The great Indian evening walk

FOR a man in his late fifties, venturing out for an evening walk is less a matter of fitness and more a test of faith. Faith in God, faith in municipal authorities, and above all, faith in one’s knees. I often set out with noble intentions — to stretch my limbs, breathe some fresh air and maybe exchange a polite nod with fellow walkers. But by the time I return, panting like an overworked autorickshaw, I feel I’ve just survived an obstacle course designed by someone with a grudge against middle-aged men.

The first hurdle is locating the footpath. Ah yes, those mythical strips of concrete that, in theory, separate pedestrians from the chaos of the road. In practice, they are either colonised by enterprising vendors, parked two-wheelers or entire families enjoying tea under tarpaulin roofs. So, I do what every responsible citizen does — step down onto the road and join the traffic. It’s a bit like swimming with sharks, except the sharks here honk.

A few steps later, I realise why walking is said to improve alertness. My eyes dart in every direction — left for speeding bikers, right for stray cows, up for low-hanging wires and down for dug-up roads. Each step is an act of calculation. One wrong move, and I’ll be flat on my back, staring at the stars before the festival lights come on.

And then there’s the festival season itself. Streets that were already chaotic now transform into processional battlegrounds. Loudspeakers compete with car horns; revellers dance where the road should be; and every traffic signal seems to have taken early retirement. I once tried to keep walking through a religious procession. Somewhere between the chants and the cymbals, my fitness walk turned into a pilgrimage.

The irony is that while my fitness tracker congratulates me for completing 3,000 steps, it doesn’t record the emotional trauma of dodging so many trucks and a cow. At this point, I’m not so much walking as performing an interpretative dance called ‘Survival of the Fittest’. Still, I soldier on — because, as they say, old habits die hard.

Some days, I envy the younger generation with its gym memberships and air-conditioned treadmills. But then again, what’s life without a little adventure? My evening walks may not guarantee cardiovascular fitness, but they do keep my reflexes sharp and my vocabulary enriched (especially when a biker brushes past too close). My doctor insists that I walk more — I just wish he’d issue safety gear along with that advice.

By the time I return home, sweaty but triumphant, I feel like a war veteran who’s just returned from the front. My wife greets me with her usual line: “You went for a walk or fought the Battle of Kurukshetra?” I smile, sip lemon water and reply, “Both.” After all, every evening walk is my own little Kurukshetra — and I live to fight another day.