In March 2017 I had bought a pair of pretty tomato red shoes from Metro but before three months had passed the seams gave way. I took them back and asked for a repair in despair. Metro does not have a factory at Allahabad so the shop had to send my shoes to Bombay. When I went back, a month later, in July, I was politely informed that the shoe could not be repaired and I could choose a new pair instead. I was happy. I picked a sedate beige pair with a tiny carrot colored dainty tied red bow.

My new shoes barely began their journey and it was time for us to bid a farewell to Allahabad. But before leaving Allahabad we thought we should visit Kashi Vishwanath temple in Honorable Prime Minister’s constituency and also my old favorite Lucknow. We went to Kashi Vishwanath temple barefoot leaving the new beige pair in the car. Same fate fell upon them as we paid obeisance at many temples in Varanasi. 

In Lucknow we went to see the miracles of science and my shoes could witness those with me. They carried me to Gomti river-side park and admired the gleaming gay reflections of street lights in the river with me. A new mall and old Hazrat Ganj were also visited in their elegant protection. Charbagh railway station counted my shoes in the tally of daily footfalls.

Come September, wishing Allahabad a fond adieu we returned to our home town Meerut. However, I was soon sadly summoned to Delhi. My ailing brother-in-law breathed his last the day I reached. Silently, timidly, unobtrusively my shoes witnessed the sad somber death rites. The acute melancholy metamorphosed to illness galore; one by one, all young and old were afflicted by severe sickness. 

In late October, to willfully shake off the desperately clingy gloominess we went to Dharamshala, Mcleodgunj and Kangra. My shoes carried me up and down many hill roads, to various monasteries, to a Buddhist craft centre and also Kangra Fort.

In middle of November, my best friend’s daughter’s wedding beckoned us to Mumbai. Our daughter was coming for her annual holiday. She had taken Newark to Bombay to Delhi flight. We booked our tickets to return from Bombay to Delhi in the same international flight that our daughter had taken from to Delhi via Bombay to maximize our time with her. 

Our children work very hard so we took our daughter and son to Jaisalmer. It is called the yellow city deriving its identity from the yellow stone buildings. The fort, the temple and a palace made famous by a popular moving picture Sarfarosh as Mirchi seth ki Haveli were enthusiastically seen. The highest ramparts of the fort afforded a panoramic view. We saw one well preserved private Haveli with intricately sculpted facade and windows – jharokhey. With the idea of admiring a sunset, we precariously, perilously rode tall grotesque camels jerkily saunter across the undulating sand dunes. Then with gay abandon we danced with kalbelia dancers around a warm bonfire, had dinner in the open sitting near burning wood, slept in a really cold tent, awoke to witness a gorgeous warm sun rise and went to see Karni mata temple near the Longowala border which had survived shelling during the December 1971 skirmish with Pakistan. My husband’s uncanny resemblance easily procured us a permission to go to the border post. Driving across sand dunes and dessert donkeys we reached the border. We climbed the watch tower to see our troublemaking neighbor. Accept for the prohibitive foreboding barbed wire fencing nothing could demarcate and differentiate the land across the border. While returning we went to see a war memorial at Longowala and realized that the movie Border is made on the true events which took place here. 

When the year 2017 was slowly drawing to a close, our son-in-law came and we all went to Kodaikanal, for a long cherished holiday. There while wading through shallow streams, waterfalls, specially the Liril waterfall made famous by the Liril girl – Karen Lunel’s playful shivery antics I was worried about my new shoes getting wet and muddy. I was trying to save them even at the risk of my own safety. My daughter told me to watch my step, tighten my grip and not bother about my shoes. She said, “We will buy new shoes for you if these get broken.” But these were my new shoes I reminded her. On the midnight of the last day of the year 2017 she and her husband flew back to US.  

In January 2018, husband got an assignment in Delhi so to Delhi we came. In February, we visited the Golden temple – Harmander Sahib in Amritsar. In March we took our son to Nainital and spent a week there walking on the hills, along the beautiful lake. Hot unbearable sunny April and May were spent mainly indoors in Delhi; celebrated Rita’s promotion and birthday with gaiety galore.

Monty’s birthday on June 7th was a great gathering of friends and vegetarian food was par excellence. My feet were on cloud nine because on the 8th June I flew to Srinagar as the first leg of my Leh Ladakh trip. My shoes jumped with joy when I sat in Shikara. I had carried a pair of sneakers for walking on the tough mountain terrain but I found my beige loafers served me more faithfully. The trip was momentous and unforgettable.

I lost a dear younger sister in July which left me enormously upset. I kept remembering the intimacy and love we had shared along with activities and events which held testimony to our closeness. Once again my shoes witnessed the death rites of a person younger than me. my birthday in early August didn’t cheer me enough.

September took us to Japan. The trip materialized in a jiffy and got over in a jiffy too. I enjoyed Japan in the jovial company of a Japanese friend.

October was a big birthday month; my aunt, my son, my niece and half a dozen close friends had their birthdays. We went to Pune in mid October on a nostalgia trip. We stayed in the Institute hostel where I had first stayed in 1983. From Pune Bombay was a natural digression and an extension of the nostalgia; being in Colaba does that to me always. I visited my alma mater which was later my work place. A decade long association with the college near Regal theatre ascertains its dearness to continue! 

My daughter was coming in November. The knowledge and its realization and the initial waiting phase were thrilling. Welcoming her, then taking her to Meerut to meet my parents and then to Jim Corbett Park were all exciting. Wading in Ramganga became our regular rendezvous. The jungle safari didn’t show us any big cats but spotted deer, barking deer and Sambhar deer were aplenty. Seeing a hornbill family, a huge hornbill from close, the huge hornbill in flight and hearing its loud sound were unforgettable experiences so also the big drab brown owl. An elephant walking gracefully through tall grass and a shallow river also kept our attention riveted. There were ugly wild boars but their little ones were as cute as any other little babies. Time and again we marveled at the incredibly amazing camouflage nature provided to all the jungle inmates. We were becoming habitual of constantly straining our eyes trying to locate animals and birds, at times even imagining where there was none. We never ceased to marvel how quickly an animal just disappeared from our alert and now somewhat trained sight. Only their movement was discernable. I got philosophical and thought that’s how God eludes us. So, on the whole, the jungle safaris were not in vain. One enthusiastic driver asked us whether we had seen Girija Devi temple and I told him we had not seen though we were keen to see. My interest was his motivation. While returning from the safari he took a diversion and stopped the open jeep and announced that we had reached the temple. It was late evening. Sun had set. The dusk was darkening fast as it does in mountains. The weather was cold and so husband said he would wait for us in the jeep. We took the subtle cue. Daughter and I jumped out from our high seats and asked for directions because we could not spy any temple. There were the usual brightly lit shops selling Prasad, flowers and other religious paraphernalia declaring loud enough that we were in close vicinity of a temple but the temple was not visible. The helpful shopkeepers pointed towards a bridge. We started walking towards the bridge, and then on the bridge. The bridge was bifurcated with a steel railing in the centre suggesting traffic regulations. The bridge was broad enough but it seemed it was only for pedestrians. I guessed that the lane on my left hand would be for going and right for returning and so deciding we started walking fast. Half way through the longish bridge I realized that we were the only people on the bridge and with my Delhi induced terror I got slightly worried. But we moved on. We saw the temple clearly now. It was situated on top of a tiny thin hillock rising from Ramganga. The hill with a tiny temple right on top resembled a thin wedge of a tall red marble cake. One had to climb a long flight of stairs to reach the temple. My enthusiasm was beginning to fray. On reaching the end of the bridge we found that if we had walked on the other side of the bifurcation then we could have taken the stairs to the temple from there itself but now we had to go down a staircase from the bridge to the bed of the river and take the temple stairs from the bottom. I didn’t let my fraying enthusiasm at on me. We ran down to the dry river bed and up the temple stairs. There were sixty eight steps, approximately equal to a four storey building which we surmounted to reach the temple, said our prayers and received Prasad and came down. We did not stop to admire the panoramic view from the top because the area was secluded and visibility was poor. On our way back we were pleasantly surprised to see that our driver for that evening had come to chaperone us. Next morning we left Jim Corbett Park and Ramnagar to return to Delhi. In Delhi, my shoes rested while my daughter went to her parents-in-law. 

I thought I was going to write a happy story. I thought my greatly travelled shoes would cause envy but when I logged in the details I realized that only this pair of shoes had had the ominous fortune of witnessing two young ill timed deaths. 

It had to be a tragedy. I lost my mother. I let her go with, “She cannot come!” She referred to me. Why couldn’t I go? Now it does not matter. No explanation would wipe off my guilt ever. I will die with this on my heart and branded on my soul. Now the very same shoes will take me to my mother’s funeral. Two were not enough. Just how ill fated these shoes are. Why am I blaming poor innocent shoes who have faithfully been serving me. I must take the blame and own up the chicken that I turned out to be in final analysis. 

Is there any way I can ask for her forgiveness?