Taking long strides, Viji quickened her pace. She took the tip of her dhavani to wipe the sweat trickling down her neck and forehead. She had just reached the Odiansalai roundabout and quickly glanced at the liquor shop by the corner of the street just before Newton Theatre. The shiny clock on the wall showed 5 pm. The young girl turned right before heading straight to her neighbourhood. She went past curious onlookers scouting around the cinema hall. There were very few people there, mostly men roaming around, smoking and looking at an enticing poster of a Malayali film. In it, the popular actress Shakeela was sitting on a tiny stool that was barely visible beneath her curves. Her wet paavadai was clinging to her elephant-like body, inciting sighs from thousands of men across the country. The pink plastic bucket placed in front of her looked miniscule. She was holding a pot in her right hand, pouring water over her head. In the backdrop, one could see a silhouette of a masculine face watching over. The film looked promising. Viji lowered her head while passing by, avoiding eye contact with those randy men. However, some of them stopped to look at the poster and at her, whispering lasciviously. Disgusted, she quickly walked past them.
She looked up only upon reaching the Sri Ram Hotel. The sun was slowly fading into the horizon behind the rice fields of Ozhukarai. The trees from the botanical garden looked paralysed under the tyranny of the sun god. Looking through the grill, the young woman could see lovers sitting under the trees, looking bored. She stopped for a moment to look at them and sighed as she went on her way, her right foot shaking as her sandal suddenly gave way. Surprising, since she had her sandals repaired only a week ago. She took them off and bent down to pick them up. The ground was still warm. She looked sadly at the tamarind tree behind Subbaiah’s statue. As she looked at the skinny silhouette of the old shoemaker, her face lit up. He was chatting with his friend, the rickshaw puller.
“Viji, what do you want me to do with your old sandals? I told you the other day that I won’t be able to repair them any more. There is nothing more to be done with them. Why are you so adamant about keeping them? Look at these ones here. If you like them, you can take them. You can pay me later. Bit by bit.”
The old shoemaker caressed his big moustache with fingers blackened by wax. He then took the sandal and turned it around, looking for a way to repair it. He shook his head and gave up. He had held these sandals in his hands many times. But this time around, nothing could be done. As Viji hesitantly looked on, without saying a word, he threw them in the heap of leather waste behind the tamarind tree.
“Aiyyo, Thatha!” The young girl felt a surge of desperation. “Please, this is the last time. Please! I am already late. If I leave without my shoes, how will I manage? You know the devil who lives in my house, don’t you? Imagine going home without my shoes! Disaster! Do something! I just need to walk a few metres!”
“My dear, I can’t do anything. These sandals will not even last one hundred meters! Listen to me. I can’t keep saying the same thing all the time. Stop wasting my time! Take these ones, and you can pay me whenever you can.”
He took a piece of the cloth hanging over his shoulder to wipe his back and went back to talk to the rickshaw puller who, stretched across his vehicle, was nearly falling off to sleep.
Viji glanced from the pile of waste leather pieces to the new shiny sandals lying on a jute cloth in front of the shoemaker. She hesitated. The sandals with yellow straps were shining like gold under the sun as it went down. They would go well the orange churidar she had bought for Pongal. If she took them, she would wear them only on special occasions. They were beautiful. She could already see herself walking in them on the Cours Chabrol by the seaside, taking in the fresh air. She would sit down, put her sandals on the rock and dream of faraway lands. The wind would carry her on waves of happiness to shores where millions of shoes could be found under giant coconut trees. The girls in the neighbourhood would be jealous. The sound of the anvil brought her back to reality. The shoemaker had taken her old sandals and finished repairing them. She thanked him with a smile and made her way home feeling lighter.
Excerpted with permission from ‘Viji’ in Nocturne Pondicherry, Ari Gautier, translated from the French by Roopam Singh, Hachette India.
