From the footsteps of a bus,
the polymath proclaims:
Never erase those flashes of thoughts
that flicker in your mind.
Come rain or sun, like
hays from the meadows,
spread them out to shine.
Let them be and foment.
Free the reins and let loose the anarchy of chance.
In time, the traces left will coalesce
and ideas will arise from the subliminal trance.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Such Such are the joys
It makes for a strange experience this viewing of FIFA World Cup 2010 in India. India, because of the shambolic state of its football infrastructure, administration and development, has never been able to send a team to the World Cup. Football fans here have always had to make do with 
borrowed devotions ( the absence of any recognizably good footballing nation in the neighbourhood hasn't helped either). Hence, instead of debating the squad structure, agonizing over formations and fretting over tactics of the Indian National Team, we are forced to first choose whom to ally our allegiance with. It usually is Argentina, Brazil or England. Spain, by virtue of sizzling in Euro'08 has also staked a claim in recent times but come World Cup, the streets of Kolkata, Mallapuram and Marmagoa are usually bedecked with Argentine or Brazilian flags and jerseys (a cliche it is that passion for football overflows only in Bengal, Kerala and Goa but it is important to note that the recent exposure to EPL, UCL and La Liga has resulted only in more jersey sales and spawned good FIFA10 players in the rest of the country than footballers; it is deemed perfectly alright to soak up footballing knowledge and facts and play it all out on a PC).
So when a friend asked me yesterday as to who it is I am going to support this time, I could only offer a shrug in reply. Last time, my team of choice had been Italy ( the neutral's favourite - their off-field problems had made them underdogs and who would the neutral support but an underdog? Throw in the siege mentality as well - is it any surprise that they won?). This time around, nobody is enthusiastic about them for the team is almost the same with replacements coming in only for those who have retired over the past four years.
While Italy seems content to let the media and armchair pundits overlook them and downplay their chances, among the rest of the teams, quite a few should feel confident. The draw for this year's group stage coupled with untimely injuries to some of the stars has thrown open this year's tournament. There is Brazil with its relatively dour game play, their tactics built upon solid defensive work and excellent counterattacking skill instead of their legendary Joga BonitoTM oomph. Then there is Spain so supremely blessed with talent that anything less than an appearance in the final will be taken a failure; there is Argentina with Lionel Messi (ah! what pleasure it would give the wise old enganche Veron to choose any one from Messi, Tevez, de Maria and Higuan/Milito to pass the ball to) ; then there are the usual suspects - Germany with a talented yet slightly inexperienced squad, France with their noxious manager Raymond Domenech and a squad still mired in schoolyard like squabbling, Portugal for whom Cristiano Ronaldo (yes, Him) has so far been utterly uninspiring, Holland with Arjen Robben and Wesley Sneijder (yes, Them who led their respective clubs to the UCL final with this, this and this). Since this is the first World Cup to be held in Africa, there is renewed hope for an African nation to emerge victorious for the first time. Ivory Coast (with their petulant Messiah Didier Drogba), Ghana and Cameroon are the favourites among the African participants.
And then there is England.
To the English media, the World Cup is the Holy Grail, the conquest of which, they appear convinced, has always been, and will remain, beyond their team. This is much evident from their incessant rambling about everything related to their team - the deficiencies of the current squad, their perceived inability to hold the ball and engage in any kind of tactical buildup play, their positional indiscipline on the field and behavioural failings off it. It wouldn't be an exaggeration to think of the English players as Big Brother house occupants for such is the level of media scrutiny there. A win still comes with its attendant hyperbole, but this time around, everyone is seeking to mute it or deflate their own expectations. Sometimes it seems they would have been gladder had their team never made it to the World Cup finals at all.
Despite the air of fatalism that pervades the English camp, other countries are still wary of England for they are coached by Fabio Capello, a man whom everyone loves to imagine to be as strict as Eric Blair's schoolmaster.
It was presumed after the ignominy of failing to qualify for Euro 08 that discipline, hard work and selflessness were the attributes sorely lacking in the
English setup and Capello was drafted specifically to inculcate these values in the players. They breezed past their opponents during qualification but their form since then has been wobbly and their recent performances suggest a regression to pre-Capello days. The media, who had slowly began to envisage that the steady if unspectacular performances might result in a run beyond the quarters, lost no time in performing a volte face and declaring that their team had as much chance as doing anything of note in the World Cup 2010 as discovering a nutritious meal in the local McDonalds' menu.
So it was with crackling nerves that the English players lined up against USA last Saturday to kick off their first match. Just around the fourth minute, their captain Steven Gerrard took a beautiful first touch and poked in the ball into the goal beyond the flailing hands of the American goalkeeper. England it seemed were intent on changing history. But not for long. Soon, they
became complacent, their midfield slowly disintegrating under the relentless yet largely feeble pressure of the American attack. Around the 40th minute, from just outside the English penalty area, the American midfielder Clint Dempsey drove a weak shot towards the English goal. What should have been a regulation collect and throw resulted in this.
The howler seemed predestined to happen. At the half time whistle, Robert Green trudged back alone to the dressing room, utterly despondent at having conceded such a soft goal- yet another addition to the annals of infamy to which recent English goalkeepers seem intent on contributing. The game ended in a tame draw and their performance did everything to suggest that England had rediscovered its ability to contrive to lose from winning positions out of sheer complacency, overconfidence and lack of skill.
The England-USA game was preceded by a cracking game between South Africa and Mexico, the game provided the much needed initial momentum to the tournament. Other memorable matches in the first week include the 4-0 drubbing that Australia received at the hands of Germany, Argentina's 1-0 victory over Nigeria featuring the heroics of Vincent Enyeama, the Nigerian goalkeeper who did everything humanly possible to keep a fiery Lionel Messi from scoring a goal, South Korea's efficient dismantling of the famed Greek defence resulting in a comfortable 2-0 win and DPR of Korea's defiant display against Brazil, almost holding the Selcaos to a draw before losing out 2-1.
The matches so far seem curiously lacking in the spectacular with teams adopting cagey tactics and generally being unadventurous in approach. Hopefully, this will change once the final round of group matches take place for a few favourites might get knocked out, thus providing the drama and action, a tournament of this stature, richly deserves.
borrowed devotions ( the absence of any recognizably good footballing nation in the neighbourhood hasn't helped either). Hence, instead of debating the squad structure, agonizing over formations and fretting over tactics of the Indian National Team, we are forced to first choose whom to ally our allegiance with. It usually is Argentina, Brazil or England. Spain, by virtue of sizzling in Euro'08 has also staked a claim in recent times but come World Cup, the streets of Kolkata, Mallapuram and Marmagoa are usually bedecked with Argentine or Brazilian flags and jerseys (a cliche it is that passion for football overflows only in Bengal, Kerala and Goa but it is important to note that the recent exposure to EPL, UCL and La Liga has resulted only in more jersey sales and spawned good FIFA10 players in the rest of the country than footballers; it is deemed perfectly alright to soak up footballing knowledge and facts and play it all out on a PC).So when a friend asked me yesterday as to who it is I am going to support this time, I could only offer a shrug in reply. Last time, my team of choice had been Italy ( the neutral's favourite - their off-field problems had made them underdogs and who would the neutral support but an underdog? Throw in the siege mentality as well - is it any surprise that they won?). This time around, nobody is enthusiastic about them for the team is almost the same with replacements coming in only for those who have retired over the past four years.
While Italy seems content to let the media and armchair pundits overlook them and downplay their chances, among the rest of the teams, quite a few should feel confident. The draw for this year's group stage coupled with untimely injuries to some of the stars has thrown open this year's tournament. There is Brazil with its relatively dour game play, their tactics built upon solid defensive work and excellent counterattacking skill instead of their legendary Joga BonitoTM oomph. Then there is Spain so supremely blessed with talent that anything less than an appearance in the final will be taken a failure; there is Argentina with Lionel Messi (ah! what pleasure it would give the wise old enganche Veron to choose any one from Messi, Tevez, de Maria and Higuan/Milito to pass the ball to) ; then there are the usual suspects - Germany with a talented yet slightly inexperienced squad, France with their noxious manager Raymond Domenech and a squad still mired in schoolyard like squabbling, Portugal for whom Cristiano Ronaldo (yes, Him) has so far been utterly uninspiring, Holland with Arjen Robben and Wesley Sneijder (yes, Them who led their respective clubs to the UCL final with this, this and this). Since this is the first World Cup to be held in Africa, there is renewed hope for an African nation to emerge victorious for the first time. Ivory Coast (with their petulant Messiah Didier Drogba), Ghana and Cameroon are the favourites among the African participants.
And then there is England.
To the English media, the World Cup is the Holy Grail, the conquest of which, they appear convinced, has always been, and will remain, beyond their team. This is much evident from their incessant rambling about everything related to their team - the deficiencies of the current squad, their perceived inability to hold the ball and engage in any kind of tactical buildup play, their positional indiscipline on the field and behavioural failings off it. It wouldn't be an exaggeration to think of the English players as Big Brother house occupants for such is the level of media scrutiny there. A win still comes with its attendant hyperbole, but this time around, everyone is seeking to mute it or deflate their own expectations. Sometimes it seems they would have been gladder had their team never made it to the World Cup finals at all.
Despite the air of fatalism that pervades the English camp, other countries are still wary of England for they are coached by Fabio Capello, a man whom everyone loves to imagine to be as strict as Eric Blair's schoolmaster.
It was presumed after the ignominy of failing to qualify for Euro 08 that discipline, hard work and selflessness were the attributes sorely lacking in the
English setup and Capello was drafted specifically to inculcate these values in the players. They breezed past their opponents during qualification but their form since then has been wobbly and their recent performances suggest a regression to pre-Capello days. The media, who had slowly began to envisage that the steady if unspectacular performances might result in a run beyond the quarters, lost no time in performing a volte face and declaring that their team had as much chance as doing anything of note in the World Cup 2010 as discovering a nutritious meal in the local McDonalds' menu.So it was with crackling nerves that the English players lined up against USA last Saturday to kick off their first match. Just around the fourth minute, their captain Steven Gerrard took a beautiful first touch and poked in the ball into the goal beyond the flailing hands of the American goalkeeper. England it seemed were intent on changing history. But not for long. Soon, they
became complacent, their midfield slowly disintegrating under the relentless yet largely feeble pressure of the American attack. Around the 40th minute, from just outside the English penalty area, the American midfielder Clint Dempsey drove a weak shot towards the English goal. What should have been a regulation collect and throw resulted in this.The howler seemed predestined to happen. At the half time whistle, Robert Green trudged back alone to the dressing room, utterly despondent at having conceded such a soft goal- yet another addition to the annals of infamy to which recent English goalkeepers seem intent on contributing. The game ended in a tame draw and their performance did everything to suggest that England had rediscovered its ability to contrive to lose from winning positions out of sheer complacency, overconfidence and lack of skill.
The England-USA game was preceded by a cracking game between South Africa and Mexico, the game provided the much needed initial momentum to the tournament. Other memorable matches in the first week include the 4-0 drubbing that Australia received at the hands of Germany, Argentina's 1-0 victory over Nigeria featuring the heroics of Vincent Enyeama, the Nigerian goalkeeper who did everything humanly possible to keep a fiery Lionel Messi from scoring a goal, South Korea's efficient dismantling of the famed Greek defence resulting in a comfortable 2-0 win and DPR of Korea's defiant display against Brazil, almost holding the Selcaos to a draw before losing out 2-1.
The matches so far seem curiously lacking in the spectacular with teams adopting cagey tactics and generally being unadventurous in approach. Hopefully, this will change once the final round of group matches take place for a few favourites might get knocked out, thus providing the drama and action, a tournament of this stature, richly deserves.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Thresh
[My entry for this week's 3WW prompt]
---
Yesterday,
amid the pouring rain,
in a building standing tall, unhidden,
a cup of coffee was had,
the most beguiling view of the sea admired,
the sea attired,
in the same blue as the sky.
In the mind of the one
engaged in a sempiternal roam,
a question naturally arose -
could he afford the same view
a day or two later?
The man with the answer,
a bard prepossessed with his noble shrine,
prevaricated thus:
to the immortal is known the age of the world
and to death is known the future.
In other words, no.
---
Yesterday,
amid the pouring rain,
in a building standing tall, unhidden,
a cup of coffee was had,
the most beguiling view of the sea admired,
the sea attired,
in the same blue as the sky.
In the mind of the one
engaged in a sempiternal roam,
a question naturally arose -
could he afford the same view
a day or two later?
The man with the answer,
a bard prepossessed with his noble shrine,
prevaricated thus:
to the immortal is known the age of the world
and to death is known the future.
In other words, no.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Simple Connectedness
[My entry for this week's 3WW prompt]
Everyone know it looks like a spider; in fact, when looked down from the sky above, the silken roads leading in and out could be taken to resemble the web a spider might spin around itself. Stay connected.
The words of his mother had stuck him odd then. But now, standing under the shadow of one of the eight stairways that lead up in to the bluish grey building, its shadow slicing him in half, his realisation that his mother had been correct did not surprise him. She had been right about the passenger seated next to him in the bus- the one with glazed expression in his eyes, his shoulders perennially resting in a shrugged position, the two orbs of his earphones tending to his ears, his red jumper zipped up to his neck despite the fiery heat, his hands as high strung as those of a penitent and an air of diffidence around him. Others seated in the bus seemed like the clones of his co-passenger and remarkably silent too; the eyes of those along the window occupied with the drab landscape of the surroundings; the eyes of those along the aisle closed or half closed in deliberate sleep.
There are eight levels in the building. Not eight floors. These levels will only be visible to those who know about it. To your eyes, no levels will be visible. Only five floors.
Please stand in front of the mic and repeat the following word: Zeitgeist.
He did.
The word surprised him. His attempt to pronounce what he took to be a pseudo German word discomfited him. They will know you and what you are. The word will be drawn from your native region. He had prepared for a word like catamaran. Had they upgraded their system? Was this imprecision a sign of weariness, a sign of techno-fatigue? Or had his mother forgotten something? Or had his father been a German? The gate to the stairway opened and he walked in.
Once you are in the building, they will be able to read your mind. Only your mind. Only those of the newcomers and known dissidents. There will be no noticeable change in your body nor in your behaviour. They will never influence it. It is quite a snug fit except for one little flaw: you will suddenly feel happy. But be warned: DO NOT EVER SMILE.
He found it hard to suppress his smile and very hard not to thank his mother. She had indeed been right. He looked up and the sight before his eyes overwhelmed him. Hundreds of hunched figures, including the few who had accompanied him in the bus, were now scurrying up and down the gravity defying ramps that seemed to lead everywhere. There were no discernible sources of light around but the whole building seemed to bask in some ethereal light. He walked up to the lounge area and seated himself on one of the plush chairs that dotted it. The lounge area was a raised circular platform built around a tree like structure. Suddenly, one of the branches of the tree dipped down to him and a small palm sized display opened out of it. He saw his name printed in black preceded by a welcome sign on the display. Before he could respond, the screen displayed the details of his meeting and a voice as soft as a whisper requested him to proceed immediately.
Do not accept what they offer. Harangue if needed. If they appear too impressed, be quick to lessen your impression. Remember: you have to start at the bottom.
He was not sure of his co-ordinates as he stood outside a door. The walls extending along the corridor seemed to end in some infinity, painted white save for thin black rectangular outlines every ten feet. The display above each door kept pointing to the right until he grew tired of walking and paused in front of one. The door opened into a room and he walked into it. Immediately, the ethereal light that had blinded him at the lounge begin to pour into the room. Save for a chair, the room was empty. As he seated himself, the light withdrew and a screen emerged out of nowhere, right opposite him. A few words scrolled across the screen.
You are asked to add 2 2's. Will you be surprised if the answer is 6?
Do not ever think.
Eight questions and half an hour later, the door was thrown open and a figure entered the room. The screen had disappeared and the light gradually began to let itself in again.
We are mightily impressed with your performance. You will start...
Light the cigarette.
Smoke coiled around the room before dissipating. The man seated opposite him seemed both uncomfortable and confounded by this. With a seemingly assured shake of his head,
...at the bottom.
---
Join tomorrow were the parting words. Moments later, without knowing how, he found himself standing next to the exit door.
The most important step of all: as you emerge out of the building, before you open the door to the exit, think of the woods where you live; think of the snow that falls outside; think of this cabin which you will abandon now; think of the footsteps in the snow pockmarked with blood.
He waited outside the stairway for the bus to arrive. Long, lonesome silhouettes fell upon him. He will be on his own once he had fulfilled the last of his mother's instructions. It was time.
Turn and look behind at the glass facade. The square of glass lit by a yellow light. You will find your father there.
---
Everyone know it looks like a spider; in fact, when looked down from the sky above, the silken roads leading in and out could be taken to resemble the web a spider might spin around itself. Stay connected.
The words of his mother had stuck him odd then. But now, standing under the shadow of one of the eight stairways that lead up in to the bluish grey building, its shadow slicing him in half, his realisation that his mother had been correct did not surprise him. She had been right about the passenger seated next to him in the bus- the one with glazed expression in his eyes, his shoulders perennially resting in a shrugged position, the two orbs of his earphones tending to his ears, his red jumper zipped up to his neck despite the fiery heat, his hands as high strung as those of a penitent and an air of diffidence around him. Others seated in the bus seemed like the clones of his co-passenger and remarkably silent too; the eyes of those along the window occupied with the drab landscape of the surroundings; the eyes of those along the aisle closed or half closed in deliberate sleep.
There are eight levels in the building. Not eight floors. These levels will only be visible to those who know about it. To your eyes, no levels will be visible. Only five floors.
Please stand in front of the mic and repeat the following word: Zeitgeist.
He did.
The word surprised him. His attempt to pronounce what he took to be a pseudo German word discomfited him. They will know you and what you are. The word will be drawn from your native region. He had prepared for a word like catamaran. Had they upgraded their system? Was this imprecision a sign of weariness, a sign of techno-fatigue? Or had his mother forgotten something? Or had his father been a German? The gate to the stairway opened and he walked in.
Once you are in the building, they will be able to read your mind. Only your mind. Only those of the newcomers and known dissidents. There will be no noticeable change in your body nor in your behaviour. They will never influence it. It is quite a snug fit except for one little flaw: you will suddenly feel happy. But be warned: DO NOT EVER SMILE.
He found it hard to suppress his smile and very hard not to thank his mother. She had indeed been right. He looked up and the sight before his eyes overwhelmed him. Hundreds of hunched figures, including the few who had accompanied him in the bus, were now scurrying up and down the gravity defying ramps that seemed to lead everywhere. There were no discernible sources of light around but the whole building seemed to bask in some ethereal light. He walked up to the lounge area and seated himself on one of the plush chairs that dotted it. The lounge area was a raised circular platform built around a tree like structure. Suddenly, one of the branches of the tree dipped down to him and a small palm sized display opened out of it. He saw his name printed in black preceded by a welcome sign on the display. Before he could respond, the screen displayed the details of his meeting and a voice as soft as a whisper requested him to proceed immediately.
Do not accept what they offer. Harangue if needed. If they appear too impressed, be quick to lessen your impression. Remember: you have to start at the bottom.
He was not sure of his co-ordinates as he stood outside a door. The walls extending along the corridor seemed to end in some infinity, painted white save for thin black rectangular outlines every ten feet. The display above each door kept pointing to the right until he grew tired of walking and paused in front of one. The door opened into a room and he walked into it. Immediately, the ethereal light that had blinded him at the lounge begin to pour into the room. Save for a chair, the room was empty. As he seated himself, the light withdrew and a screen emerged out of nowhere, right opposite him. A few words scrolled across the screen.
You are asked to add 2 2's. Will you be surprised if the answer is 6?
Do not ever think.
Eight questions and half an hour later, the door was thrown open and a figure entered the room. The screen had disappeared and the light gradually began to let itself in again.
We are mightily impressed with your performance. You will start...
Light the cigarette.
Smoke coiled around the room before dissipating. The man seated opposite him seemed both uncomfortable and confounded by this. With a seemingly assured shake of his head,
...at the bottom.
---
Join tomorrow were the parting words. Moments later, without knowing how, he found himself standing next to the exit door.
The most important step of all: as you emerge out of the building, before you open the door to the exit, think of the woods where you live; think of the snow that falls outside; think of this cabin which you will abandon now; think of the footsteps in the snow pockmarked with blood.
He waited outside the stairway for the bus to arrive. Long, lonesome silhouettes fell upon him. He will be on his own once he had fulfilled the last of his mother's instructions. It was time.
Turn and look behind at the glass facade. The square of glass lit by a yellow light. You will find your father there.
---
Thursday, May 20, 2010
What use this cry over spilt oil?
[My entry for this week's 3WW prompt. Inspired by the photo on the right. ]What did they say? It will go away...never worry..it will never worry you...you were brave enough to grasp a strand of grass...the driest one in that..what if your hands bleed?..it will all stop...cherish it...it will help you... it is like reading the newspaper: read the sports section..it will keep you happy..never dwelve into the middle pages...what do you see there?...this bird stuck in oil for example...what was it thinking when it jumped into the sea?...didn't it notice the change in the colour of the sea?...did it really believe that huge wings had spurted out of its body...my shadow covers the breadth of my vision as I dive in...ah!look at me!...now, where is it?... gasping for a breath of oil-free air at the shore...a kitchen is the hell that a bird dreads the most...and this one must wonder, well I may be slick with oil but I am not dead yet...I may not fly again but my guts are not on a plate, my feathers are not for sale...I am not roasted!..aye water! the mirror you hold up when I beckon you to see my reflection, it is broken! ha ha!!...what do you say now?...what?...no! I am not an old crone, the one with broken foot who says to herself, I seen the world...what use a foot?...I need not pacify myself like that...go clean up will ya?
Friday, May 7, 2010
Summer Sonata
[My entry for this week's Three Word Wednesday]
From a mosquito the hum that escapes,
a stifled imagination seeks to rhyme
and divine, the nature of their whine:
Is it the scraping of their twin bayonets
on ruddied whetstones, as in wait they lain?
Is it the vibrant hymn they sing, the battle cry,
before they pierce and cause nettling pain?
Is it the howl of gloat from these miniature rigs
after slurping the blood they drained?
Or is it the wail uttered by these guardians
of Dracula's lost soul, for all their slain?
From a mosquito a hum escapes,
and this imagination seeks to rhyme,
the nature of divine.
From a mosquito the hum that escapes,
a stifled imagination seeks to rhyme
and divine, the nature of their whine:
Is it the scraping of their twin bayonets
on ruddied whetstones, as in wait they lain?
Is it the vibrant hymn they sing, the battle cry,
before they pierce and cause nettling pain?
Is it the howl of gloat from these miniature rigs
after slurping the blood they drained?
Or is it the wail uttered by these guardians
of Dracula's lost soul, for all their slain?
From a mosquito a hum escapes,
and this imagination seeks to rhyme,
the nature of divine.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
The Death of a Slipper
I hold the cobbler seated at the corner of the street in very high regard. I do, for he has never had a problem in mending my foot wears. Compared to him, even doctors appear fallible in fulfilling the requirements of their job for fail he can't. And I respect him a lot because he has never had a problem in mending my foot wears -those of such absurd state that apparently, as my sister observed once, dogs think twice before chewing them. A year ago, I had taken my shoes to the cobbler- as ever, an old man who I suspected of not hesitating to pluck some silver hair from his beard were he to run out of threads to stitch. One look at one of the pair, barely an infant but with its sole gaping at the road like a one-eyed troll, was enough for him to claim an exorbitant sum to mend it. As he expected of me, I tried to bargain but he refused to swerve from his position. So I had to politely demur and walk across to a shoe store nearby and buy myself a new pair of shoes. There was wisdom in the buy, I convinced myself for I do not like to splurge on footwear. I follow my uncle's dictum on footwear: them of no use but to guard the foot from what it walks on. One could dismiss such an opinion as functional but how elegant and sagacious it is! And since then, it has been easy for me to choose and buy footwear and more importantly, it has never taken me longer than 10 minutes to head away from the nauseating stench of leather.
But the problem is that they tend to wear off faster than it does for others around me. The sole erodes, or if it is a slipper, the annulated big toe holder splits or just comes unhinged. Same happens with buckled slippers too. It is not about the quality or the brand; I have tried shoes and slippers of nearly all brands but longer than six months, they never last. Bata, Durable Chrome Factory, Adidas, Nike, Paragon, even the plastic ones with counterfeit labels - no matter; my foot treats them with an equanimity and impartiality that school students can only dream of from their teachers.
On a rainy day, with dark clouds hovering above like an UFO, water puddled in the furrows made by the rain on the road and jaggedly flowing across the soil heaped beside the road, I found myself on my way to the cobbler with a pair of slippers. The toe ring had come unhinged from one among the pair. I had my doubts about it for the split portion of the toe holder hung in mid air, like a half constructed flyover, over a pear shaped vacuum where the sole should have been, the toe ring ruptured in such a way that it had come away with the piece of leather it was supposed to stick to.
So I found myself outside the cobbler's den, him and his tools resting on ground at the foot of a tree with a black tarpaulin roof stretching over them. I took out the slippers from the plastic bag and gave it to him. He held it in his hand for a moment and gave them back to me with the words "Nothing can be done about it". His instant verdict was stunning. As I had suspected, he pointed to the vacuum where the toe holder was to be held and suggested that I throw the pair away. Unlike for a doctor, one is better off without consulting another cobbler for second opinion. I walked back home feeling a little dazed. His acceptance of failure, this inability to stitch and append a pear shaped piece of leather to the sole, the speed at which he weighed his options and pronounced his verdict, the gawky look that flashed across his visage when he noticed the disappointment on my face, altogether startled me. Of course, there lay in my house, numerous pair of slippers and shoes that I had discarded or had not cared enough to mend. But fail a cobbler never has and his fallibility rankled till I reached home and stuffed the bag containing the pair under the shoe stand where it will rest till I throw the whole lot of it out.
But the problem is that they tend to wear off faster than it does for others around me. The sole erodes, or if it is a slipper, the annulated big toe holder splits or just comes unhinged. Same happens with buckled slippers too. It is not about the quality or the brand; I have tried shoes and slippers of nearly all brands but longer than six months, they never last. Bata, Durable Chrome Factory, Adidas, Nike, Paragon, even the plastic ones with counterfeit labels - no matter; my foot treats them with an equanimity and impartiality that school students can only dream of from their teachers.
On a rainy day, with dark clouds hovering above like an UFO, water puddled in the furrows made by the rain on the road and jaggedly flowing across the soil heaped beside the road, I found myself on my way to the cobbler with a pair of slippers. The toe ring had come unhinged from one among the pair. I had my doubts about it for the split portion of the toe holder hung in mid air, like a half constructed flyover, over a pear shaped vacuum where the sole should have been, the toe ring ruptured in such a way that it had come away with the piece of leather it was supposed to stick to.
So I found myself outside the cobbler's den, him and his tools resting on ground at the foot of a tree with a black tarpaulin roof stretching over them. I took out the slippers from the plastic bag and gave it to him. He held it in his hand for a moment and gave them back to me with the words "Nothing can be done about it". His instant verdict was stunning. As I had suspected, he pointed to the vacuum where the toe holder was to be held and suggested that I throw the pair away. Unlike for a doctor, one is better off without consulting another cobbler for second opinion. I walked back home feeling a little dazed. His acceptance of failure, this inability to stitch and append a pear shaped piece of leather to the sole, the speed at which he weighed his options and pronounced his verdict, the gawky look that flashed across his visage when he noticed the disappointment on my face, altogether startled me. Of course, there lay in my house, numerous pair of slippers and shoes that I had discarded or had not cared enough to mend. But fail a cobbler never has and his fallibility rankled till I reached home and stuffed the bag containing the pair under the shoe stand where it will rest till I throw the whole lot of it out.
