a walk to remember

I am a self-flagellist and I have a great many grouses about myself. And the one grouse that unfailingly breaks my heart at 9 o clock every morning is my walk.


That shop is my cause of grief; the new one with the shiny glass. The glass; that terrible sheet of truth. Every morning, I park my car in a side lane and walk towards my office. Halfway through, the glass teases me; it uses the sun’s glint to get me to turn even when I staunchly tell myself not to. And so I turn.

There I see her. Anusha Vincent, the sloth-bear/duck hybrid. She walks as though an invisible Panda bear resides on her back. Like she has webs for feet. Like she’s fresh out of zombie training camp. Anusha Vincent’s walk is worthy of a mighty mock, giant gawk and a big balk. I turn away upset.

I don’t claim to have too many life goals, but of those I have, giving competition to the Hunchback of Notre Dame’s plod isn’t one. I blame it all on those who I grew up around in my formative years. I blame my parents, my aunts, my teachers, my older cousins. They taught me ameobal locomotion, but they did not teach me to walk. They made me read about the majestically cantering Black Beauty but they didn’t teach me how to walk. They helped me solve ‘a man walks from point A to point B’ problems in Math but they didn’t teach me to walk. Alright, so they did help me take my first steps, but when they took all those pains to mould my character, why couldn’t they have taken some time to give my walk some character?

I love reading books. Books are replete with women, each one of them better than the other, in one way or the other. I read about hot-blooded Latinas swaying and sashaying down the golden pavement, prim and proper ladies gliding past effortlessly, cool girls sauntering in and out of coffee shops, uptight ballerinas pirouetting around, rocker babes swaggering about.

Then at 9 am the next morning, I see Anusha Vincent walk.

The thing is, I have come to attach much to the walk. I think it defines the person in a way that nothing else can. A giant with a puny gait is no giant. A dwarf with head held high is no dwarf.

Just the other day, at the railway station, a puny girl strolled past me with a walk that added a magnificent padding to her scrawny person. On the other platform, a bear of a boy scurried about like a church mouse. The girl was probably top of her class; the boy right at the bottom… my mind had given its verdict. Two people defined by their walks and not their physical facades. I couldn’t be the only one judging people by their walks… it also couldn’t be that I myself wasn’t being judged for my walk, for every uncertain step.

A walk maketh a person? Vetoed. But, a walk sure defineth a person.

First things first. Identify the problem.

I decided to ask around and reach a consensus on what people made of my walk. My aunts said point blank that I walked like a hip-swaying monkey. My friends said that I walked as though I was devoid of life. My mom said I walked like a school kid with a bag on her shoulders. An old classmate said that I looked like I was perennially scared of tripping. Worst of all, one of my best friends had to think for a good 5 billion minutes before telling me, ‘Uh, I’ve never really noticed your walk.’

Quite daunting. Time to introspect.

Hip- swaying monkey- do I have simian tendencies? Have I ever showed a proclivity towards Shakira videos? Nix and nil.

Devoid of life- last checked, still breathing. Lack of interest in day-to-day activities? Possible. Take note.

School kid with bag on shoulders- just checked my certificates. In the clear.

Perennially scared of tripping- am I insecure? Nervous? Not confident? Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps. Point taken.

Uh, I’ve never really noticed your walk- extremely worrying. Lack of character? Hope not. Lack of charisma? Maybe.

Inference: A walk is not just a physical phenomenon. It is an emotional bearing. It is a state of mind. So does that mean my state of mind is that of a hip-swaying monkey? Or a zombie? Or of NO ONE?

Problems identified, I start working on them. My walk gets better, I feel better about it. There’s this other thing I’ve realized about working on your walk. I mean, apart from addressing the internal issues that might be weighing down on it, you need to consciously include some style too. Just to give it that extra edge.

Shoulders square, chest a little bit out there, a gentle sway of the hips, medium strides, hands dangling happily by the sides, feet comfortably pointed. But most importantly, with head held high.

I am a woman of the world. Anusha Vincent walks her talk with her head held high, mind without fear.

And into that heaven of freedom my father, let my consciousness awake.