The walk this evening nearly didn’t happen. Through the day, the sky was grey, the camping rainclouds didn’t budge, and sunshine took the day off. The rains were more a tease rather than ominous. They seemed to mock the forecasts. As I set out, the sporadic drizzle wasn’t enough to dampen my stride.

The daily walk has a way of dredging up memories. As my pace picks up, the reels start rolling, those short slices of life lived—in no particular order or even in full. All that is needed is a stray thought, a trigger.

Today is my wedding anniversary. There—that was the trigger.  What were the moments that played as I walked?

The long bus ride from Delhi to Bareilly before the wedding. There were just about 12 of us from my family, and another 15–20 of Chandrika’s folks. We had a flat tyre twice en route. After the noisy first half of the journey, many were tired and became silent. Some were cranky. The infants screamed uncontrollably. By the time we reached Bareilly, it was close to midnight, many hours past the ETA. The festive air at the hosts’ end (Chandrika, her parents and friends) had been overtaken by deep anxiety, and a frantic search for our bus. The highway police had been alerted, and on seeing us arrive, there was more relief than joy. The wedding went ahead as scheduled the next morning.

The wedding ceremony was held in the sprawling lawns of the Bareilly Club. The rituals had been the matter of much discussion and negotiation in advance—we had asked that we do just the bare minimum, and keep it short. It was a mix of the South and the North—a combination that wouldn’t have pleased the orthodox of either. The green of the lawns, the crisp November air and weak sunshine made for a great setting. The relaxed ambience aided by the beer that flowed after the ceremony added to the celebratory mood.

Some days after we got back to Delhi, some friends of ours hosted a party. After some hours of merrymaking, it was time to return home. I started my Yamaha RX100. Chandrika moved to hop on. I then set off. Soon, I was sharing my notes about the evening. Chandrika was rather quiet. In just a few seconds, it became clear I had set off before she got on the pillion. I turned back and picked her up. The ride back home was in near silence.

My in-laws were keen to stock our house with food stuffs and other household items whenever they visited us in Delhi. They worried that Chandrika may be having difficulties in a South Indian household, a Madrasi household. Dry fruits, dozens of bars of soap, bottles of shampoos, metres of dress material and more would get unloaded into the house. I told them that their daughter was well fed, and the two of us could live within our means happily. We were grateful for the assurance that they were available when needed but would not accept any handouts. Our experiment in building a home through self-reliance seemed more important than being sensitive to parents who wanted only what was best for their daughter. Chandrika’s mother must have felt rebuffed. She would turn emotional. After all, Chandrika was her only daughter.

Some years later, we were at my cousin’s wedding, down South. My grandfather was there too. He was the patriarch, a benevolent autocrat, more feared than loved. Many in the family were beholden to him and wouldn’t dare cross his path. He had a sharp tongue, and when he pursed his lips, it was a clear warning that sparks were likely to fly. It would be anyone within his reach that would become his target. He was deeply religious, a stickler for ritual, and generally unyielding when it came to how people ought to conduct themselves. He was a scholar too, well versed in the Ramayana and Mahabharata.

Chandrika and I went over to him, greeted him, and chatted briefly. A little later, he summoned me and instructed me to tell Chandrika to tie her hair. Now, Chandrika had short hair and she was not used to plaits, South Indian-style, or to tying her lush, abundant hair. I told my grandfather that I don’t instruct my wife on how she should present herself, and that she looked just fine. He then let loose, ‘She shouldn’t be here, presenting herself like Panchaali with her hair loose. It doesn’t bode well.’ I raised my voice over the nadhaswaram and the thavil and asked him, ‘If you liken her to Panchaali in the sabha, who are you, and what does it say of all the men present here?’ He didn’t speak to me for the rest of our stay at the wedding. Chandrika, on hearing of this exchange, was shocked and from there on kept a distance from him—not out of respect or fear of his wrath, but fearful of her own possible harsh reaction.

Fast forward to our time in Chennai. We lived in an apartment complex. Chandrika was particular about conforming to rules and norms collectively agreed by the residents. She was upright, fierce in arguing for what she thought was right and for the greater good, but was sufficiently accommodating to avoid being called unyielding and rigid. The matter was quite mundane. Pigeons were a menace. They were there by the dozens, messing up our building and causing a stink. There was collective agreement that none of the residents should keep food out for the pigeons or actively feed them. My mother, who lived with us, knowing the restrictions, nevertheless made it a point to leave food on the windowsill every day. Anna daanam, perhaps. Or just that she liked watching the birds come unfailingly every day. I asked her to stop. She didn’t. One morning, I told her sternly that her daily feeding had to stop. She wept. She must have continued for a while. While getting ready to go to work, Chandrika noticed my mother sobbing and figured out what had transpired. She came straight to me and ticked me off thus, ‘Amma is homebound. There are few things that give her joy and peace. Why are you snatching away the small things that make up her day? It isn’t as if the three or four pigeons that come for those few minutes every morning are such a problem that you must object to.’ There was a lesson there for me.

I become distracted by a youngster whizzing past me. He is the pace-setter for my daily walk. Tall, long legs, and a giant stride. I focus on keeping pace. I am tiring too. The reels stopped. I don’t live in the past. Memories are like migratory birds that visit with the seasons. They draw attention on arrival and then become calm and quiet.

The clock keeps time even if memory falters.