My dear slippers, where have you gone? I have been frantically trying to look for you since morning, ever since the incessant rains of the last three days showed some signs of abating. It’s a terrifying pool around me, a moving river of litter that has now become a stagnant pool. All the things that had once defined someone’s life are now floating about like withered flowers, no longer in a form that could be of use to anyone.
Did you float away thus as the rains pounded the muddy earth outside your owner’s hut? Were you happy to go away? Did you think you have had enough of this middle-aged bachelor, who for years, used you to walk around only rough, thorny and rigid terrains? Did you tire of the coarse and bruised feet of the man who never wanted to throw you out for another pair?
Did you think I kept you only because I couldn’t afford new slippers? You are right in believing so, but only partly, my tattered footwear. I had a very strange kind of attachment to you, I still do. You were one of the very first things that I had the luxury of buying out of the meagre income of a not-much-in-need cobbler. Do you see the irony of it, my gentle brown slippers? I mend footwear for a living and I am now without my own.
The rain, harsh and loud this time, used to be my friend when I was young. It washed down the tears of loneliness, despair and helplessness of an orphaned child. It held me in its embrace when I felt terrified about being alone in this big, baffling world. Year after year, the rains came unfailingly, and I grew up, untended and uncared for, pretty much like those roadside shrubs that lie soaked in dust till the rains come down on them like a blessing and turn them into a vibrant green.
But this time, the rains have descended with a vengeance. And like those shrubs that have been uprooted and thrown away in fury, I am left stranded, unable to find my roots. My minimal belongings are gone, my tool box is nowhere to be seen and you, my sole-mate, have disappeared. Tell me, did the rains hurt you? Did it sever that fragile strap of yours that I would have mended a hundred times?
The rains have been a blessing in disguise for you, I suppose. Maybe you are down somewhere, sighing in absolute relief, that you have finally gotten rid of me. Or are you frantically looking for me like I am for you? Have a pair of alien feet found you? Are you agitated about the strangeness of those feet? Are you longing for the familiarity of mine, no matter how calloused and cracked they are? Or are you happy with that breath of fresh air?
Such annoying questions run needlessly in my mind during this testing hour. But what do I do? My feet feel so uncomfortable. The stagnant rain water around them makes me squirm. Without you beneath my feet, I feel isolated, lost. Slippers are, I believe a man’s close aide; they walk the important and not-so-important journeys with you. Not all slippers can become true companions. You walked with me for eight years before disappearing last night! Can you believe it?
My neighbours are as clueless as I am as they aimlessly wander searching for the things that made up their existence. A baby is crying somewhere, the old people look listless, men and women wade through knee-deep water staring into open spaces – once where their homes were.
I stare at the massive emptiness that the rains have excavated out for me. My mind desperately clings to the details of my past that have been washed away, including you, my tender brown slippers. The question that keeps popping is this: Would I find you buried deep in the mud somewhere? Down the road? Near the beach? Maybe not. The truth is, our journey together is done. And I have nothing to do but to move on.