Smelly Shoes

It had been three months since Saubhagya and I got married amidst much fanfare in our hometown- Lucknow. Post that, our honeymoon had been a blur of butterflies and the serenity of the placid Kerela backwaters, where we had spent a blissful four days, while our bodies learnt those nooks of unbridled excitement that only seasoned lovers know.

We were acquaintances for a couple of months through common friends when we discovered a bond of love, and suddenly, all those long nights that I had tossed and turned in bed, haunted by images of my mother running towards me with a copy of the Matrimonial Times faded into blissful oblivion, replaced by dreams of Saubhagya- my knight in shining armour, who would rescue me from the dark dungeon of my self imposed pity. “Marry me, please, Simran,” he had proposed, over a lavish dinner- his eyes resembling those of my brown puppy dog I loved when I was young.

I was twenty four- just the correct age to be bundled off into Cinderella’s carriage riding off into the sunset, because, according to Ma, it was easy to find grooms below thirty, for girls who were this side of twenty five- once the girl crossed that magical threshold into twenty six, it was a tad difficult to bind her to conjugal bliss with likeminded (and like-aged) men. Age, wasn’t just a number anymore.

How lucky I was, I sighed to myself, for finding a perfect mate like Saubhagya, with his good looks, strong wit and loads of intelligence. He excelled in his chosen profession with Microsoft, and earned bagfuls of money- and respect, during his short stint of twenty-seven years on this earth. He also managed to woo me in style- we often dined at Marriott and gourmet Italian joints. He was kind, passionate, caring and a stickler for details,

Except for his shoes.

Saubhagya had an irritating habit of leaving his shoes under the bed, the chair, the sofa- wherever he sat to take them off. The large shoe rack that I had purchased stood at the entrance, like a beacon of hope in a lost island crowded, with my shoes, and none of his. And I found it disgustingly hard to pick up his shoes, floaters, chappals, slip ons, sneakers and what-have -you’s each time he came back into the house, and arrange them into the shoe rack. It couldn’t be that difficult to put them there himself, could it?

“I’m sorry”, was the first reply I had gotten when I had poked him specifically about it (in the midst of cooking white chicken for dinner- I now think it was the lure of the chicken that did it) He had then proceeded to empty the entire floor of his shoes, and arrange them neatly on the shoe rack with the cat-got-me expression on his face that I loved. I was satisfied. I hated such disregard for furniture- not to mention the dirt and germs he brought, strewing them all over with such gay abandon.

“Oops, I forgot”, was his second response when I had pointed out that his shoes were lying out again, a week later (this was when it was Saturday morning, and the maid had just cleaned the floor, and it was sparkling in the sunlight without a trace of dust). And he had again proceeded to pick them up, meekly, and deposit them with the rest of the other shoes in the rack, his actions reminding me of Mr. Bean when he had defaced Whistler’s mother.

“Oh come on, isn’t it better to just keep them under the bed- saves me a trip to the rack every time I want to put them on”, was his third line of defense when I had again scolded him with some exasperation in my voice (Maybe this was ill-timed- he had just returned home from work, and I could see he had a long day). Could he not get the picture? Besides, his shoes and socks always smelt of stale sweat- he never bothered to put the worn socks in the laundry bag, neither did he attempt to sun his shoes every week to get rid of the dank odour. That night, while we slept on opposite sides of the bed (for I was still so angry with him) I dreamed that a large pair of floaters had opened up their mouths to swallow me, all whole, and had licked their tongues tantalizingly after the feast. I took this to be a bad omen, and immediately sunned all his shoes and sprayed freshener all over the house the next morning, asking my maid to scrub extra hard under all the furniture to remove all signs of the dirty footwear, even though I was getting late for work.

“I think you are over-reacting, just take it easy- I like my shoes in easy access- not in some far flung cupboard”, was his fourth reply when I had patiently explained to him that all that garbage stuck to the soles would only seek to spread diseases in the house, best tended to in the shoe rack, which was sanitized every week. Far flung? I looked at him in horror- we lived in a small two-bedroom apartment- and the shoe rack was right at the entrance- kept specifically for the purpose of submitting shoes. It wasn’t like our large homes in Lucknow, where one had to walk down or up a flight of stairs to reach the shoe cupboard. I was mystified by his answer, and even though we made up later that night, I dreamt fitfully of a vast expanse of marble flooring filled with shoes of every kind. The next day, over a coffee and cigarette break, I confessed the situation to my best pal at work, Nina. “How do I get him to understand, Nina? This is getting in the way of our life now…”, I had petered off while Nina puffed busily, watching the antics of the receptionist and the phone.. “Hmm…why don’t you leave your shoes out, for a change? Maybe he’ll see reason then,” and she sucked extra hard on her Marlboro, feeling happy with the suggestion she made, causing her to be enveloped in a bout of coughing, while I gave her a sip of my coffee. Nina meant well and although I never valued her suggestions (ever since I had seen her ‘inner om’ sparked by smoking, perming her ramrod beautiful tresses and grey contact lenses) she was my best hope in this situation. “See, I knew you’d see reason in leaving shoes in easy access, Simran”, was Saubhagya’s delightful fifth rejoinder (the very night when I returned from work and decided to follow Nina’s suggestion on a lark). He was ecstatic with the fact that I, the wayward disciplinarian had taken to adopting his approach. That night passed off in a wild passionate display of never seen before tenderness and secretly I was glad for a minute. But the thought of my stilettos under the bed, carrying the grime of all day work caused me to break into another bad dream, where I saw their pointed heels stabbing me repeatedly in the chest until I gave up, rivers of sweat pouring out of my body instead of blood. It has got to be something with this city, I chided myself. If we were somewhere else, except Bombay, we would have had a large house, I wouldn’t have minded the shoes all over, and the shoes themselves wouldn’t be so sweaty all the time. My mind wandered off again, and that evening, my mother detected a slight tension in my voice, over miles of ether. “What’s wrong, Simi?” using my childhood pet name, and that was enough to let loose the barrage of disappointed tears held at bay with the humdrum routine of everyday life. Between great sobs and gulps of air I explained the situation to her. “Arrey, its such a small matter, Simi…you should consider yourself lucky that you pick up your husband’s footwear after him. You’ll get many brownie points in Heaven…” she said, obviously disregarding the complete issue of cleanliness, as she launched into Guru Ramdev’s latest offering on TV. Why was she walking down this holier-than-thou track suddenly? For the first time in the four months that I had been married, I felt lonely.

Like I was the only woman on the earth…me and that huge army of wayward shoes marching in all directions, while I tried to restrain them, unsuccessfully.

And so it continued.

Saubhagya would untie his shoes wherever he sat, and leave them there. I would place them in the shoe rack. He saw me doing it once, and was so ashamed that he picked them up himself. Most times he would head straight for a shower after returning, so wouldn’t see me pick up the mess. I kept a straight face through all this, refusing to let the tension seep in my behaviour. I was, after all, the sacrificing woman (though what I was sacrificing here was questionable!).

A couple of months passed, and then another. I grew used to seeing shoes even when there weren’t any. I think I was getting paranoid about their presence. While Saubhagya’s shoes would rest in different places on different days, my shoes always rested in their black suede bags, inside the shoe cupboard. My dreams about shoes became infrequent as I got used to the idea of a pair of Red Tapes staring at me as I got dressed for work, or black Reebok joggers poking their laces at me while I applied mascara. In fact, I began to find their presence comforting. There they were- in lieu of Saubhagya sometimes in the evening, when I would come out of the bathroom dripping in my toweling robe; I would catch sight of his rubber slippers, and feel comforted- knowing that he would be home soon. When I would cook curry in the kitchen, I would glance out and spy his brown pumps under the sofa and it would seem like he was in the house somewhere. Often, I would slip into his cushioned slip ons and enjoy the feel of the soft velvet against my skin, sparking off memories that brought a faint blush to my cheeks. The world was a happier place as the time I spent fighting with Saubhagya earlier over shoes was translated to better use- and a better life. I was calmer than before, and all that calmness earned me good points at work. I was truly happy.

“See I told you”, exclaimed Nina in that nasal tone of hers she reserved for ticking off the canteen guy. “Now you can be happy…”,and she trailed off as she apprised me of the wonders of Art of Living.

And then suddenly, one day, Saubhagya decided to use the shoe rack. It happened just like that- I was surprised to see him bend and pick up his shoes – I thought he had surely dropped something- and that too, on a weekend, when time was running lazily out of the clock and into the TV. When I questioned him about it, he seemed a little hurt “Well, I am listening to you, Simi- aren’t you happy now?” as he surreptitiously angled his cheek towards me for a peck.

I was gladly astonished- and speechless for the entire evening as I watched him pick up all his shoes, empty them of socks, and proceed to arrange them diligently in the rack.

Next day at work, I surprised Nina by telling her of the marvelous phenomenon that was my husband. “Men”, she sighed, “who knows them?” she lit another cigarette- by the time we had finished dissecting his abnormal behaviour and I had been subject to Nina’s three failed relationships yet again, I looked forward to going home- a cleaner home without those obnoxious shoes- and for a moment, I was back to my former cleanliness goddess self.

As soon as I entered the house and switched on the hall light, I was struck by its emptiness. The floor looked so empty…so bereft…as if something was missing…the house exuded gloom to the core, and as I walked morosely to our bedroom to try and get some semblance of serenity, I realized it. When I stood at the door of the bathroom, I missed his big floaters staring at me- egging me on for a bath. When I came out, dripping in my robe, I missed his joggers sticking out their tongues. I gave myself a whack on the head- what was I? Some kind of psycho, probably, missing that one item which I had laboured to have removed from sight. As the evening wore on, and I started cooking, I missed the reassuring sight of those old brown pumps- worn at the sides- looking so old yet so sprightly- standing in for Saubhagya till he came in, cluttering the floor with a gracious dignity.

And when he finally returned and took off his shoes, I asked him to leave them just there- under the sofa.

(Aug 19, 2007)