I saw her this evening after many days. No fault of hers, I guess. It was I who was away travelling and had returned just last night.

I don’t know her name or which apartment she lives in. I have come to expect her these days, when I take my hour-long walk around the apartment complex. The road just outside has long since become too busy with traffic. Predictably, the footpath had some years ago yielded to aggressive road-laying by an automobile-friendly administration.

She walks very slowly, body bent and distorted. Short in stature, stooping, stick in hand, she walks on, unmindful of who or what goes past her. Sometimes it is a cricket ball racing to slam the compound wall, the children already celebrating in anticipation of scoring 4 runs in their cricket match. The ball barely misses her but she doesn’t notice. I wonder if she can see clearly. The children too pretend not to notice. Now, when bicycling is the season’s flavour, the children race each other in the driveway that doubles as our walking track.

Nothing distracts her. She is like a projectile programmed to move forward. She walks alone. She seldom speaks to anyone, not even the old women whose walks consist of 50 steps to the nearest bench and an hour of meeting, greeting and talking. She is never approached by children out of playfulness or curiosity. Few adults greet her. They mind their own business, clutching a phone, or if they have earphones, speak into space to no one in particular.

Does she lead a lonely life, a mute resident housed by a grudging family member who has lost the game of ‘pass the mother’? I even imagined that she must lead a loveless existence.

She carries a cellphone in her left hand, clutching it along with the pallu of her saree, as if this in someway counter balances the weight of the stick in the right.

I had maybe circled the apartment complex a couple of times. I now saw that she was on her phone while walking. She spoke softly so I heard nothing as I passed her.

She was in danger now that her attention was altogether on the invisible speaker and I doubt she paid attention to what lay in front of her. In a while, she sat on the bench nearby while keeping up her conversation. It seemed like her hour of the day had arrived when she felt a connection with the world, she felt alive. It must be the hour to report what life had dealt her in the preceding twenty four hours. She and her phone were a pair, an intimate duo, oblivious to the world around.

I wondered who she spoke to. A son or a daughter settled abroad? A favourite grandchild thousands of miles away – one who now barely recognised her, doesn’t quite know her anymore? Vast distances that kept relationships intact and the heart in a state of yearning? Conversations, with spoken words that were apparently meant to be reassuring and yet left much said between the lines to convey anything but. Conversations, where love and care is expressed through ritual demands that good food be had, medicines be taken on time, doctors’ visits not be skipped, and exposure to the elements be restricted. Conversations about how somehow it became possible to align everyone’s dates and squeeze a vacation in the Caribbean, and promises, too vague promises, to visit ‘home’  within a couple of years. Conversations punctuated with silence to obviate any need to make commitments

The sun had set. Children on their bicycles were on the last of the laps around the building. Those on an evening walk were just a few now and with the pathway was emptying out – the cyclists were having a free run. A blur whizzing past. And then another one. And another. Like bats that were enjoying the early minutes of nightfall.

The old lady made her way haltingly back into the apartment block and was soon out of sight. I returned to my apartment. What next, I wondered. There were many hours to fill before stepping out for my walk again. And watch the old lady again, as she made her way around the building, stick in one hand, phone in the other…