poem2

A:
I miss this. Walking. The wide sidewalks and the pleasant weather. I’m only saying this because it’s not super cold right now. When I went home to Bangalore, walking 5 minutes in summer felt like an ordeal. The sun was harsher and stronger making my body feel heavier. I could feel the pressure of my weight on my lower back, and the soles of my feet. Distances felt subjective. That walk at night seemed easy. The same walk during the day felt unmanageable. Walking feels so easy here. Now in my black boots, layers of warm clothing and baggy coat, I feel my walk change. It’s surer. I don’t have to focus much on the pavement or where I’m placing my foot, nor am I compelled to pay much attention to my surroundings or body. I notice that the smells don’t change much, neither do the size of the roads or pavements. There’s a system to this walking. Pedestrian lights to mark safe passage. In the clothes I had left here, that are meant for here, my body seems to instantly accept all the walking I expect of it. The wind and bare trees, and parks in every neighbourhood. Things that just become part of your daily walk.

We don’t realise it, but walking is so choreographed.
It’s one of the first things I noticed about your movement. How you walk.
What if we turned the gaze? Reflect on where we come from based on our experiences of this “new” place.

P:
It’s nice to be outside. For the effort of moving my feet to feel more like flying, for my lungs to be free to take the air in, not ration it carefully to avoid the freeze burn. The wind, even when nippy, seems to be helping you almost fly. Passersby observe with a detachment this little flight of mine: flight from home, flight from the unforgivingness of Russian winter into spring, the flight of a familiar, yet foreign street holding my weight and lifting me up.