Today’s walk began under a bright evening sun. It was around 5:30 p.m., and the weather was just right—not windy, not hot, simply inviting. I stepped out of my apartment with one small goal in mind: to cross the five-kilometre mark.
The first familiar sight was a group of four or five boys playing cricket on the road. Their ball rolled towards me. I picked it up and tossed it back. They knew me, smiled, and waved their thanks. It was a tiny interaction, but it brought a smile to my face.
A little further ahead, I met Blackie, a beautiful little black dog who has become my regular greeter on that road. I had carried some dog biscuits for her, and she accepted them with the warmth that only animals seem to express so effortlessly.
I decided to walk towards my office, curious to know the exact distance from home. It turned out to be about two and a half kilometres. Since I was feeling good, I simply kept going.
A short while later, I made a pit stop for a cup of chai at Tea Break. My friend Ajit, who prepares lovely Ginger Tea, is from Sikkim. Every conversation with him quietly fuels my dream of travelling to Sikkim later this year. Sometimes inspiration arrives over a simple cup of tea.
As I walked, I found myself watching people more than traffic. Some were returning home after work. Some were out for an evening stroll. Others were simply trying to earn a living. Every face seemed to carry a story.
When I was about 1.3 kilometres away from home, the skies suddenly opened up. Heavy raindrops crashed onto the road, forming little bubbles as they hit the ground. I stood under a shelter for a few moments and watched the world react.
Some people ran for cover. Some continued their work as though nothing had happened. One little child stretched out a tiny palm to catch the raindrops, squealing with delight before pulling the hand back and looking at the parents for approval, as if asking, ‘Isn’t this wonderful?’
I decided it wasn’t fair to stop my walk. After all, I had a rain jacket. I put it on and continued.
I passed a pani puri vendor hurriedly covering his cart with large plastic sheets. His face seemed to say what his words never did: ‘Sunday evenings are good business. The rain has taken this one away.’
A little further ahead, I noticed an elderly woman carrying a heavy load. She was walking in the opposite direction, so I couldn’t help her. Yet her face carried a quiet loneliness that stayed with me long after she had disappeared from view.
The vehicles moved cautiously through the rain, though a few sped past without noticing the water they splashed onto pedestrians. Perhaps they never realised what they were doing.
As I continued walking, I realised my rain jacket was something of a placebo. It offered some protection, but before long the rain had found its way through. Strangely, I didn’t mind. Every cool drop that touched my skin took me back to childhood—the carefree days when getting drenched was pure joy and no one worried about what others might think.
Watching that little child made me ask myself an uncomfortable question: Why do I still stop myself because of the fear of what people might think?
By the time I reached my apartment, the boys who had been playing cricket had taken shelter. Their match had transformed into animated debates—who would have won, who would have scored more runs, who would have taken more wickets. Childhood has a beautiful way of finishing unfinished games.
I walked into my home with a smile.
I had done it again today.
I’m not proud of myself. I’m happy with myself.
I need this walk. I need to be fit. And I have made a promise to myself:
As long as I breathe, I want to breathe healthy.