The Shoe Shop!

There’s a shop. A shoe shop. It has bright lights around the wooden door. You look up and you see the big board saying “saliva’s shoe shop”. It is adorned in vivid, fluorescent lights. In the corner there are two poorly drawn shoe samples, an illustration of cheap money. Through the display of glass, the lines of black, brown, blue shoes are neatly lined up. Beyond the shoes, sandals, cheap wedges heavily diamante with bizarre color combinations, everything turns hazy and obscure.

It is only after you step inside the shop do you visualize the eerie and apprehensive atmosphere. There’s a chary air in the big room that just stands there as if time sits still. There are two men sitting in one corner of the room. They are surrounded by a thick, white, grayish fog. Absorbed in their conversation, one of them looks temporarily up at the door and nudges his head and then continues with his jokes with the other man at which they rather laugh a monstrous laugh.

Right now, there are two or three women in the shop. They slyly look at the supplies on the shelves and start to bargain with the man on a 500 rps purple high heeled sandal with fake diamante’s on the side.

Finally the custodian has been subdued and they swish their burqa’s in triumph, grinning from ear to ear, as they step out outside, receding themselves from the stifling space. the man faces the other side and dubiously pockets a 50 rupee note. the muggy air again settles in and envelopes all things as a cloak. the men continue with their tête-à-tête. it strikes 6 in the evening.

Occasionally an aged women or a teenage would appear at the scene. this time it is the girl. The burqa clad women nudge each other at the controversy. She boldly stomps around the room. Her dopatta nowhere in sight. her long black locks sliding down her back. She smirks as if responding to their nudges and disapproving looks and moves supplely up the stairs.

She is a girl only of fifteen. She has deep lines of kajol adorned in her eyes. a straight nose and just above her bee strung lips, there’s a small mole. Her mark of fanatical beauty, fame, prosperity and charm. She wears a fake nose ring to accentuate her features. Her honey combed complexion shines proudly, rebuking the world. she always wears silver bangles around her slim wrists. The cheap cotton cloth hangs around her lithe figure in disarray , as if out of proportion. She takes the money out of the man’s hand and stalks towards the red carpeted stairway.

This is a much bigger room. This room also adorns the same contemptible faded peachy carpet. Apart from the dingy low-priced lingerie that limply hangs around are the main attractions of the room. The women!!

They carry the same self assured stance as the teenage girl. They depict a women who would stand on your life, tread over it, squish it under your feet, set your life on fire. The red hot molten lava clawing at your insides. You would forget everything after them; no women would be worth it, after them.

They are adulteresses! They make sins in the dark. They have fiery looks and irresistible laughs. They are your opium, the drug that seeps into the blood and makes the blood pump faster. Their bodies are temples and their minds machines. they have shriveled black lumps for hearts. They are provocative in their ways ..knowing the world could do them no wrong no more.

Behind the raggedy, torn curtain in the corner is another smaller room. thick grey fumes escape through the torn patches. the occupants of this room are temporary. They are men usually wearing white shalwar kameez, crease less and stiff. they come out of the room, brush off a few general creases as if brushing out the mark of disgrace. they click on their phones and walk importantly.

The time for leisure pursuits is over; the time for the pursuit of eternal happiness has gone by. the love talking, cajoling has ended. The thirst has been quenched and now they walk ..walk towards their homes, their jobs, their picture perfect families. They smile on their way back to the woman. She nods her head as she chews the pan and lays back satisfactorily knowing that he will be back! They all are!. with their heads between their tails ..for understanding, companionship and that disgusted ‘love’. why do they so religiously want it? why are they so addicted with the idea? isn't it but just an idea. a figment of the minds vague wishes.

But they want it .they want it so bad.men are such savages. they drink and drink until there’s no more but still their hunger persists so they continue, picking out one victim after another.yup! they’ll come back knocking for more.

She laughs to herself quietly. naive! naive she is!. She looks upon the stoic figure of the fifteen year old handing her the money. There’s a vivacity in this girl. She won’t leave the rope that quickly. Yes, she won’t give in that fast. she will be rebuked and rebuffed, broken and beaten, lost and vanquished, her hopes and dreams will be shredded and only when she will expect two meals a day will she know. know the world. know it’s frenzied, misshapen mythologies. She will know her prescribed destiny, determined by her birth. she will wait for a hero. wait for him a long time then when there are grotesque, macabre shadows scaring the canvas of her life will she understand the hypocrisy. yes, she will know and know well!

Then when she understands, she will laugh at herself, at her own whimsical provocative gestures and will manipulate sensuality as her own device. Her eyes would be dead and she will sing no more. she will never pop her head out of the window to smell the air, never stick her tongue out and taste the rain. shit! She’s singing that damn song again.. ”in a very unusual way I think I’m in love with you….”

Catchy hymn. Pity though. makes a lot of bucks..

A man huffily climbs up the stairs.” hey Malayna, close that damned window and come here.”