Short Story: The Sole Affair
God, I love shoes.
Shoes are the materialistic desires of the feet. My feet love to be in good shoes. Apart from ties (which I am not allowed to wear these days, as nobody else does), I always have aspired to build a wardrobe.
One of those shoes is a pair of Nikes that I bought in 2016. 2016? That is eight years ago. What has it got to do with today? The pair is brand new. I bought it during my trip to NY, broke into it — short runs in the snowy climes of Tarrytown, and then when I returned to India tossed it into the attic.
Brand new Nikes. For a runner, it is like ice cream. The very thought of my shoes melts my heart. I have four running pairs, up from two last year. But my mileage has dropped significantly from a knee problem, or so I thought. I visited my sports orthopedist who said that there was a typical issue of runners of my age and asked me to strengthen my knees, starting with physiotherapy.
‘It is all in your mind, Ashok.’ He said, smiling. ‘Most of us find a reason to rest. Exercise is hard, and the inertia — mental inertia is too hard to overcome.’ I nodded. I went for a couple of physiotherapy seasons (out of the mandated five) and then bunked. That is me.
Now, back to my running. Or running shoes. This particular pair came up for action as I packed my bags for Dubai. In Dubai, I ran a 10-kilometer run, my longest in many days, in the unusually cool Dubai weather for April. I had a Korean friend, and the run was fun, as we talked about cricket and K-stars.
Just after I finished my run, my brand new Nike Shoes (albeit being 7 years old) gave in. The side walls came apart, with a yawning gap between the sole. The bottom rubber also opened up — again, the glue did not hold. It was the pair’s way of saying, we were not ready for a ten-kilometer run, suddenly after 7 long years.
I hoard my accessories — shoes, suits, pens, ties — and it’s a long list. Even though I know I won’t live forever, I feel that certain brands are for certain occasions. Back to the shoes again. I had hoarded them for seven years, and now they gave up on me — especially on an overseas trip. I could not wear these for my leisure trysts with any client or friend. I scoffed at them.
My overseas trips are like a portal — I have to dress up one notch, and so I preserve, which turns to hoard. My shoes were in the attic, waiting for their turn. They seem to be telling me that they were ‘born to run’ and I never put them to use. They were like well-built ships, but anchored in their harbor, waiting for fair weather to sail, which never came. But when their turn came, they just developed holes. The shoe with a yawning soul is like a ship with a gaping hole.
The next few mornings, I stared at the distant harbor. Somebody remarked that it was the Dubai dry dock, where ships were made without touching any water. My shoes might have felt the same — hanging in the dry dock without seeing their water — the road. For a pair of running shoes, it was a grave injustice.
I looked at them with anger though. ‘Now, you have let me down.’
They seemed to smile gleefully at my frustration. ‘Now what?’ They asked me.
I did not reply. Instead, I bought a new pair of Nikes (some people say Dubai is famous for factory outlet sales) and returned home wearing them.
Just the next day, I had to embark on another trip. I carried the broken pair of Nikes along.
‘For you, there is no rest. Neither would you guys go into the wardrobe, nor the attic.’
I tried to find a cobbler the next day near my office, in the city I was visiting. I could not find any. I looked at them sneaking out of the cover.
‘Hey, this is fun. Just being carried around. This is the price of non-use and hoarding, my friend.’ They cackled at me derisively, or so I thought.
‘Does this not reflect your life?’ They asked me. ‘For the seven years, we lay in the attic, you sat on your chair and tried to write. The runner in you had taken a backseat. The adventure, the adrenaline, the positive, vibrant atmosphere of the marathons, the euphoria of success, the sheer joy of running — all have tapered into a trot. If we have withered because of non-use, can we say the same with your body — that machine that carries you through this life friend.’
I did not look at them. They had a point. I was furious that I could not find a cobbler after this short trip to my HQ. I returned home, carrying them in the same cover that they got into in Dubai. I had to fix them and get them ready for running. It was time to reclaim them (I could have thrown them away, but the option was simply not there, given my nature) and reclaim my running life.
I dialed my son and asked him to look for a cobbler, as I drove back to my city.
‘There is one, Appa, next to the Primus Cake shop.’
The next day was Sunday. I was busy with laundry and gardening and forget about them — ah, the shoes. They did not taunt or speak. I later thought they had told me enough.
I had been warned to pick other shoes from my shoe rack and move on. After listening to the vicarious sermon, I was not the one to give up. That evening, I decided to visit the cobbler. As I drove, I found that the shop was closed.
‘Sunday, Sir. Most shops ( including the cobbler) will be closed.’ I started thinking about the futility of my mission. The taunt by the pair of Nikes pushed me to drive around, looking for the cobbler.
‘Would there be anybody else?’ I asked the same guy, as I made circles without finding one.
‘There is one new guy near the Vijaya Bank. You could try your luck there.’ The man started puffing his beedi, looking away.
I drove past Vijaya Bank and found the cobbler’s place. There they were — the tools were scattered. The anvil lay on its side. But the cobbler was nowhere to be seen.
I decided to wait. It did not take much, as I saw a healthy, well-dressed looking man of my age (say, five decades on this planet), sauntering to the sidewalk, where the tools of the cobbler’s trade were strewn all over.
‘What is it, sir?’ He asked with a gentle smile. My frustrated wait turned into a quick awe.
‘Well, the glue has come off of this pair. I took it out after seven years.’ He looked at me with an incredulous smile as I handed the pair over. It must not be a new story for him.
‘If the shoes are not used, the glue wears off. Anyway, no shoe is designed to be alive for seven years.’ He said, as he opened his tool kit and looked for the thread bundle.
‘Do we need to stitch?’ I asked him, as the shoes gleamed in his dirty hand.
‘Yes. The glue won’t stick. The manufacturers put the glue on the sole and press it against the body in the heat. Hence they fit perfectly. We cannot do that, can we?’ He asked me as if he was probing my intelligence on how shoes were made.
I did not reply. He put the thread into the needle and started sewing the body of the shoe with the sole.
‘It looks ugly.’ I said.
He looked at me smiling. ‘I have only brown or black thread. Your shoes are red and blue. So it will be an eyesore. But the stitches will hold the body with the sole. It is functional.’
A mild breeze blew, showering a set of yellow leaves from the tree next to him.
‘Will it endure?’ I asked him skeptically.
‘I suppose so. It should. It will.’ He said with the now familiar smile.
Now the bottom. The rubber at the bottom of both had peeled off, and he applied a yellow glue.
‘The glue will have to dry first and then stick.’ He said, applying the glue slowly. ‘It will take half an hour to dry. Would you want to wait?’
‘No. I will come back after finishing a few other tasks.’
When I returned, I saw him sitting idle, looking at the passerby.
‘It will be ready now.’ As if on cue, he took the pair and pressed the rubber against the bottom, and handed them over to me.
‘They seem alright.’ I said, turning the pair right and left.
‘Isaac.’ I pronounced his name twice, for verification, as I paid him through my phone. He nodded acknowledging that he had received the payment.
I was packing for my trip the next day and realized that I had to pick a sports shoe. The trip was long enough for me to try my on-and-off tryst with running. Out of the four pairs, I chose the now fixed ones. As I was packing, I realized that the glue on one of the shoes was not properly stuck, and it started peeling.
Frustrated at this, I cursed the shoes.
The pair seemed to laugh. ‘You are never good enough.’
I turned my anger on Isaac and gave him a piece of mind. Nobody heard me though.
‘Sir, the glue will come out if it has not dried.’ Isaac explained as he applied glue afresh. His face curved in his usual smile.
‘Ah. Now I understand.’ I picked up the shoes and rushed back home.
Again, to my consternation, I saw that the other shoe had gawked openly. I yelped in disgust. This time, I sought the help of my son.
‘Dear, I think I need a break. Can you visit the cobbler?’
He looked at me nonchalantly, as if I was non-existent, throwing a questioning frown. I had interrupted his video game.
‘Fine.’ With a single-word response, he turned to his game.
‘Now!’ I screamed. ‘Now. The cobbler would leave in half an hour and my shoes are still not fixed.’
‘Ugh. What a pest you are.’ Upset with my insisting intrusion, he got up reluctantly and picked up the pair of Nikes, and headed to Isaac again.
‘He says it can’t be done.’ My son called me from the cobbler.
‘He says that you had already visited him just a while ago.’ I could sense the frustration in his voice.
‘Give the phone to Isaac.’ I remembered his name.
‘Sir, tell me.’ Isaac’s voice was polite. I was sure that he must be smiling.
‘It is my mistake. I did not check the other shoe. Please help me. Just this time.’ I pleaded with Isaac. There was no point confronting him.
‘Sorry sir. I have run out of glue. I would do it, but tomorrow. See here.’ I could imagine Isaac showing the empty glue pack to my son.
My son hissed on the phone. ‘It is true, Appa.’
I heard Isaac asking my son to purchase Feviqwik or a similar adhesive and apply it whenever the bottom gawked openly.
Did I hear the pair chuckle?
‘I have kept the adhesive near the pair.’ My son shouted as he sunk into his video game again.
‘Thank you, dude.’ I mumbled, knowing well that he would not hear me.
I looked at the cover — the shoes seemed alright. I pulled the right one out and found that the rubber and the soul were in a y shape.
‘You still cannot figure this out, can you?’ The broken shoe dared to provoke me.
‘Wait, my turn hasn’t come, my friend.’ I searched for the adhesive desperately.
I found the adhesive bottle but could not open it. I searched for the scissors to cut the cap, and a hot liquid poured into my fingers. The searing heat turned into a molten viscous liquid as it rapidly turned sticky and finally became super-sticky, so much so that I could not peel it off my skin.
I shook my hands and tried to run water on the super-sticky glue; some of it wore off. But most of it remained. I felt that trying to peel the glue would damage my skin.
The broken shoe sniggered. ‘See, you are incompetent of the first order.’ The other shoe fell off the cover, almost rolling off the floor in laughter.
I looked desperately for something that I can use to apply the glue. Luckily, I found an ice cream stick.
I applied the warm glue on the ice cream stick and then spread it between the rubber and the bottom. I heard the shoe suffer the heat, but it still resisted sticking.
I remembered Isaac's words. The next time, I spread the glue and waited for it to dry. Then I just pressed the gawking rubber onto the bottom, and there it was — the perfectly fixed shoe.
I never heard from the pair again. They lay there quietly.
‘I am going to put you on this trip.’ It was my turn to snigger and taunt. The pair was silent.
I washed my hands with soap and scanned the room. There was no one.
But I still felt victorious over a pair of running shoes.
PS: I was not successful in putting the bottom and sole together. I stuck my fingers with glue and had a hard time peeling them off. I threw away them in disgust. They landed in the dustbin of a hotel and then disappeared. They did not cackle at my failure. They knew my fetish will outlast them.
“Shoes have a lot to do with what people think. If you think not, then you should put the shoe on the other foot.”
― Anthony T. Hincks
~Ashok Subramanian © 2023
