A Walk by the Bow River

The irony of liberty

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Rajkumari staggers out of the passenger’s seat of my 2-door gold mini-Renault. Ramesh painfully clambers out from the back. “Ok,” I cheerfully make a declaration. “Let’s go for a walk. Phew. 30 degrees Celsius.” I wonder if my forced gusto can disguise Rajkumari’s news of her terminal cancer diagnosis from this morning. Ramesh is dressed in a short-sleeved dark blue shirt and sleek, grey, silk summer pants. A red pocket handkerchief peeks out his left chest pocket. A houndstooth beret tips just so over his eyes. He saunters off in regimented marching steps in his polished black shoes, immediately lost in his world of ideas and philosophy. “There he goes,” protests Rajkumari. “He has already forgotten about me. My suave Indian captain from the British Raj army.” Rajkumari hobbles on her intricately bent knees and engorged feet: advanced rheumatoid arthritis. Two cantankerous geese unexpectedly waddle up from the water’s edge to her feet, and she unleashes a genuine bellow of surprise and joy. “Shoo, shoo,” she chuckles. She wipes my tears from my cheeks and whispers, “Death is liberty.”

By Kelly Kaur

From: Canada

Instagram: kellykaur3

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