Sometimes the shortest distance between two people is measured in years, not footsteps.
My wife says I walked away from her on our wedding day.
She’s right.
Just not in the way you’re imagining.
I didn’t walk away emotionally.
Or spiritually.
Or legally.
I simply walked away from her at our wedding reception.
The plan was straightforward.
The newly married couple would make their grand entrance together, walking from the entrance of the hall to the stage while smiling graciously at family and friends.
Halfway there, I forgot one tiny detail.
I wasn’t attending the reception alone.
Whether it was excitement, nerves, or my lifelong belief that everyone naturally walks at my speed, I quickened my pace.
Several steps later, I realised something important was missing.
My bride.
I turned around.
There she was.
Standing exactly where any newly married bride should be…
wondering why her husband had apparently decided to begin married life as a solo act.
More than thirty years later, if a conversation wanders anywhere near walking, pacing or staying together, the evidence is immediately produced.
“Remember the reception?”
Case closed.
The prosecution rests.
The defence has never recovered.
Perhaps that’s why I notice couples when I go for my morning walks.
Or perhaps, more accurately…
I notice how they walk.
Some husbands are in front.
Some wives are.
Some walk shoulder to shoulder.
Others remain three or four quiet steps apart.
Years ago, I used to invent stories.
“They’ve argued.”
“He’s impatient.”
“She’s annoyed.”
We’re wonderful storytellers.
Unfortunately…
we often write fiction about strangers.
Besides, this is Kochi.
Walking side by side isn’t always romantic.
Between scooters appearing from nowhere, potholes that have become permanent residents, wandering dogs, and auto-rickshaws that seem to regard lane discipline as a polite suggestion, romance often has to proceed in single file.
Sometimes the only thing separating husband and wife…
is traffic.
Over time, I stopped inventing stories.
I started watching instead.
One morning, an elderly gentleman was walking a few steps ahead of his wife.
They weren’t talking.
They weren’t holding hands.
When they reached a broken stretch of pavement, he quietly stepped onto the road, leaving the smoother path for her.
He never looked back.
She never thanked him.
Neither of them seemed to think anything remarkable had happened.
Perhaps because it hadn’t.
Not after forty years.
Another morning, it was the wife who walked ahead.
Her husband stopped to tie his shoelace.
She continued for a few steps before instinctively turning around.
She didn’t call out.
She didn’t wave.
She simply checked he was still there.
She smiled.
Waited.
And they carried on.
Five seconds.
An entire lifetime.
There’s another couple I see quite often.
Neither stays in front for very long.
Without discussion, they quietly exchange places.
He leads for a while.
Then she does.
Before long, they’re side by side again.
Watching them, I realised something.
Perhaps marriage isn’t about deciding who leads.
Perhaps it’s about never insisting on leading all the time.
When we were younger, I was convinced I walked faster.
My wife insists I simply walked as though appointments with myself were of national importance.
She’s probably right.
Somewhere over the years, our walking speeds negotiated a quiet peace treaty.
No meeting.
No discussion.
It just happened.
Perhaps age does that.
Or perhaps marriage does.
The destination hasn’t changed.
Only our understanding of the journey has.
These days, I notice something else.
Older couples rarely seem concerned about walking in perfect step.
One may be ahead.
The other behind.
But every so often, one of them glances back.
Not because they’ve lost the other.
Simply to make sure they’re still there.
Sometimes the one in front slows.
Sometimes the one behind catches up.
No instructions.
No grand gestures.
Just two people who have adjusted to each other’s rhythm for so long that they no longer notice they’re doing it.
Perhaps that’s what growing old together looks like.
Not walking in perfect step.
But learning each other’s rhythm.
Every now and then, when we happen to be walking somewhere together, I realise I’ve wandered a few steps ahead.
Old habits, it seems, retire even later than we do.
So I slow down.
Or simply stop and wait.
She catches up.
She doesn’t need to remind me about the wedding reception.
She rarely says a word.
She doesn’t have to.
Somewhere between that reception hall more than thirty years ago and the journey we’ve shared ever since, I realised I’d finally stopped worrying about who was walking ahead.
It was simply making sure the other never had to walk alone.
WORDSOUPS 