Crossroads & Intersections

Crossroads & Intersections, is my first set of realistic-fiction inspired during a morning walk when 'crossroads' spoke to me, asking me to tell stories they have witnessed.

The Walking Tale is a collection of stories that I gather when I step out for walking. Sometimes in a park, a busy marketplace, a lonely trail or my rain-soaked terrace, my walks help me spot ‘stories’ around me. On most days, they spark memories from my life, reminding me of stories that I have forgotten or left untold. On a few days, I find stories that I have seen / heard / known or lived around us. On rare days, they spark stories that could be about you.

I see stories every time I walk. Once I find them, I wait for them to show me what they mean. These pictures are from my walk on 30th July. The stories were written in the 2 weeks since then.

I am sharing these stories on Substack for the first time. I hope you enjoy reading them.

I am yet to find titles for these stories. If a story speaks to you, help me find a title.

Story ONE

“We’ve been at a similar crossroad before,” Shikha said to herself as she turned around the corner. “All intersections are the same. They throw an option for you, reminding, teasing, confusing, troubling you with a choice that you have to make.”

Today, Shikha was an hour early for her walk. She wanted to walk alone today. The chatter of her walking group was getting unbearable now. Gossip - woes of daughters & daughters-in-law - rants against husbands - neighbours - characters on TV - ageing - medicines - aches - Gods - they couldn’t stop talking. Their lives were noisy. Their minds, their hearts always buzzing with complaints. There was a pattern too. The women complained about everything they had no control over.

“Women have no control over many things,” Shikha continued talking to herself, “Why don’t we complain when we are younger. Why do our complains grow with our age?”

“Did you hear about Wayanad? What a tragedy!” Shikha asked a few weeks back.

“Where is Wayanad?” Someone asked. Shikha slowed down to walk silently behind.

Last week she tried again, “100 gms!! Do you know the poor girl stayed up all night to lose weight. She got disqualified for being 100 gms overweight!”

Shikha assumed that the Olympic wave would have hit her fitness oriented walking friends.

“100 gms? Look at us! We walk everyday and add 1000 gms every day! No one gives us a medal!” Came a reply.

Shikha slowed down her walk. Again. She saw no point.

There was no point in walking today either. Her society was preparing for 15th August. The biannual charade of wearing tri-colour, waving a crisp paper flag for a group photo in the lawn, fake nationalist messages on WhatsApp, screeching desh-bhakti filmi songs till noon, she had had enough. Shikha switched off her phone last night.

She had been reading about the young doctor in Kolkata. The thought of a brutal crime on a woman’s body had given her sleepless nights. No one is safe. Not even a 68 year old woman like her. She wanted to join the protest. Somewhere. In her city. None of her WA groups had any information on a location. Not that she had the means to travel to a distant location at night. Unattended & unaccompanied at 12 in the night. She had never gone out alone in the world. But wasn’t that what this was all about?

Shikha wanted to reclaim the streets for women. She had never raised her voice for anything. She didn’t even know what her voice sounded like when raised. Did anyone even care for voices of old women like her? Hathras, Asifa, Nirbhaya - now Kolkata. Everyone had been at this crossroad before. Nothing had changed. Was a street protest an answer? Or was it easier to go back to the familiarity of helpless, hopeless, careless and aimless chatter about one’s own life. The world at large had larger problems. Too large for women to battle. Infant, young or old. Isn’t that evident?

Shikha picked pace. She was going to reach another crossroad soon. She had to choose which way to go.

Today, was a good day to decide that.

Story TWO

Jai stopped at the intersection. This is where he always stopped. It was his routine. Maybe he got tired at the same spot. Or maybe he liked to take a moment to choose his next step. He took a contemplative look at both paths. Shreya stood behind watching her 3-year old nephew make another decision.

The left cut across half the park, it’s the shortest path to home. Taking the right meant taking the long road home.

‘He must be tired by now. Or he will be soon enough. He will ask me to be carried,” Shreya knelt to help. She took Jai’s baby hand and pointed towards the left.

‘How do you teach a toddler to navigate crossroads?’ Shreya thought.

Standing at her life’s biggest juncture, Shreya wanted someone to hold her hand and pointed towards a path. That’s the thing she wanted most in life. Why didn’t life come with a map? If life demanded a GPS, then there ought to be someone helping you with navigation.

This was unfair!

Jai dropped her hand. He had made his decision. He turned right. Shreya watched Jai toddle with confidence, waving and smiling at strangers. Shreya got up to follow her nephew. She had taught a child to walk independently.

Now it was the child teaching her how to navigate a crossroad.

Story THREE

The concrete felt good under his heels. So what if they were not good for his knees? Shekhar enjoyed running on the concrete pathway. The mud path was not challenging enough. He had been running all his life. Literally & metaphorically. Running was choice. Life had given him the choice first. Once he picked it, he chose for life.

Shekhar had learnt to manoeuvre through the slow walkers, slow down to spot jog at a sudden obstruction, vary his speed between empty and busy stretches. He could leap over puddles and broken branches. He could take detours and still complete his circuit. Everyday he was proud of his run. Rain or sunshine he had run everyday since the last 30 years. Running had given him a lot too. The more he ran outdoors, the more he could run indoor. No, not on the treadmill, but on the professional and personal track of life.

“When did you start running?” Ashish asked him at work one day. He was the new rising star in the organisation. Shekhar was asked to mentor and coach him for a possible future leadership role.

This was not fair. Shekhar didn’t have anyone coach or mentor him in his career. He didn’t even know how this worked! Maybe you start by finding common ground?

“Do you run?” Shekhar replied by asking a question. He didn’t look like a runner.

“Aah! No, I am not the marathon kinds,” Ashish confirmed. Shekhar was right. “I can lift weights though!” He added.

“Nothing prepares you for life better than running,” Shekhar was being honest. He had to coach him right? That’s what he had done.

“Do you go to the gym?” Ashish asked.

“Nah! I am not the gym kinds,” Shekhar tried to crack a joke. The two men looked at each other for a moment. There was no laugh.

“Let’s do something. I’ll run with you. You have to teach me how. Would you like to work out in the gym with me? Maybe we can find something to help you run better than you already do? That way we could both teach each other something new,” Ashish suggested.

Shekhar was not prepared for the offer. He was too old to get into a gym!

“Let me think,” he replied.

Shekhar was thinking now. He realised that he had crossed the intersection thrice already. He had his map tracked to his muscles. He could run on it even with his eyes closed. He had never run on the mud track. The doctor had suggested he should if he wanted to continue running for sometime more.

Shekhar stopped at the interaction. Spot jogging to consider his decision. He thought of Ashish and his offer. He decided to take the mud track for the first time.

Story FOUR

There were two clear options for Kuki. She could either be the sweet & inviting host to her cousin. Or be the hard & rough opponent to her popular counterpart, Tikoo. The two cousins were as different as the mud and concrete paths in the park. One was soft, welcoming, always laughing, joking, playing, dancing, having fun. On the other side was the serious, reserved, private, respect - my - boundaries, no jokes, no teasing, no mischief, almost hardened and colourless like the concrete pathways, buildings and road. When they were young , everyone felt that Tikoo would make Kuki open up. “She will learn to be a child! She is too mature for a 10 year old!”

Kuki didn’t understand what was the problem. She was a mature, 10 year old child. There was nothing wrong with that. So what if she didn’t climb trees, walk into neighbours’ homes, feed the street dogs, cycle across the main road or run errands like her cousin? Kuki was mature enough to accompany her mother to doctor visits and explain her mother’s symptoms. The doctor trusted Kuki more than her mother.

Could Tikoo be trusted with that? Tikoo played with cats & dogs on the streets. She was bitten, scratched and attacked. She was the one being taken to a hospital all the time! Tikoo was reckless. Unpredictable. Irresponsible.

There was nothing common between them. They didn’t share the same hobbies. They didn’t play the same games. They even couldn’t agree on which movie to watch in the afternoon. They were in the same grade, but they didn’t talk about school either. That’s because their school stories were different. One was laden with quizzes, tests, projects, certificates and medals. The other with scraped knees, red marks on the body and notebooks.

Tikoo’s visit meant she had to abandon her bedroom for a week. Kuki and her parents would take over her room, while she would have to share her mother’s. This invasion of privacy and personal space was fine when the girls were younger. Now, it was getting tiring.

It’s good thing that she had stepped out for a walk in the park. Walking was helping her think and consider her options. The moment was now.

Kuki sighed. She had to treat the visit like an intersection between their paths. A gentle meeting of the mud and concrete paths after which they could continue on their own journey.

That’s the best way to go through this.

Story FIVE

Mihir knew that the left track was for him. The mud track was reserved for serious runners. The slow walkers, strollers, gossipers, phone scrollers, families with push carts, wheelers, baby cycles, walking aides chose the tiled and concrete track. That’s where he had to fit in.

When he first strapped on his walking shoes he started on the left. That was 2 years back. His father had followed him to watch his first walk. He was anxious and worried. It was the first walk after all. He had spent two years on the bed.

All humans spend their early years on the bed. Does an infant get restless to get up? Do toddlers who barely walk want to start running? Mihir decided to wait for his time. The concrete track was longer. It meandered lazily around the park, intersecting with more tracks. It allowed the walker to design a new route everyday. In the past two years Mihir had walked through the track building his mindset first and then his muscles. He had cut through his walks several times. Sat on a lonely bench recounting the day that nearly ended his life. He looked down at his legs. He still had a life. And his legs. So what if they weren’t those that he was born with.

Mihir looked at the track on the right. It beckoned him. Mihir decided to step on the mud track for the first time. This was the track for serious runners. Was it for him?

There was only one way to find out.

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I share glimpses of The Walking Tale on my Instagram Stories & Substack Notes. If you’d like to slow-down with stories, come follow me.