What we lose when the city snatches away our walking spaces

Perhaps this is why I like walking; I have always been greedy for details. Even in a monotonous trudge up and down my building terrace in Bangalore, there were details to be gathered. For instance, the exact length of a cup of tea is 12 walks up and down my terrace, at the rate of 1.5 sips per walk. Absolutely useless information to some, but a very specific memory of worry-free mornings from 2009, when I had started my first job. It’s not a landmark of place, but one of time.

Most landmarks are beloved because they are touched with nostalgia. When we lose them, we lose a connection to our past. Finding himself in Bangalore after many years, a friend felt the urge to take a walk on Indranagar’s 80ft road from his old apartment towards his first office in a bid to revisit a certain part of his life. When he got to the intended neighbourhood, he could no longer find his building or recollect anything around the place where the building used to be. Suddenly, he felt unmoored by the grid of the street, which he recognised and yet could no longer identify. Disoriented, he walked to his old office building, which had since become a restaurant, retaining its old floors and windows, yet with nothing familiar about it. He recalls this incident with a profound sense of loss.

It is inevitable that every landmark will eventually be lost to time. Interestingly, however, landmarks will also become evidence of that very time. During my pregnancy, walking was not for pleasure; instead, it was the only way to counter my diabetes. I religiously walked the same route for an hour every evening to regulate my sugar and the weight of my swiftly growing child. On these walks, I would encounter an elderly lady who soon became a bright spot on my route. She was tall and lanky, always dressed in patterned frocks, walking with the slow elegance that tall and frail people sometimes possess. We never spoke, but we exchanged smiles. I no longer walk that path, but if I ever happen to pass by, I know I will look for this lady who now defines the route for me, just as much as the sampangi tree at the end of the street. Even if she isn’t there, to me, she always will be.