On Choosing Shoes
Choosing the right shoes is important. Because it’s hot, it’s always hot. But it’s also dusty and wet and if my sandals are too flat then the ankles of my salwar get dirty, and I feel guilty for not hemming them like I was supposed to. But it’s hot, so I choose my kolhapuri sandals anyway. Later, my boyfriend will complain about my dirty feet but it’s worth it just to feel my toes breathe.
My kolhapuris are the real deal. They’re brown leather - stitched, not glued – with gold thread and red pom-poms that looked silly when the shoes were new, but I barely notice them now. My mum got them for me last year. I like the idea of her wearing the same ones when she was my age. My dad has a pair too.
My kolhapuris are the real deal. They’re brown leather - stitched, not glued – with gold thread and red pom-poms that looked silly when the shoes were new, but I barely notice them now. My mum got them for me last year. I like the idea of her wearing the same ones when she was my age. My dad has a pair too.
The walk from the house to the main road is long. I felt good at first, clean from the shower and crackly with starched cotton, but it’s humid and my skin is already starting to feel sticky, a seam of sweat where my elbow bends to hold my bag. I should have brought a backpack. There is no real pavement, so I keep one foot on the road, and one in the dirt next to it, in the liminal space that is meant for pedestrians, parked cars and overtaking motorcycles. My feet are already starting to slide in my sandals, and I wish, yet again, that they had better arch support. When I reach the main road my sandals slip again as I clamber up the divider in the road, which always seems a little too high. As I scan the road for an empty auto, I know I’m being watched, but I pretend to ignore the looks from men driving past. There are barely any women in the streets. There rarely are, and they come out when the early morning rush hour traffic has subsided, a shyer species that avoids main roads and public spaces. My toes curl and my cheeks grow a little warmer in the heat each time I see someone staring at me. I see myself as they do: a small girl in a white kurta, clutching a handbag close to her chest and the lunchbox my mother insists I take to work – who even carries a lunchbox anymore - one hand outstretched, body leaning into the traffic. I don’t need to take an autorickshaw to work, but I like to. I feel like I’m part of the city with my sandals and commuter status.
I flag down an auto. After arguing with the driver about the price, both of us teasing each other like old friends, I fling myself into the back seat, trying to find the coolest spot on the hot pleather. It shudders into motion and in a few minutes my toes are numb from the vibration of the engine. Afterwards, walking up the cool red stone steps to work , my shoes slip again, but they fit in so well with my surroundings and I feel authentic. Almost authentic enough to negate that ridiculous lunchbox.
In the afternoon it rains, like it does every day in July. I miss it now that I am abroad, miss watching the clouds come in and the world changing colour, a spectacle that surprises everyone, even though it happens daily. And the smell that comes with it is what old Bollywood films are made of, the peaty smell of wet sari scenes and crackly music. The aftermath of the rain is another matter, as the biscuit colour of my sandals turns to mud. I wade through puddles that form in that liminal space assigned to pedestrians, because as usual, the gutters are blocked. A muddy ocean swallows up what passed for pavement and my ankles are covered in grit and dirt from where the water gets too deep. My feet look like everyone else’s.
In a group, the pedestrians groan and sweat cheerfully together, arguing with auto rickshaw drivers, complaining about the heat, the dirt, the suddenly hiked-up prices and the injustice of it all. The air smelled sweeter from my office window. Cars splash past, children shriek with happiness, and their mothers – because yes, there are women on the street now – run behind them, cursing. I finally feel too distracted to be self-conscious, laughing and protesting like I can’t afford the fare, hitching my bag up (I think I left the lunchbox at work), wiping sweat away with my scarf. When I finally get into an auto, there’s a line of dirt around my toes. I’d wipe it off, but there’s the walk back to my house to face. Vehicles overflow from the roads like water in the city drains and there is no place for pedestrians anywhere.
The last stretch of my commute involves wading through backstreets covered in water. But squelching happily through the mud and swinging my bag around like a pre-schooler, my sandals feel cool and well worn, a perfect fit.
In a group, the pedestrians groan and sweat cheerfully together, arguing with auto rickshaw drivers, complaining about the heat, the dirt, the suddenly hiked-up prices and the injustice of it all. The air smelled sweeter from my office window. Cars splash past, children shriek with happiness, and their mothers – because yes, there are women on the street now – run behind them, cursing. I finally feel too distracted to be self-conscious, laughing and protesting like I can’t afford the fare, hitching my bag up (I think I left the lunchbox at work), wiping sweat away with my scarf. When I finally get into an auto, there’s a line of dirt around my toes. I’d wipe it off, but there’s the walk back to my house to face. Vehicles overflow from the roads like water in the city drains and there is no place for pedestrians anywhere.
The last stretch of my commute involves wading through backstreets covered in water. But squelching happily through the mud and swinging my bag around like a pre-schooler, my sandals feel cool and well worn, a perfect fit.