Saunter First and Explain Later

Here’s my sauntering manifesto, Parwati’s —unhurried, observant, and just cheeky enough to light a candle for the ants:

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The Saunter as Subversion: A Politics of the Unhurried

What is this life if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare.
—W.H. Davies, Leisure

In a world that glorifies hustle and monetizes attention, to saunter is not just leisure—it’s a quiet rebellion. A refusal to be optimized, tracked, and squeezed for output. A gentle “no, thank you” to the cult of urgency. It’s the soul’s way of saying, “dhaunta kityak susegaad vas.”

World Sauntering Day, celebrated each year on June 19, may sound like a quaint footnote in the calendar. But beneath its unhurried gait lies a radical proposition: that time is not a commodity, and presence is not a luxury. To saunter is to reclaim the rhythm of the body from the tyranny of the clock. It is to walk not toward productivity, but toward perception.

We often think of the “violence of speed” as something dramatic—car crashes, drug-fueled chases, adrenaline-soaked headlines. But the real violence is quieter. It’s in the everyday hustle: the inbox that never empties, the spiritual retreat with a packed itinerary, the mindfulness app that pings you to breathe. Even stillness has a schedule now.

And then there’s Goa. Or rather, the memory of it. Once the land of susegad—that untranslatable Goan ethos of ease, contentment, and coconut-scented afternoons—it now finds itself caffeinated by the hustle of the migrant elite. The siesta has been replaced by startup pitch decks. The rhythm of the tide, drowned out by the ping of notifications.

But susegad was never laziness. It was attunement. It was knowing when to pause, when to listen, when to let the rice boil slowly. It was the art of doing nothing with full attention.

Even slowing down can feel like stress. The moment we pause, the backlog of urgency rushes in. The silence becomes suspicious. But perhaps that’s the point. To saunter is to unlearn urgency. To walk not to arrive, but to become.

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How to Saunter (Because of Course There’s a Technique Now)

1. Ditch the destination. If you know where you’re going, you’re not sauntering—you’re commuting.
2. Walk at the speed of noticing. If a butterfly flits by and you don’t pause to admire its indecision, you’re going too fast.
3. Let your gaze wander. Sauntering is the opposite of “eyes on the prize.” There is no prize. There’s just a puddle reflecting the sky.
4. Bless the unnecessary. That cracked tile, that rusted gate, that dog with one ear up—they’re all part of the pilgrimage.
5. Carry no agenda. Except maybe a candle. You never know when you’ll find a cruz on the roadside.

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And if you’re in Goa, perhaps your saunter leads you to the Madgaon market, where amidst the bustle of spices and gossip, you might stumble upon a small cruz by the roadside. It’s easy to miss—just a weathered cross, tucked between a fruit stall and a stack of plastic buckets. But look closer. Someone has lit a candle there. Not for a saint, not for a miracle, but because their house is overrun with ants.

Yes, ants.

This is not superstition—it’s susegad logic. When the world gets too much, when even the ants won’t listen, you light a candle. You don’t call pest control. You call the cosmos. You pause. You breathe. You saunter.

So today, take a Susegad Saunter. Walk without purpose. Smile at the absurd. Light a candle for the ants. And remember: not everything needs fixing. Some things just need noticing.

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