On Walking

I am a woman who loves a good walk, much like the women who came before me. Virginia Woolf, of course, knew exactly why:

I am extremely happy walking on the downs...I like to have space to spread my mind out in.

Last month, I was struggling to work up the ends of a story that was due for publication soon. As a freelance reporter who barely breaks even, such days feel devilish. And when the devil arrives, I head out for a smoke.

It became a getaway of sorts: a minute or two of fashionable peace. In the grey cold, especially, I enjoyed the rush in my heart as I let a Marlboro sit between my lips and blew out smoke that became air. But the calm would fade away shortly after, like a temporary fix. I was craving for something more reliable.

So, that devilish day, I went for a walk instead and decided to leave my phone at the desk. My mind took me to some dark places for that decision– what if I get kidnapped or robbed and have no one to call for help? What if there’s a stunning sunset that I totally miss out on taking a picture of?

I took one step at a time, my hands and keys folded in my pocket. It felt as usual at first. I sheepishly strolled, wondering how passersby perceived me, what they read in my face, my forced smile, my sluggish steps. But within five minutes of reaching the park, I grew seamlessly comfortable. The dim yellow lights contrasted well against the green, and I thought to myself, “Public parks are a blessing to humanity.”

They lend us the permission to sigh in public, pant loudly, and run as far as we want from our minds. That evening, I saw three friends laughing together, a couple curled into each other’s arms, and a woman crying out faintly. I knew I could be whoever and no one would care to look, and that felt liberating.

I walked and walked and walked until I had this inexplicable urge to run. After an ounce of hesitation, I began to sprint briefly without noticing how my hands moved or where my legs were headed. My heartbeat crawled to my throat; a sense of respite. It was as if I had poured my worries into the ground. I felt one with the crowd in Lincoln Park.

A tear fell to my chin, and I started to head back. Without a phone to bury my head in, I actually met people’s eyes, noticed the placards of my neighborhood, and forgot to worry for a minute. To me, walking has become a cathartic release, an intimate ritual. But in many ways, it’s also a political act.

Months ago, when mom underwent knee surgery, she was prescribed medicines and walks. I’d accompany her to the park whenever I could, and it helped her recover. It also surprisingly helped me see her wholly, beyond her motherhood. She was a busy person who regretted not spending enough time with her mother, felt insecure about her body on some days, and enjoyed gossiping about those nosy neighbors with me.

Walking now reminds me of my mom, the women who walked before her, and those who couldn’t. One might believe much has changed since Woolf wrote that diary note in September of 1926. Women can walk more freely than ever before. Sure, some of us can. But what about the rest– Those who need to seek permission before leaving the house, those who keep looking behind the shoulder to see if someone’s chasing them, those who don’t have walkable streets or parks around?

Much like most women who grew up in India, I too couldn’t walk whenever or wherever I wanted to. The world was too cruel for me to afford that luxury. But now I get to live alone, far from home, in a city I can actually walk in. And it’s safe to say it has changed my life.

So, this is my love letter to the one thing I’d probably miss the most when I part ways: good ol’ walking.