brief morning walk, which is the only time each day he opens his eyes to the world around him, and which puts him in the right frame of mind for the rest of the day.

I could never cultivate the habit of walking for leisure during my younger days. I considered it an unproductive activity that was best indulged in after retirement. When that stage in my life eventually came, a decade ago, I did find myself better disposed to the idea. In the days immediately following my retirement, I ended up spending a considerable amount of my time indoors, and very soon, each morning, once I was through with my morning tea, the urge to experience a slice of nature – fresh air, a glimpse of the sky, a bit of greenery – would possess me.

But I found that the reality of going for a walk was rather removed from the idyllic images that came to mind whenever I had contemplated retired life. My imagined walks were always through verdant vistas reminiscent of some of the lovely parks that I had visited as a child. Sadly, the parks that were accessible to me as a retiree were small, crowded and poorly maintained.

The benign mood induced by the assortment of trees, plants and shrubs in the nearby parks would inevitably be broken by a jostling elbow, a boisterous group or a wobbly brick along the circular walkway. The fact that I was amongst the minority of walkers who preferred walking clockwise and, therefore, disconcertingly against the flow, did not help. Moreover, the preponderance of my fellow park users were either part of the keep-fit brigade seemingly focused on completing their quota of rounds or groups of friends excitedly narrating old anecdotes or discussing some current tattle. It was hardly the place to achieve communion with nature as the transcendentalist Henry David Thoreau had passionately advocated almost two centuries ago.

In some of the places I stayed, there was the option of using the grounds of some well-known educational institutions for walking. Many of these issued passes for walkers and their expansive and well-maintained grounds were in admirable contrast to the state of the town outside. But this option never caught on with me as reaching these havens often meant either driving down or an uncomfortable commute in a smoke-belching three wheeler. It also appeared rather self-centred that in one’s pursuit of fresh air and enhanced well-being, one should end up polluting the environment further.

On the back of these experiences, for the past few years in Kochi, I have been content with a leisurely morning stroll around my neighbourhood for both my fill of nature and my daily dose of locomotion. I had to get used to some unappealing aspects initially, but age teaches one the virtues of focusing on the positives and making the most of what is on offer.

The entrance to my apartment complex is on a busy arterial road and in the first few minutes of my morning walk, I usually hurry to get away from the choking pollution and the din of the traffic into the relative calm of an inner road. This part of the walk has required me to be both sharp-eyed and nimble of foot. The callously-constructed pavement – uneven in height with slabs missing at places and sloping uncomfortably at others – has left me with no other choice than to walk on the edge of the road, hopping awkwardly on to the pavement whenever the traffic comes too close for comfort.

After this adrenalin rush, I relax and slow down to a saunter. From then on, the only irritants are the occasional overbearing SUV – Kerala probably has the highest density of these status symbols running on some of the narrowest roads in the country – and the few stretches which have defiantly resisted the Swachh Bharat initiative, where I instinctively hold my breath.

The neighbourhood where I live was once in the heart of the city and exclusively residential. It was close to the High Court, large commercial establishments, the main railway station and reputed schools and colleges. While this continues to be the case, the explosive growth of business activity in the suburbs has seen the area lose its primacy and with it there has been a change in its character – offices, godowns and apartments have now largely replaced the sprawling traditional houses that had defined the area earlier. The nameplates of retired judges and advocates in the houses that have remained are now a reminder of that past. These residences and their inmates conjure up different stories and emotions in my mind. The frail senior citizen framed in the doorway of the worn-down corner mansion is a melancholic reminder of the insecurities of old age. Further down the road, a stately, well-maintained house still exudes an old-world charm and the strains of good-natured family banter I can overhear at times suggest a happier transition across generations. Elsewhere a padlocked and rusty gate along with wild and unruly vegetation that has almost completely taken over a derelict structure signals an irrevocable break with the past. It is also a grim reminder of the ephemeral nature of human existence and the savage manner in which nature reclaims its preserve.

There are many routes I could take to go round my neighbourhood, criss-crossed as it is by a large number of crossroads and by-lanes. The path I end up taking depends on the vagaries of my mood, the weather and the time of my walk. Sometimes a familiar and comforting circuit would make me feel jaded, prompting the inclusion of a new detour. A bright day would favour a course that offered some shade from the sun while pouring rains would seem me navigate through a meandering route free of water-logging. A folding umbrella is my trusted and versatile companion, serving to protect me from the sun and the rain as well as the unwelcome scrutiny of a restless stray dog. To be fair to the strays, they rarely trouble me as they are content to either amble about their territory or lie perilously close to the traffic soaking in the morning warmth. Their life is surely the envy of their pedigreed cousins who I often spy stretching their necks above their apartment balconies, dolefully contemplating the freedom of life down below.

Unsurprisingly, an early morning walk has the most calming effect on me. The traffic is light and the streets deserted except for the few people outside the government milk outlets, the scattering of devotees on their way to the neighbourhood temple and the few autorickshaw drivers savouring their morning tea at the roadside stall. In that morning stillness, without the distraction of human activity, the mind takes in things that otherwise go unnoticed – the bright red flowers of the Kerala favourite, the hibiscus or Chembarathi plant, blooming in an otherwise unpretentious garden, the shiny new tricycle in the porch and animated sounds of conversation in a normally silent house signalling a vacation family get-together, a mongoose slinking through a vacant plot. Early morning is also the best time to admire the signature Kerala greenery before the heat, humidity and brightness of the day overwhelms one. With land being at a premium, there are very few tree-lined roads in Kochi. The greenery is all within the compounds of the houses and apartments with the perennial Kerala house favourites – the coconut, mango and jackfruit trees – sharing space with potted plants of all hues and pretty little patches of grass landscaping.

Closer to office time, the same route acquires an altogether different character with people claiming one’s attention. The commuters headed for their workplaces from the railway station stand out with their purposeful walk. The giggling and chattering students sporting the ubiquitous backpack are lost in a world of their own while the well-turned-out sales girls of the many textile and gold jewellery shops in the city walk in small groups, looking a trifle self-conscious in their brightly coloured uniform sarees. They leave in their trail a heady bouquet of sweat variously mixed with assorted perfumes, Cuticura powder and rose water. Near the temple, devotees in auto-rickshaws and cars take a drive-by darshan, slowing down their vehicles just long enough for a quick turn of the head and folding of the hands, causing a traffic jam.

Occasionally during my walks, the odd tourist would approach me and ask for directions to reach the nearby bus stand. It took me a few months to realize that the route I recommended as a short cut to the bus stand actually ended in a cul-de-sac. I would also regularly cross paths with a reedy lottery seller who went around with a clipboard full of tickets and a half-smile on his face. At the merest eye contact he would approach you with entreating eyes and the clip-board raised as if in offering. He had long ago given up on me as a potential customer.

It is during the thirty-odd minutes of my morning walk that I live wholly in the present and it sets me up for the rest of the day that is consumed by the demands and distractions of day-to-day living. This may seem a strikingly lopsided allocation of time but it is a balance that has worked for me. And I do have the comfort of knowing that whenever I get overwhelmed by my habitual thought patterns of anxiety, a return to sanity is just a short walk away.

Chandramohan Nair lives in Kochi and has taken up writing after a career in the banking and technology sectors.