The lockdown journal: Solvitur Ambulando

At the turn of the 21st century, my grandfather, freshly over 70, came to live with us. He was the type who had grown up with rivers and cattle, and even city life had been kind enough to be peaceful to him. After decades of such a life, he found himself in the traffic-laden bustle that was Bengaluru, without knowing the local language, struggling to adapt. My mother, in a creative spurt, suggested that he and I go on walks together. Neither of us could think of a reason to oppose her idea, and thus began our journey of a thousands walks.

I had always loved walks, and exploring an area by foot. Finally, I had a companion; I rejoiced. My joy was short-lived, for my grandfather walked at one-third my pace. My strides bubbled with energy and enthusiasm, and he walked at a pace that seemed abysmally slothful to me.We made a rather odd pair- at every other step I would pause and linger, waiting for him to catch up. Neither did we know each other very well, and we quickly exhausted the things we could say to each other. In a week's time I got tired of dragging my feet in silence, and I complained to my mother that I could not walk so slowly. She paid no heed, and instead told me to be kind to him.

I was seven years old, and kindness was a virtue I found hard to practice. I was the opposite to my grandpa. I would wear a watch, and I had an expectation of the time in which we had to complete every turn in the road. I'd constantly look at the watch, and urge my grandpa to walk faster. I was also a stickler for punctuality, and every morning and evening at five minutes to five, I would turn up at his room. He would be slowly sipping on his coffee, lost in his thoughts. I would annoy him to finish his coffee soon, and tell him that we had to leave exactly at the stroke of five. My stranglehold on time was something he never comprehended, and I have heard him murmur several times under his breath as I appeared at the door: Ah, the little terror is here!

Despite my many attempts, he could never match up to the pace I had in mind. To his credit, he did try. But then, something else happened. We got to discussing books, and I was amazed at how much my grandpa had read. Poetry, prose, plays, you name it. He had read Dostoevsky, Tolstoy and so many others. He could recite Keats, Milton and Wordsworth from memory. These were uncharted waters for me, and hence all the more fascinating. I also discovered that he had a penchant for storytelling, something my parents never had the time or energy for. Soon, our walks were transformed into story sessions. He created many worlds out of thin air--colorful, theatrical, vivid. I got my first dose of Sherlock Holmes, Tom Sawyer, Scarlet Pimpernel and Agatha Christie.

We soon moved on to Ludlum, Archer, Sheldon and Cook. Sometimes, he would get into a poetic mood and recite entire poems for me. His favorite, one that I associate most closely with him is Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard by Thomas Grey. He told me that Gray had spent almost a decade polishing this single poem, till it reached perfection; I was awestruck. He also spoke of several other non-fiction books to me, which precocious as I supposedly was, still failed to spark my interest. Barring the non-fiction books, I read everything he narrated to me.The consequence of all of this was, we had transcended the 6 decade age gap. I lived life in the slow lane, unheedful of how slowly we ambled, because we were smelling the literal roses.

The years rolled by, and our amicable routine continued. I grew up, and he grew older. His limbs grew weaker, and our walks reduced to once a day. A couple of surgeries later, they grew shorter. Several hospital visits ensued, and walking was now restricted to the summer months. Cataract in both eyes and the resulting surgeries were the final step, and he was confined to the house. I tried walking by myself, but the roads were bereft of stories and the silence too haunting, and I gave it up.
Our story sessions came to an end too. My grandpa with his weak eyes could not read anymore, and I had already heard everything he had previously read. Our equation relapsed into what it was before- pleasantries and discordant pauses.

Today, after 50 days of lockdown, if you ask me what I miss the most, it is simply this, the pleasure that is walking. I have been on many walks, solitary and with company, amidst nature and city, in silence and in conversation. They have all been special to me, some even by being ordinary. Someday, I hope to walk the Camino in Spain, a 500 mile long walk.

But this first tryst with walks, every street laden with stories, every walk abounding with memories,  will always be very special to me. :)

I end this evening with the opening lines to his favorite poem, Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

         The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,

The plowman homeward plods his weary way,

         And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight,

         And all the air a solemn stillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,

         And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

P.S: Solvitur Ambulando is a Latin phrase that translates to "It is solved by walking."