Moonlight Shoes

It started with being a shoe, and waiting for someone to come and become my rightful owner. I was displayed on the stands of an all time lighted showcase, where buyers frequented all day long. Often, the store-boy would take me out of the stand and suggest me to his customers, whose stinking feet I would have to smell and keep smelling with no other choice. There were variety of them, some with week’s long unwashed moist socks, some with communicable allergy, and some with open wounds and pus flowing out. I was helpless, and had to fit into everyone’s feet entirely as the store boy wished to.

Had I been capable of selecting the feet that would wear me, I bet I would have discarded them all of the privilege that they enjoyed by wearing me and walking a few steps back and forth in front of the mirror and showing off how elegant I made them look.

During my tenure of eight days three hours on the stand, besides smelling rotten feet I have also heard and learnt a lot of things that these stinking humans with branded ironed clothes on the outside and stinking unwashed socks beneath them say. One of those things is, “Every man has his day!” I believe the same is true for shoes as well. And ever since I heard this thought, ironically from the most pathetic of all men who ever wore me, I muttered back instantly, “If you can have a day, then surely I shall also have one.”

The day came, on the seventh of July, on a hot summer day, when people drenched in sweat were coming in to check me out. It was a tough time repeatedly passing on from one person to another. I changed a total of six feet, (three people, unfortunately with two each) in three hours with none of them buying me. I was thankful that they didn’t buy me, as it would have been one hell of a task to cope up with their poisonous stink. Moreover, it also wasn’t that I couldn’t tempt them, but that they couldn’t afford me.

Finally, the minute arrived and halted at ‘Feet & Shoes Limited’, a young dynamic man in his thirties walked in with a pit-pat sound of hard heels. Alike all, he too wore ironed clothes, but his sophisticated short-step gait signaled something outside usual. He settled directly in front of me and through my lace holes I tried sniffing his feet as he loosened the shoe and took it off. I was startled to see that they were fresh, dry and odorless. The store boy started offering him shoes one after the other, and he rejected them in the same chronological order. I was happy to see him reject them, while bubbles of joy emerged within me. When his eyes finally fell on me, I looked back at him without a blink and it seemed as if he had already accepted me. The store boy picked me up and parted my belly and the man gently thrust his foot in it. And then the other, even gently. There was no smell of sweat, his stockings were fresh and smelled of camphor. Moreover, the way he handled me was like the way a mother handles her new born, gentle and caring.

I wanted him to buy me, but he walked out of the shop after an unfinished settlement over the price. My heart shrunk as he started moving out of the shop, for I was better convinced that no one as gentle and clean as him would ever lay foot in this shop. I wanted him to buy me, I twitched in anger and defeat while my fellow companions laughed and joked at me. I yelled at the peak of my voice, just to hear my own wails back. Nothing helped. And with his disappearance from the door I believed that the just witnessed good moment was all over and lost. It would be better to think that it never happened.

As I dropped all hopes of him, he reemerged, in somewhat bigger steps than before, and my heart leaped with joy. Every shoe beside me frowned and waited along with me to see what would happen next. He exchanged a few words with the store boy and finally taking out his wallet handed him crisp notes.

I was sold.

That was my day!

The store boy kept me in a box and handed me over to him, he took me and placed me on the rear seat of his car and drove away, to somewhere. Lying there in that box and sniffing to the dull cardboard smell I thought how different and refreshing this smell was as compared to the stink of the every second common man who used to put me on. However, not every shoe like me would get a smell-less fresh feet owner and thus for them this smell of the cardboard would be a refreshing smell, before it would be again worn by its creepy owner.

Life at home was different. He had a younger brother, who wore me during his plays and by the time we entered back home, I would be covered under a thick layer of mud and stains of all kinds. He was a ruthless brat and unlike his elder brother lacked the skills of taking proper care and keeping away stains. He would dirty me every Saturday during his match and his elder brother would wash me clean the next day. I loved the way his elder brother took care of me, for it was all one could offer me, and indeed even more that I would have ever demanded. Somehow, the better part in getting dirty by him was that his feet too didn’t stink.

Days passed and then months, while I clung tight to my ropes and stitches from falling apart, despite the fact that my limited age and my rightful owner’s younger brother’s unpitying use brought creases and wrinkles on my beautiful body, the same routine continued almost every Saturday and Sunday until one day I fell open just beneath the right thumb. My stitches were worn out and cut open, the younger brother kept me in the shoe rack and took out another pair; his plays continued, my life took a standstill.

Almost a week later, the elder brother took notice of me, he brushed the mud off me that had dried in patches and layers, he washed the grease stains and then took me to the cobbler. Nine cross stitches, and I was back to normal. I felt so indebted and gratified to him, for he really was my rightful owner. I wanted to be with him, till my last day, until I would wither off completely and open up from all around. I knew, I would never find a man better than him, an owner more impressive and gentle.

But they ‘humans’ say, as I have heard a number of times, (and what seemed so true just the next moment), that, “Life is full of surprises and unexpected things.”

As he was walking me back from the cobbler’s place, a cab running at more than a hundred kilometers an hour knocked him down while he was crossing the road. A loud screeching noise of the tires, a loud bang of collision, the noise of bones colliding with the windshield and bonnet, and then a halt filled with his wails and moans in the air of complete silence while people started rushing in from all places. The silence faded gradually as people began talking, the way the crowd always does. Everyone suggested something, but none came to help him, someone called the ambulance, just because it was a toll-free number and no one bothered where I was. The only person who would have bothered was lying half dead, twitching in pain and shouting in helplessness. His right shoe had come off his foot and was lying on the side of the road, while the left one still hung on to him.

The ambulance came and people rushed him in, and it drove off. People kept standing for a few minutes on the spot and discussed the cause of the accident. The next minute even they went off to their respective businesses, leaving me behind, unclaimed and unwanted.

I realized that it was the end of my life, but it wasn’t.

I lay there, by the side of the road for the next many hours while people, hundreds and hundreds of them, passed beside and over me, but none paid any attention to me despite the fact that I was new and shining. For I was a single shoe, unmatched and useless. Such is life, and such are these humans, they want you as long as you can serve them some good.

The other part of me, luckily managed to reach back home, with hopes that I won’t be abandoned and perhaps they’ll go back to the accident spot and bring back the one that’s lying there, but that never happened. Instead that evening they didn’t keep me in the shoe rack, but threw me on the pile of plastic waste at the corner of the lawn near the garage. My new companions were a rusted can, two beer bottles, a stained cloth, dozens of plastic bottles and a few broken tiffin boxes and coke bottles, and some broken accessories, to them all it hardly mattered how young or beautiful I was, for I was useless without the other me. And perhaps they all would be laughing at my nearing sudden tragic end, perhaps one or two amongst them all would have felt pity.

Three cars, four bikes, a heavy loaded truck and a roadways bus, a total of nine vehicles and eighteen wheels passed over me, crushing me and deforming me. The despair ended with the fall of the night as the traffic reduced and I lay there in a crumbled form, on the same spot where my so caring owner had fallen down. As I lay for more than an hour, and no vehicle passed over me I started gaining back my lost consciousness. My muscles twitched back to normal and when I had almost turned normal, a stray dog came and started sniffing at me, the way I used to sniff at my master’s feet.

It sniffed for some thirty seconds, when he finally grabbed me in his jaw and ran away. I wondered if it was my rescue, or if it was just another form of trouble. He took me to the foot of the flyover, settled down there and started chewing me. I wanted to get free of him, as I had hopes of living more, I had hopes of reuniting with my other part and to live the remaining of my life again in the feet of my humble owner, but the dog was uncared and merciless, it kept on chewing me, piercing those long canines in and out like needle on a cloth. In between he licked me with his wet tongue, and sometimes he would keep me down for a few seconds while he relaxed his jaw muscles. Just, in another moment he would again start the painful discourse.

I was deformed and had open up from the front again, but he kept on chewing mercilessly. An hour later dawn broke, one of his feminine companions passed beside us with a trail of dogs sniffing her genitals and following her. He instantly dropped me on the ground, stretched his front legs, then the rear and joined her admirers.

I said to myself, “Dogs, will be dogs! May you never get what you desire, bastard.”

As she led the procession across a tunnel and went out of sight, something knocked me on the heal. It was a metallic fell, an iron thing. I looked back to see it was a rag picker.

He picked me up, pulled my laces to check my battered state and tossed me into his sack. From the dusty road I fell amongst plastic bottles, cardboard cartons and tin cans 

that he had gathered from all over across the city.

I wondered if it meant the end of all troubles or the beginning of some more!

Are you a book sniffer?

Have you ever smelled a book? By smelling a book I don't refer to a moist one that smells bad, but to a fresh one. Any book that's in your collection or one that lies waiting on the stands onlooking to a faithful literate owner. In case you haven't smelled one, smell now!

Perhaps I am using the wrong phrase. One never smells a book, one inhales the purity and enjoys the tranquility as it ascends upwards the nostrils startling the smell glands and then expanding in the lungs. The result is, immense freshness and an utter calm state of mind.

It is believed that comprehension is not an easy task, true indeed. Sometimes we read with a diverted mind, sometimes regressing over and over again, only to realize later that we haven't progressed anywhere. That's exactly where you need to close the book, sit back and sniff through its pages. Sniff deep and smile to the pleasant smell.

Comparing reading from PDFs to Kindle, paperback is a multi dollar thing. The feel of holding a book in your hands, leaning back on a couch and turning page by page as you navigate your eyeballs over the last word of every page and the rough feel of rubbing your fingertips on the pages is something that is always desired in times of e-reading. Moreover, buying a book also adds up to the charms of ones' collection.

Considering a paperback's servings during a one-sit reading, it acts as a pillow when your eyes are tired and you opt for a power nap. When you're lying back on a couch with your legs stretched over a table, the feel of tapping a book on your laps with closed eyes is no less than adoring a child, only 200 grams though. When you finish a novel at 3 in the morning, the pain of ending is unbearable, a paperback stays up to its reputation even then by allowing you to cuddle it on your chest and sleep tight, sometimes split across your nose and engulfing your tiredness in its magnificent aroma. The feel of paper is unexplainable, it's relishing, captivating and addictive, and that is what keeps the readers hooked up with reading. Keep sniffing! Keep reading!

Kiss of Love and the Indian Society

There are three kinds of people in our nation- The Rich, The Middle Class, and The Poor. By 'Rich' I mean the ones who are born with a silver spoon in their mouth. 'The Middle Class' on looks the rich and hope that their future generations will be born with a silver spoon too. However, 'The Poor' even lack a spoon to eat their meals. People divided in these categories reside together in the society, making India a land of diversity in true means.

When compared together, ironically the rich and the poor show similar attributes- they are the ones who aren't tied up and held back by the strings of culture and heritage. The middlemen are. You might probably spot a poor woman smoking by the gate of a metro station or even a pretty young lady puffing out rings of smoke on a highway through the window of a Benz. In both the cases you pass away with a grin of ignorance, and so does everyone else. But you might rarely spot a salwar-suit girl puffing out in the open street, for the simple fact that she is held back by ignominy and her cultural values.

Recently out nation witnessed an uproar of protest and questioning over the Kiss of Love eve scheduled in various places across the capital. Of course it would have stroked controversies, it was after all an event of the middle class, from the planners to the participants. And even more, it's always a middle class man who is free enough to protest against something.

They (the saviours of the society) say that our culture and society doesn't allow holding on to the partner's head and kissing openly, but ironically what's allowed openly here is to take up any corner across the street and hold your penis until it drains off the last drop. Sadly, we're part of a society that has its kids influenced deeply with the western culture, who themselves never let go an opportunity to rape someone. Or let me rephrase in case its not true this way, who would never protest for a girl being raped in threat of being beaten down by the rapist or even killed. But, they were free in flocks to protest against lips meeting lips. Just in case people are so free to volunteer there are a lot many things to protest against, from heaping garbage dumps in public places to issues of never ending rapes or women going out in the open for defecation. Surely, these too are not true attributes of our society and culture.

If only the Middle Class changes their observance, a lot many things can change in this nation, a lot many objectives can be reached together. We've been taught unity is strength, but we've always practiced criticism as our strength. For a matter of fact, no matter how hard the middle class protested, the ones born with a silver spoon won't stop greeting their friends with a kiss even on the busy market streets, the ones who lack a spoon to eat will continue mating on the footpaths and producing more children overnight. To the rest of us, it started with a middle class man and ended on a middle class man. All others are spectators, who'll clap, cheer, shout and later return to their own respective business.

**This article bagged 1st prize in Book Review India's essay competition, read here:
https://bookreviewindia.wordpress.com/2014/11/26/the-winning-article-kiss-of-love-and-the-indian-society-by-bisht-udai-narayan-singh/

One last time

It is true when people say that life has many shades. Indeed, it has. Once we were all small kids, so innocent and charming that everyone wanted to cuddle their arms around us. People entertained us for hours in a stretch to just spot a momentary smile radiate out from our face, and we took all the privilege of their love. Ironically, in return of immense love we even literally pissed over their costly silk saris or reputed army uniforms. And they only smiled. Then there was a school life, the first memories of making friends, of sharpening pencils and littering the neighbour's compound. Eating tiffins together and running across the field, chasing balls and seldom friends. The post-lunch lecture, at times of a power-cut was the most unbearable moment of the day as the entire body exhausted heat fumes and every bottle in the classroom soon drained out of its last drop. The moment when everyone smiled as the last ally too walked out of the class to join the punishment. Memories of growing up from lower school to middle school and finally getting promoted to higher school now seems as if it all happened so quickly.

There was little sense of responsibility then and life was lived with utter joy and immense zeal. The present mattered and future was of little importance, until one day we walked in through that college gate. Things changed all of a sudden, just overnight. The first day's orientation marked the culmination of freestyle living and the beginning of an era of responsibility and future planning. We were expected and trained to grow up. We were warned to control over getting addicted to a few habits termed 'bad,' what friends termed 'cool,' 'necessary,' 'stress-relievers' and so forth. It was an all new world, just identical to the feeling of getting introduced to puberty in the past.

They say good times are short lived. Burdened under the workload of submitting assignments after due date, preparing and appearing in numerous exams per semester and commuting to and fro from college ended the college life time before it even started. Yet, we clinch tight a few memories- going out at lunch and late night to have parantahs with coke, tucking the shirts under the belt, bunking classes together, buying new sim-cards from the stalls outside the college gate almost every month, and walking down the aisle kicking everything that came in the way. Time ended just like the path ended every morning from college gate to the classroom.

An year has past and we are all scattered in different directions like marbles after a toss. Groups that were once united are all apart and busy with their lives now. Some have got on the wagon that takes them to the journey called 'life after college,' while some are still on the stands, trying their luck to get inside every one that comes their way, already overstuffed from the last station.

As I sit on the stands, waiting for the next wagon with hopes of getting a seat, memories of college life embraces me. There were days when we were unconcerned of such a day, days when we slept under a blanket of a million stars and gazed back at them dreaming of such a shiny and lustrous future to come our way. There were friends, best friends, who ate, drunk and slept together until dawn cracked and today they're all scattered away. Too far to schedule a meet, to far to reunite and too busy to borrow a moment. New people have taken their place and things have changed, thus proving again that time waits for none.

As almost a quarter of this life span marks its completion, life starts playing its cards. From days of togetherness and close friendship to loneliness again. There are twists and turns all the way up and what lies on the other end can not be foreseen. It might be a busy routine job waiting to handcuff us for the next many years or perhaps in the next turn, we'll all meet again to sleep for one last time under the open sky, overstuffed on one single blanket, struggling to stay on it, gazing at the million stars and laughing our hearts out on old memories.

A river of national importance

Ganga, the river, in true means is a mother. She gives the love and resource to sustain, and yet in the end men turn their backs at it and leave back with plastics, flowers, ashes, candles and discarded clothes on the bank, to flow away with the currents of the river. Yet again they come back to pay their homage when someone dies, and end up putting in a few more dead flowers.

Imagine the fate of the river that commutes over 2500kms, almost through a hundred cities, across four states into a vast ocean; and what does it take along except liter? Throughout the year, everyday millions of Indians pay homage to the river on its banks, and undoubtedly contribute towards curbing its beauty. The waters of the Ganga that is considered so sacred that no change is observed in its form even after years of storage, has actually started stinking and rotting at many places near industrial sites and dense populations.

The Ganga pollution and ways to overcome it is one of the biggest challenge that our nation faces at the present time. In a 2007 survey, Ganga was termed the fifth most polluted river in the world, which followed with no signs of recovery. The pollution of the river is a serious threat to more than a hundred species of aquatic species and the Ganga dolphins have also been termed endangered in the recent past. Considering humans, the threat is even bitter and consequences more fatal.

The amount of garbage dumped actively, passively and sacredly in the Ganga annually, can form a huge mountain chain across several kilometers. Though Ganga is a river of the living, but it is treated like that of the dead. The purest soul contribute to the most irreversible deeds, leaving a big black spot and later wondering how to erase it.

Imagine the pleasure of seeing transparent blue waters in the entire river until it exits into the Bay of Bengal. Imagine people sitting by the banks of Ganga, hands folded and lips murmuring mantras while the breeze sways away the hair. Families taking a stroll by the river in the evening as sacred music plays soft beats to the ears. Temples on the bank light up with dias and candles as people gather in the temple compound to take an aarti of the river, without approaching its waters. The rituals don't change, only the medium does.

A pollution free river awaits its dawn on the farther end, only we need to realise the importance of the objective.

A Gunshot for survival

The most powerful feeling that I have ever experienced is while holding a gun. Indeed even more, when someone stands on the other end. It is an indescribable feeling filled with authority, superiority and mercifulness (entirely on your terms).

The cold feel of curling your lips around the muzzle and rolling the chamber with your fingertips, that's no less than heaven on earth.
The sound that generates when the parts cling together, that's music to ears. Sitting relaxed back on a couch and gripping the gun firmly with two hands, when you pull up to aim, you can almost hear your heartbeat and feel your pulse. In that little minute, from aiming to pulling the trigger your hand almost sticks to your chin, the left eye refuses to open back, the forehead fills with sweat and the mind suddenly recalls the importance of breathing again for survival.

Thereafter, it's that BANG that matters, the echo that batters in the room and is distinctly heard until it completely fades off after creating a thousand ripples in plain air. The little smoke that exits out of the barrel from both ends, and the stench of gunpowder that lingers back in the air is more captivating and magnetic than any other odour or temptation.

The little vibrations that are left oscillating from the wrist to the elbow and back to the wrist along with the imprints of the butt left on the insides of the hand and the redness marked with the trigger on the index finger is what you never desire to lose. The puff of breath that is exhaled marks the completion of the task and explains the fact that a life taken is another life saved. Even as the target falls down there is so much to gain with one single shot, with one single pull or in one small tick.

What follows after 30 seconds is complete silence, a silence that has the potential to directly pierce through you and enter your veins and change your state of mind. Sometimes fear creeps in and sometimes pride. Where a sense of pride would make the shot even worthwhile, fear on the other hand would ruin all the feelings that one had just felt and lived.

Even before the happening happens there are elements that pull one back, thus there should be a driving force pushing you towards glory from the back of the mind and a pull from the heart should grip all muscles together while the fingertip kisses the trigger and pulls it back, a sense of doing should persist in the calm mind as the aim stands opposite the muzzle. Mercy, fear and pity should be locked off while determination, existence and adventure should hold the reins.

It is true that existence is yet another word for survival, and survival means elimination. Sometimes it is for good, and sometimes for a desire to be good, but never for bad. The moment you consider it mean and deceitful you lose. Thus feeling is so harmful that it won't let you last even a moment more on the battlefield. The mere thought makes one weak and allows the rival to take his shot. Thus, humanity should be turned off and only the motive should linger in the mind. The shot that can give you life can take it away too, just in a blink of a second. Do or die is the theme of the battlefield, no matter where it is, inside a close room or on a busy street. Pull the trigger and live your life, think a moment more and soon you'll be on the ground.

"Kill him! NOW!"

My brother shouted from the window. His words reverberated in the room. The dacoit stood tall before my eyes, loading a yellow metallic bullet in his rifle. Death was just seconds away, in the form of a seven feet black dressed and turbaned villain. I had to reach a decision, time trailed. I had to choose between death and survival.

I closed my eyes for a brief second. And made my choice.

BANG!

It echoed and smoked and stenched just like baba had taught me. There was silence all around and it entered me piercing through open skin. The man dropped. I lived.

Things that happen only in India

India, a land of multiple languages and rituals, a home to numerous religions and festivals is where one in true means find unity in diversity; the same for which the nation is also better known as.

However there are innumerable things that one can perhaps only spot in India. The seventh largest nation homes 1.2 billion people and stands tall as the largest democracy on planet earth; which lately is better known for its now ruling Prime Minister- NaMo, a tea-stall vendor of the 80s.

Two things that have gained immense popularity worldwide since our new government are the Prime Minister and the Nation itself. Things, issues and old trends are on a roll towards change, as the new PM focusses on a developed and skilled India in the coming days.

Though in a nation like India, the old saying- "No change is permanent" stands true and has been proved multiple times in history. A lot of good things and approaches ceased to happen with the blink of an eye, however this time the nation doesn't seem to believe that any of these rooting changes will ever stop. Good for the doer then and good for the receiver!

But to whitewash the old stains and the black spots that our nation bears of the past, definitely we have to get down on our knees and wipe the floor clean ourselves. Not only this would serve the cause, we would in turn also have to change our habits and brush up our social etiquette chapter once again, loud and clear.

Coming to the point about things that can only be spotted in India, I would like to begin with a little observance on change. Change is a very interesting element, just like a bucket of paint- ready to cover the stains and old spots, but a little mishandling can again bring in all the spots those were wiped clean.

India, is more of a journey than a country where you see different shades of lifestyle and trends as you move from one end to another. But, there are a few common things that you can spot no matter where you are in the nation.

Love is the most widespread epidemic in the nation, whether you roam around in the temples observing the walls or you commute by a train or bus, you can always see names circled in hearts with an arrow pierced through. Sometimes, there is a message, like, "I love you Sheela," with love spelt as 'lobe' or 'luv'. Uncountable seats are scratched mercilessly, across the year and the back panel of seats acquire new names, phone numbers and love messages every minute, surpassing
the old ones. I often wonder, if the writer's dedicated lover ever gets to read these messages that their lover wrote scratching and breaking their fingernails. Some wise people bring along a permanent marker for the mission.

As you get down from the bus and turn along the lane, you can spot a faded message on the wall in Hindi saying- "Do not spit here." And the message itself fades with tens and tens of pan-stains jetted with a precise aim on the Hindi letters. As you'll pass by, someone will again use the wall to empty his buccal cavity.

Then as you'll pass by a thin lane, probably a gully- beware to cover your nose when you walk by an empty plot between two houses, coz that's a community dustbin. Don't be surprised to see men urinating on the walls adjacent to this plot.

Urination brings us to our next topic- public toilets. Enter a public toilet, whether in a railway station or a bus station. As you slam the door close and sit down you see a list of contact numbers scratched on the door with ugly and pathetic descriptions such as 'whore,' 'jugaad,' and things similar.

Talking about a journey by train, as it halts between stations people rush in and rush out in a haste. Everyone is in a haste to acquire the empty berths and are later seen negotiating amongst other co-travellers to sit in their seat. The person who sacrifices his seat in the first place is seen battering from seat to seat until his journey ends.

To the list there are numerous other things and acts, but however there is one indispensable thing. When we compare sleeper coaches with AC coaches, we find no haste. People come in a steady gait and take the seat that's allotted to them. There is no negotiation and no inconvenience to the other person. Similarly, enter a toilet in a mall or a PVR and you won't find inscriptions and lurking comments. Travel by metro and there are no love hearts with names and arrows. Also, there are no pan stains in the compound.

So what brings in all the difference? How does a nation with the same people travelling in these two different places act differently? The answer to the problem is literacy and infrastructure development. The sooner it will spike up, such acts will fall down.

With the advent of PM NaMo's government, the entire nation is optimistic about a radical change in the coming years. The sound of an approaching hurricane can be heard clearly, that is on its way to carry away the ills from our community. Sooner or later, in these five years, the entire nation believes that a roadmap to development and change will be laid out. It is thereafter our responsibility to step on it and walk the way through. No matter how good or bad the government is, at the end it is us who matter. A better India is our responsibility and our birth right.
To end with a poetic line, it is wise to say-
"Jhadoo bhi chalega aur rupya bhi uthega, Aao milke sath bade, akela Modi kya kya karega!"
Jai hind!

**This article was picked by TOI, read here:
http://m.timesofindia.com/nri/contributors/contributions/udai-narayan-singh-bisht/Things-that-happen-only-in-India/articleshow/45023058.cms