Footloose in the hills, with no strings attached

Apart from being plain old footwear, shoes have several other uses. They can be used to garland wrongdoers, flung at perceived wrongdoers and dangling from a bumper, they may ward off the evil eye of potential wrongdoers. In the absence of the real thing, a strategically-placed painted shoe, preferably a jutti-style one with a long curvy front, may suffice to deflect intended malevolence to a hapless, shoeless vehicle.

In my wanderings over the hills and after visually dissecting the garbage that one sees blocking streams and rivulets, like bottles, gutkha pouches, packets of chips and other sundries, there are a surprising number of shoes. No material, leather or plastic, is spared; in true democratic style, all styles and brands seem to be well represented. How they reach there, is a subject worthy of greater study. Does it suddenly come upon someone to take off his shoes and fling them down the closest khud — as if he were getting rid of his earthly walk? Or does he decide to empty the sacred space of his spouse’s shoe drawer and liberate all the souls trapped in those soles?

Our small town, which has grown too big for its boots, has yet another shoe shop on its main thoroughfare. This, one assumes, is the result of the amount of walking we do, or are supposed to, and that our shoes wear out quickly. For emergencies, like a handy pharmacy, we also need shoe shops at every corner — foot-aid at your doorstep, if you will. The truth of the matter may be more mundane and each new shop is probably eyeing the tourist market — and for good reason. There is no shortage of tourists who have no idea what the hills entail and arrive in 6-inch stilettoes to wander about in a foot of snow.

Slipping, sliding and shivering, they provide good business to those that sell shoes and warm clothing. One popular international brand of sports shoes has created the ugliest signboard in town. This, perhaps, replicates the purpose of the bashed-up shoe that is suspended from a truck fender, and wards off the evil eye.

In days long gone and in a youth that was suitably ill-spent, one’s friends had no shortage of a sense of humour. Going to buy his first pair of spectacles at a well-known optician, a friend reeled at the tag. When informed that ‘these were Crookes lenses’, he politely informed the salesperson that “given the price, he could well believe that”. The pun seemed to have been lost. Moments later, he went to the grocer to ask for a “jar of toe-jam”. He was told they did not have it in stock, but if he could let them know the name of the manufacturer, they would send for it.

Depending on the point of view, Arthur Wellesley, the first Duke of Wellington, did many good, bad or terrible things. He fought the wars against Tipu Sultan and the Marathas, and for better or (mostly) worse, expanded the British Empire in India. He fought Napoleon at Waterloo and helped defeat him. He became Prime Minister of Britain. Now, here, in the monsoons, we remember him for a far humbler reason. He told his shoemaker to create a boot that went on to be named after him.

The Wellington boot is better known to us as the ‘gum boot’. Now, this, apart from trying to keep our feet dry (if not warm), also finds favour in muddy fields, auto repair shops and even raises its head (if one can call it that), in haute couture. These are standard uses for the Wellington/Wellie/Rain Boot/Gum Boot.

While we stubbornly continue to refute that man’s interventions have something to do with all the monsoon havoc that we are seeing around us, the gum boot stepped in to help in a minor crisis.

With repeated cloudbursts, our streams and rivers had been severely impacted and nothing was being pumped up to satiate Shimla that despite the pouring rain, was starved of water. We moved buckets to every rain-filled downpipe and shifted pots and pans to every fresh leakage in the house. So much so that we could have had our own water percussion — or genuine jal tarang. But then, brilliance came in the shape of a gum boot in the bazaar that was collecting water from an awning. One shoe filled, the next foot came. In a steady march, left-right, repeat, that pair of gum boots ferried water back to the shop it had originated from.

— The writer is an author based in Shimla

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