It’s spring, and Nikhil has a new activity to look forward to. Each morning, as soon as he wakes up, Nikhil points to his knee. He keeps pointing to his knee until we tell him the magic words, “Yes, Nikhil, we’ll go for a walk on the trail.” Nikhil is satisfied and continues with his day. But since he knows his old man is getting forgetful, he points to his knee every time he sees me! This is a change from his normal routine of pointing to his shoulder—his code word for going to the mall.
We are fortunate to have a couple of “Rail Trails” in our town. These former railway routes have been converted into walking paths. The terrain is flat and paved, making it easy for Nikhil to walk and for us to push his adaptable stroller when he gets tired. Though our walks typically begin when my wife and daughter visit India, when it’s just Nikhil and me at home, this year we’ve started earlier. A couple of years ago, instead of taking Nikhil for long drives during these family visits, I decided to try the trail. We had recently received his adaptable stroller, and I thought both of us would benefit—I could get some exercise while Nikhil enjoyed the outdoors.
We quickly settled into a routine. Nikhil would get excited as I finished work and got him ready to head out. He would point to his shoes and then his harness (which complements his seat belt). He would clap with joy and thump the van a couple of times while settling into the car seat. At the trail’s parking lot, I would settle him into his adaptable stroller. As we neared the trail, Nikhil would excitedly point to the flashing lights adjacent to it. A new tradition was born. These flashing lights activate at intersections when a pedestrian or cyclist either passes a sensor or presses a button before crossing the street. I had once explained to Nikhil that there’s a Stop sign for pedestrians and flashing lights for traffic. This has now become a mantra that I must chant whenever we pass any such intersection in our town: “Stop sign, flashing lights, pedestrian crossing!”
I don’t know if Nikhil likes the sound of me chanting, or if he feels that he needs to remind me of this. It’s not enough for me to mention this once; it has to be repeated a few times. By now, we’ve entered the trail, and there is a lot for Nikhil to take in. We are on the larger trail that runs for several miles and traverses multiple towns. For starters, there is a pond to the left of the trail, though that does not hold much interest for Nikhil. The other side is more interesting. It holds vistas of the backyards of houses, commercial establishments, and car dealerships. Lots to see and point out to Dad.
Anyone passing us would hear the following conversation. Nikhil is pointing with gusto and drawing my attention with “uh, uh, uh”, each “uh” getting progressively louder and urgent until I respond to him. “That’s the backyard, Nikhil. Yes, Nikhil, there is a grill and a fire pit in the backyard.” And on seeing him point to his mouth, “Yes, Nikhil, we will grill chicken once we get home”. As we pass a cycle shop, Nikhil gets unusually excited. The first couple of times, I couldn’t figure out his excitement, and my mention of cycles did not seem to satisfy him. It then struck me on perhaps our third walk. “Sliding doors, just as at the food court in the mall!” Nikhil turned around and gave me a triumphant look. So that phrase has now entered our trail walk lexicon.
As we progress further, we pass a car dealership. Nikhil is like a kid at the confectioner’s. He is pointing furiously. I have to name the different models of vehicles. His excitement reaches a fever pitch if he spies a van that resembles his school van or his minivan. We then come to another intersection, and I have to resume my chants of “Stop sign, flashing lights, and pedestrian crossing”. On one of our walks, as we came closer to the Stop sign, Nikhil heard a plane overhead. He pointed up and I responded “Airplane”. He then pointed to the Stop sign: “Stop sign,” I said. He pointed up again, and I repeated “Airplane”. Nikhil then repeatedly pointed up and towards the Stop sign and egged me on if I didn’t respond. “Airplane, Stop Sign, Airplane Stop sign.”
We then came up to the Stop sign and crossed it. Nikhil pointed to the sky and then looked ahead, no stop sign. I sighed in relief, I could stop responding to him. But he turned around and pointed to the Stop sign behind and kept attracting my attention till I resumed my chanting. Fortunately for me, the plane soon passed out of earshot.
Further up, we come to the bridge that crosses over the road. We pause here while Nikhil eyes the traffic traveling in both directions. He is caught up in the flow of traffic and will occasionally point out a car to me. We resume our walk, and now we pass through a stretch where there is conservation land on one side and wildflowers on the other side. These don’t hold much interest for Nikhil. He perks up as we come to the section where there is a Pool Supply store. An old abandoned van sits by the trail, and Nikhil points excitedly at it, trying to elicit a response from me. He is satisfied when I respond that it is a van, and then we turn back.
The return journey is similar to the onward one. He is like a conductor waving his hand and pointing his finger in all directions. I’m a one-man orchestra, and I have to keep up with the Maestro.
This year, my daughter has started accompanying us on our walks. We go to another trail, which is closer to our house and originates at the train station. A trip to the train station is one of Nikhil’s favorite jaunts now. He looks forward to the evening when he accompanies us to pick his sister up from the train station as she returns from work. The days are getting longer, and we park close to the train station. If Nikhil is lucky, there is a train at the station. When it’s just Nikhil and me, I can’t get him to walk and manage his stroller at the same time. But now that his sister is here, she grabs his arm and challenges him to walk. She keeps up a soothing conversation and asks him about his day at school. My wife is plagued with pollen allergies, and the trails are out of bounds for her in spring.
At first, I would let them walk ahead, and I would follow with the stroller. However, Nikhil would stop periodically and look back longingly at the stroller. Now, I walk ahead while they follow behind. Nikhil is motivated to catch up with me because he knows he can sit in the stroller. Once his sister decides he’s walked enough, she lets him take a seat. This trail passes by an office complex where a fleet of school vans is parked. This is a must-stop. Nikhil now carries his iPad/communication device with him, and he points and lets us know that those are school vans. We’ve realized that he is observant and pays attention to houses that have play swings or slides in the backyard. “Swing” or “Slide,” he will let us know as we draw up to the house.
As we walk further, he starts reminding us of his van. And to make sure we understand, he tells us, “Bed, Sleep.” “Are you tired, Nikhil?” “Yes!” He keeps a running conversation going on his iPad, though the bulk of the conversation revolves around “Van” or “Mini Van”.
Nikhil’s habit of pointing at things sometimes has a disconcerting effect on people who are not familiar with him. Some are taken aback, while others who have seen him on the trail wave to him. Nikhil believes in economy of motion. Pointing with his index finger can mean pointing to an object, saying “hi,” or saying “bye.” One has to be aware of the context. He can be loud, too, especially when he is excited. However, the trail we walk on has few people, so the chances of him startling someone are low.
When I look back at old pictures, I realize we’ve wandered these trails, off and on, for over fourteen years. There are photos of Nikhil, once reaching only to his sister’s midriff, now standing shoulder to shoulder with her. Pictures of him kissing his mother, or pausing to study something that caught his eye. A collection of small, precious moments from simple walks over the years.
To me, these walks are part of my routine, a way to unwind in the evening, get some exercise, and still my mind. For Nikhil, though, they seem to be the highlight of his day, something he awaits with eager excitement.
Perhaps I shouldn’t take this for granted. I may one day look back, wistfully, on a time when my grown daughter still had time to walk beside me, to talk about the stray, sundry things that filled her life. When she could pause to chat with Nikhil, guiding him gently along, asking after his day.
Conversations without the distraction of devices — priceless.
