<p>Morning walks have been a cherished routine for me over the past several years. I don’t skip this unless health issues arise. The benefits—both physical and mental—are immense. It has also helped build a quiet ridge of human connections. </p>.<p>I usually set out at around 5 am, greeted by the amber glow of streetlights. As I open my gate, my friends—a few street dogs—rush towards me, tails wagging in welcome. I offer them a biscuit each. They finish quickly and look up expectantly for more but walk away when I show my empty hands.</p>.<p>Further down the street, I meet Narasamma, the corporation sweeper. She greets me cheerfully and proudly mentions that her son Arjun, driver of the garbage truck, drops her off each morning on his motorcycle. Next comes Sreenivas, who cleans house fronts. He greets me with a broad smile and an army salute, which I return, fondly recalling my seven years in the NCC.</p>.<p>My friend Subbu, an engineer turned childcare centre operator, breezes past with a quick greeting. What a dramatic shift in his career! I also run into a couple of doctor friends and Nandu, a techie and a fellow alumnus of my college, NIITK. Seeing him brings back memories of the sprawling campus and Surathkal beach. My friend Dinesh, who owns a timber shop, passes by carrying a long stick to protect himself from street dogs. A few dogs follow him, barking away—they seem to know their enemies!</p>.<p>As I pass the Maruti and Ganesha temples, I pause briefly to offer a prayer. Rajamma, the flower vendor, and Devaraj, who runs a laundry shop, greet me warmly. Nearing the BBMP park, Kamesh, the Nandini milk shop owner, waves and invites me in for a cup of coffee. Familiar faces exchange smiles. </p>.<p>Over the years, two encounters have remained especially memorable.</p>.<p>One morning, as I passed a tea shop, I tripped on my loosened shoelace and stumbled. A young man—an IPS trainee—rushed to help me, handing over his cup to his friend. Asking me to stay still, he bent over and tied my shoelace. I thanked him and admired his willingness to assist an elderly person.</p>.<p>The other incident involves a father-son duo I often saw on my walks. The son, about 30 years old, has an intellectual disability and always walked two steps behind his reserved father, with whom I never interacted. One day, I saw the son walking alone. Concerned, I asked his father later if he was missing. He reassured me that Ramu, though rarely on his own, knew his way back. When I expressed my prayers for their well-being, the father was visibly moved. He shared the quiet struggles of raising Ramu—stories familiar to thousands of such parents. Since then, we’ve begun exchanging greetings, and Ramu now smiles and waves at me each morning.</p>.<p>These walks have not only kept me healthy, but they have also stitched <br>me into the everyday fabric of my neighbourhood.</p>
<p>Morning walks have been a cherished routine for me over the past several years. I don’t skip this unless health issues arise. The benefits—both physical and mental—are immense. It has also helped build a quiet ridge of human connections. </p>.<p>I usually set out at around 5 am, greeted by the amber glow of streetlights. As I open my gate, my friends—a few street dogs—rush towards me, tails wagging in welcome. I offer them a biscuit each. They finish quickly and look up expectantly for more but walk away when I show my empty hands.</p>.<p>Further down the street, I meet Narasamma, the corporation sweeper. She greets me cheerfully and proudly mentions that her son Arjun, driver of the garbage truck, drops her off each morning on his motorcycle. Next comes Sreenivas, who cleans house fronts. He greets me with a broad smile and an army salute, which I return, fondly recalling my seven years in the NCC.</p>.<p>My friend Subbu, an engineer turned childcare centre operator, breezes past with a quick greeting. What a dramatic shift in his career! I also run into a couple of doctor friends and Nandu, a techie and a fellow alumnus of my college, NIITK. Seeing him brings back memories of the sprawling campus and Surathkal beach. My friend Dinesh, who owns a timber shop, passes by carrying a long stick to protect himself from street dogs. A few dogs follow him, barking away—they seem to know their enemies!</p>.<p>As I pass the Maruti and Ganesha temples, I pause briefly to offer a prayer. Rajamma, the flower vendor, and Devaraj, who runs a laundry shop, greet me warmly. Nearing the BBMP park, Kamesh, the Nandini milk shop owner, waves and invites me in for a cup of coffee. Familiar faces exchange smiles. </p>.<p>Over the years, two encounters have remained especially memorable.</p>.<p>One morning, as I passed a tea shop, I tripped on my loosened shoelace and stumbled. A young man—an IPS trainee—rushed to help me, handing over his cup to his friend. Asking me to stay still, he bent over and tied my shoelace. I thanked him and admired his willingness to assist an elderly person.</p>.<p>The other incident involves a father-son duo I often saw on my walks. The son, about 30 years old, has an intellectual disability and always walked two steps behind his reserved father, with whom I never interacted. One day, I saw the son walking alone. Concerned, I asked his father later if he was missing. He reassured me that Ramu, though rarely on his own, knew his way back. When I expressed my prayers for their well-being, the father was visibly moved. He shared the quiet struggles of raising Ramu—stories familiar to thousands of such parents. Since then, we’ve begun exchanging greetings, and Ramu now smiles and waves at me each morning.</p>.<p>These walks have not only kept me healthy, but they have also stitched <br>me into the everyday fabric of my neighbourhood.</p>
