The Man Who Always Has the Last Word

I just never hear it.

Every morning, I go for a walk.

Not the same walk. Never the same route.

If I were important, I would say this is for security reasons.
But since the only person tracking my movements is probably my step counter… and even that has low expectations… I call it brain exercise.

At this age, you don’t exercise to become fit.
You exercise… to delay becoming furniture.

So I make decisions.

Critical ones.

Left or right.
Straight or suddenly philosophical.
Which pavement slab looks stable… and which one has been waiting its whole life to embarrass me.

I have reached a point where I don’t trust concrete anymore.

And somewhere between these high-stakes decisions,
I pass a small shop.

A few men gather there.
Reading newspapers like they are fact-checking the universe.
Occasionally nodding, as if the country is being run correctly… but only because they are supervising it from plastic chairs.

We have an unspoken agreement.

They don’t look at me.
I don’t look at them.
But we all know… we are part of each other’s daily background.

Like streetlights.
Or mild joint pain.

Except for one man.

He refuses to let me be background.

Late seventies, I think.
Tall. Lean. A long white beard that suggests wisdom… or at least excellent commitment.

White jubba.
A dhoti… sometimes plain, sometimes checked, like even simplicity wants options.

And every single day, as I walk past, he looks straight at me and says:

“Good Morning.”

Now, this is already more attention than I am emotionally prepared for at 6:30 a.m.

But I respond.

Because I was raised well.

And also because ignoring a man with that level of beard confidence feels risky.

“Good Morning,” I say.

And then…

he says something else.

Softly.
Under his breath.
Timed with the precision of a man who has clearly practised this.

So that I will never hear it.

I have tried.

Slowed down.
Adjusted my stride.
Once, even considered looping back casually… as if I had forgotten something important, like my dignity.

Nothing.

This man is committed to mystery.

Initially, I had concerns.

Was he commenting on me?

“Walk straight.”
“Why is he thinking while walking?”
“This fellow looks like he has taken a wrong turn in life… and is now continuing for consistency.”

All valid possibilities.

But then I thought…
maybe I am overestimating my importance.

A lifelong habit.

Maybe it is a prayer.

A quiet one.

Because some people don’t announce kindness.
They slip it into the world… like loose change into a donation box.

Or maybe…

he is not talking to me at all.

Maybe he is talking to himself.

And I am just… the trigger.

That was unsettling.

Because I realised something.