Slow Walks with Dada

Everyone in the house walks fast.

Ma walks fast, tak-tak-tak, because of the office. Papa walks fast because of the bus. Bhaiya runs everywhere because of everything.

But Dada walks slowly. Slowly, slowly. One step. Then another step. His stick goes tick on the path, keeping slow time.

And when Minu walks with Dada — holding one finger, going slowly, slowly — the whole world comes out to say hello.

Fast people never see the snail. The snail is too slow for fast people. But Dada and Minu are just the right speed. “Look,” says Dada, stopping. “He’s carrying his whole house. He is never late, because home comes with him.”

Fast people never smell the raat-ki-rani flowers. You have to stand still, still, still, and let the smell find you. Dada knows the exact spot. He has known it for fifty years.

Fast people never hear the koel calling from the neem tree. Ku-ooo! “Answer her,” says Dada. So Minu calls back — ku-ooo! — and the koel and Minu talk, back and forth, back and forth, until both are laughing, if birds can laugh, and Dada says they can.

One step. Then another step. Tick, says the stick. Slowly, slowly.

“Dada,” asks Minu, “why do you walk slow?”

Dada thinks about it, the slow way, which is his way of thinking too.

“When you walk fast,” he says, “you get there quickly. When you walk slow — you get there and you get the snail, the flowers, the koel, and the evening.” He pats her hand on his finger. “Slow is not less, Minu. Slow is more.”

The lamppost switches on above them, right on time. The lane goes soft and golden.

One step. Then another step. Home now, slowly, slowly — carrying the snail’s hello, the flowers’ smell, and the koel’s song, all the way to bed.

The fast people missed everything.

Don’t tell them. It’s ours.