I have my father’s feet.
Not a pretty sight, you see…
Visibly veined, large and unwieldy
Not nimble, like a girl’s would be.
Cracked heels, chipped nails
And scars of mosquito bites
Add to the wretched suntan
That no sunscreen ever fights.
Pretty shoes with bows? — no,
They are but a forbidden paradise;
For I’m wise enough not to undertake
The quest for a fitting size.
I have my father’s feet.
Nervous of the performance ahead
I begin to brace myself, while amma,
Smearing mehndi on to my heels
Utters, with a surprising hint of pride,
“You have your father’s feet.”
I glance down, nonplussed
Strong, unbridled and free,
Feet that tread my village’s soils
Feet that dance, untiringly…
Feet that I inherited,
Smugly look up at me.
Dazed,
As I tie the bells round my ankles
My feet wink at me assuredly
And I wink back, in nascent faith,
At the heirloom that had chosen me.
Illustration by P. Suma
Article 19 