I have been all my life a walker. I used to walk along the tree-shaded trunk road leading out of the city of Mysore, in every direction, on the roads leading to the forests of Bandipur or Karapur, from my home in Laxmipuram, or amble along the base of Chamundi Hill through rugged paths, reach Lalitha Mahal Palace on the East horizon and return home--after nearly five hours of walking, brooding, thinking and making plans for my future or my writing , usually on weekends or during those years when I failed in my exams and studied privately, without having to attend classes, for next year's chance (which I considered a blessed state as it left me in a state of unalloyed freedom).

My father, though a disciplinarian and a strict headmaster of our high school, did not mind what I did; he didn't have faith in the education system. He left me free to read whatever I liked out of the school library. Wandering about morning and evening, I felt intoxicated by the charms of nature. The air was clean and pure, avenue trees were in bloom. Evening I walked about two or three miles around the Kukara Halli Tank, listened to the soft splash of wavelets on the shore and watched the display of colours in the western sky. I do not mind repeating what I have said earlier in my essays, that the sunset in Mysore in unique and not seen anywhere else in the world.

I went around the tank and them sat on a bench on the bund. A little farther off on another bench, I could see Venkatappa, a distinguished artist of Mysore who arrived at about 4:30 in the afternoon every day and watched the sky all evening, well past dusk, and then rose to go. He wore a white dhoti and a coat over it, crowned with a turban; an umbrella was tucked under his arm in all seasons. He sought no company, was content to commune with the sky till the last splash of colour vanished.

He was a bachelor and a recluse, was dedicated to painting, a genius who sought no patrons or admirers, a totally self-contained man. He has left several water-colours, paintings which are to be seen at the Jagan Mohan Palace Gallery and at Bangalore. He had a few friends who were on visiting terms and who saw his pictures in progress and listened to his veena, as he was also devoted to his music. I am straying away from my original theme, which was walking, and which includes landscape, which in turn includes stars and the sky and the lake and Venkatappa rapt in watching the wonderful spectacles. People knew him only at a distance, which he maintained all throughout his life. Though considered a recluse, it seems to me he was more hermit-like.

At sunset I too moved; cobras were said to crawl out of the crevices in the pile of rugged stone forming the bund. I walked to the market-place to jostle with the crowd. In all, morning and evening, I must have walked ten miles a day without reckoning any purpose in walking. I walked because I enjoyed it and had the leisure. While walking, my mind became active and helped my writing.

I kept up this pace for years wherever I happened to be--although nature was not the same everywhere as in Mysore. That charm and the abandon could not normally continue owing to new responsibilities and changing routine, but I continued my walking as a habit wherever I might be--until last year when I fell ill and had to stay in a hospital for a few weeks. When my condition improved, I was permitted to walk again in regulated doses. 'You may walk up to that cottage Number 24, with the nurse's help…' And then, 'Be sure to walk for ten minutes exactly, from your bedroom to the hall in your home.' As I progressed, I was permitted more time--thirty or forty minutes in the park. I have lost the habit of walking in the street, dodging the scooters and autorickshaws and the potholes and pitfalls so strictly preserved by the Corporation. Nowadays, I walk in the park near my home both in Madras and Mysore, arriving there in my car.

The park is a world in itself. Here you see a variety of motives in operation. The men who walk for athletic reasons, not a few, seem to be in training for the Olympics. Jogging, running with upraised arms or swinging them in windmill fashion, stopping in their tracks to bend down, stretch or kick imaginary balls, jumping high and low, with not a care for others in their path. For me these Human Windmills are a terror.

Those who are here on medical advice can be spotted from the style by which they carry themselves, pushing forward as if punishing themselves for all the years of stagnation and neglect. Some of them walk as if chased by a tiger, heaving, panting and perspiring. The doctor must have advised, 'Take a brisk walk, don't slouch or amble along.' And they practice an unaccustomed exercise. There is always a group of older men seated on the bench on the lawn, perhaps vanaprasthas, talking of old times and current politics and comparing one another's health.

Young couples sitting in remote corners, in the shelter of bushes, conversing in whispers, their backs turned to the public. Day after day they sit there. I get very curious to know what they are saying. Of course, there must be an affirmation of each other's dedication, devotion. It can't go on repeated a thousand times day after day ad nauseam. They must have other things to talk about: their homes and parents or the hurdles in their way.

I would give anything to understand them. I wish them well and success to their romance. I know the whispers will cease ultimately, once they become man and wife. You can't go on whispering all life. There will come a natural phase when you will shout at each other in the course of an argument or spend long pauses of silence, sitting in two chairs and staring ahead at a wall, a tree, with no subject left for conversation. All that could be said has been said, followed by an unmitigated, pregnant silence. A perfect attunement and communication of minds has been attained where speech is superfluous. In Kamban's Ramayana, when Rama and Sita are left alone after the wedding, they remain silent, having nothing to say. The poet explains, 'Those who were always together eternally as Vishnu and Lakshmi and separated only a moment ago have no need to talk.'

A couple come and part at the gate and move in opposite directions without uttering a word, reminding me of Byron's line: 'When we two parted in silence and tears.' Fresh young couples are however cheerful and relaxed, commenting on flowers and plants and smiling all through, especially if they have a toddler with them.

Students sit in little groups here and there. Cheerless and grim, anxiety writ large on their faces, desperately making up for wasted months. I sometimes enquire what they are studying and what their hopes are. They do not seem to mind the disturbance. Sometimes I ask to see the book in their hands. They are always glad to be interrupted. Last week I looked through a book that they were trying to 'mug up'. It was a bazaar 'guide' to English prose for B.A. Leafing through I found my name listed in the contents with two stories included. The stories were paraphrased, annotated in Tamil and summarized in English.

Two thousand words of my composition reduced to twenty words expertly, with definitions of 'difficult' phrases and possible questions and answers. The young men, the examinees, found this tabloid presentation more clear-headed and acceptable than the original. With these, they might also attain a First Class in English. I wondered for a moment if I should declare my authorship of the two stories, but I returned the glorious guide to them and passed on, not being sure if they could bear to see a live author and also because I was not sure I could answer if they questioned me on my stories, as they were likely to be more up-to-date with the subject.