Evening walk

My grandmother and I took a walk today. I insisted we go longer, but she grew tired.

She sits down at six, every evening, for her second tea of the day. Always sugarless.

Unable to drink from the cup, she pours it in the saucer. Asks for one biscuit, ends up having three.

We go out for a walk before dinner. She says the doctor recommends some time spent outdoors. I think, she does not want to be trapped within.

Never without a shawl wrapped around her torso, leaving enough to cover her head. She holds my hand, except when walking down the stairs holding the railings.

The eve of the weekend decreases footfall. She laments the lack of people walking about. Hopes it picks up soon.

Everytime the shawl shrugs down, she quickly picks it up and wraps it around her shoulder. The cold wind bites her wrinkled skin.

She asks me whether Bangalore has always been this cold. When will it end. I reply, soon.

The city is wonderful, she says. Rarely has she seen it from outside the apartment or the car.

People come here from everywhere seeking opportunity, she observes. She tells me to stay. She’s seen too many people go, and not come back.

I change the topic. I’m quite good at this.

We walk back.

She looks at the security guard. Asks me how long they work. I take a guess.

She pities the long hours on their feet. I smile at the irony.

Two rounds later, we approach the stairs. She takes the ramp. Her legs grow tired easily. Old age takes a toll.

As we enter, she tells me it’s dinnertime. Instead, she lies down on the bed.

My grandmother and I took a walk today. I insisted we go longer, but she grew tired.