Some of my fondest memories with my Thatha, my maternal grandfather, were the morning walks that we did during summers. With him, there was not much talk, we just walked. He immersed himself into another world on those quiet walks; spoke intermittently, gave me directions until we passed through the urban parts of the town, and into the countryside.

On the countryside, we would negotiate the high grass shoots, narrow pathways that ran amidst surrounding greens with their dew-covered leaves. The distant voices of cattle and roosters, the chirping of birds, the faint human activity, and the Sun trying to peek through the horizon, seemed to be in perfect harmony. Very soon the Sun would crack open the clouds, turning blue skies into shades of yellow and orange.

The master led, as I followed behind.

Aaraam yenri? Thatha would exchange a few pleasantries as he runs into acquaintances along the way. He would keep it short and crisp, and in an instant, we go back to our world, the world of quiet walking, and enjoying the nature around us.

After a hill-and-a-half, when we know it is about time to stop, he checks on me, more walking? No, I’m done. He can tell by my tone, if I’m really done. My mini-protests were well documented and my Thatha would not push me too hard on this faraway countryside.

We negotiate, and agree to check the restaurant on the way back. That was an everyday deal, the bribe for the walk. And our secret deal that my Ammamma wouldn’t know. On the way back he picks up a neem twig and hands it to me. I couldn’t have the sheera, if I didn’t brush. You don’t want to miss out, do you? He would tease with another chuckle.

The restaurant would be open and I would devour my favorite sweet. He would let me have the last laugh, after all. We head back home to start another day. For the rest of the day, it would be Ammamma’s turn to bribe me.

And the next morning, the same deal applied, so there is no talk, we just walk the Walk!