Walking, like visiting museums, is another of our family traditions. My father’s grandfather first started taking him for walks in the hills of Shimla. His father and uncles carried him on their shoulders up the temple hills of Shimla, feeding peanuts to monkeys
at Jakhoo or listening to Aartis at Kalibari.
Diyas floating by the Ganga.
The walks beyond Laxman Jhula in Rishikesh where the Ganga first comes into the plains is a spiritual experience connecting one through millennia of worshippers, practitioners and thinkers. The songs of the Indian nation with it’s dreams and defeats, victories and hopes, aspirations and workings.
Drawing lines on the beaches has been another of our favorites over the decades, sand houses now turning into concrete realties as life evolves and one has to build further.
Run like the great runners of Africa, I told my sons as they practiced on the beaches of Aksa, passing through the Portuguese areas of Mumbai, where the guitar strumming and humming carry us to different planes.
Over generations and varied experiences one has learnt from different traditions about life and death. Everybody knows that they are going to die, but nobody believes it. If we did, we would do things differently.
“Do what the Buddhists do. Every day, have a little bird on your shoulder that asks,
‘Is today the day? Am I ready? Am I doing all I need to do? Am I being the person I want to be?’ “
Turn your head to your shoulder as if the bird is there now.
Take a walk on the cool side.