Walking down the slushy sidewalk on that fateful Friday night, Gopinath Lavande pulled on the last puff that he could extract from his cigarette. French tobacco - but seriously nothing to write home about; it was always the same with these socialite evenings- some little wanker would have to pull out his Zippo and recount the latest of his foreign travels, with some unknown cigarette brand being handed around as the focus of the conversation. He tossed the butt into the next puddle and picked up his stride. Home was still a good walk away and the clouds seemed to be gathering in the night sky above. All the same, there was still one cigarette left for last, thanks to the desi Frenchman who had been bragging– free smokes were always worth the effort of digesting bullshit. I’ll smoke that after my Horlicks.
The thing with walking fast is that while burning more calories- which Lavande saw as beneficial, given his expanding midriff- it took one’s mind off the immediate realities of the road ahead such as cow dung. Bloody Turdistan is what we should rename this country, he muttered mentally he tried to wash the perfect leather sole of his right slipper in a puddle of rainwater. These were brand new Woodlands that he had chosen to wear to the party that evening- to distinguish himself from the Bata crowd. He’d even carried a plastic bag in his pocket to put them into, to avoid the risk of losing them to some smart operator at the temple footwear counter. Technically, taking his slippers into the temple was acceptable to Lavande as he hadn’t actually worn them inside. And the Lord could afford to be generous about these things given all the wealth that was lavished upon Him by way of offerings. I’ve paid you ten bucks every week for the last fifteen years, so please leave me and my slippers alone, at least this once.
The Lord manifests Himself to people in unique ways, each purely dependent on the faith and belief regarded by individual worshippers. As a child, young Gopi had always loved the Friday temple visits with his mother, and never missed out on any of the other accompaniments that went with them. Bathed, combed, brushed and dressed as dapper as rubber slippers could permit, he would always want to be first in line for the offerings. A rupee out of his savings always went into the plate put forward by the priest, one step closer to completion of his policy on the afterlife- as his dear uncle, the life insurance agent had explained to him, while sipping a beer one sultry afternoon in the summer holidays of a youth gone by.
And so it had continued, a beautifully balanced relationship between boy and God, through the turbulent years of his puberty and well past landmarks of employment, marriage and family. Lavande didn’t really want anything from the man above. The weekly ritual was something of a necessity to him, much like the need to urinate more during the monsoons. It was not that he was an atheist forced to go through the motions of societal acceptance like a closet homosexual either. This was a case of a conscious mind accepting a logical explanation to a sometimes complicated concept in absolute totality. No returns until death, assuming all premiums were paid on-time-in-full. Simple.
The dung was perfectly matured, if the cow responsible could have called it that. Just like the bloody French wine these snobs were quaffing earlier- aged to perfection with a hint of fruity essence and zest. This is the problem with these monsoon days, no proper sun to dry the dung quickly- and these cows are like organized criminals, perfect planning and bombing operations. The worst part about stepping into mature dung cakes was that the external crust split unevenly and then the foot sank into the soft interior, much like a custard pie to the face although less enjoyable, in relative terms.
Lavande was by no means a personality to be taken lightly in any form of the word, and had a stride to match the gravity of his character. Hence, he hit the dung hard, sinking into the putrid layers with the ease of a grindstone falling into a well. Haai haai, maadchud gaai…... it was always so much more satisfying to curse in the vernacular. The squishy feeling between his toes confirmed that the inner straps had been breached.
The puddle was of some solace, deep enough to wash a foot in by dipping, ensured that way by the acceptable levels public apathy. Maybe this is why people never really protest about bad roads, because deep down everyone knows they will have to stoop to wash themselves sometime. These thoughts began to play on Lavande’s mind, questions of public activism and hubris humbled by the ancient natural laws of the land. Maybe I should have checked the slippers in at the temple counter, maybe this is poetic justice for my pride. Does this mean that the worst has passed? The straps are intact- no breaks- and my foot is not hurt. One slipper is dry and clean, while its partner tries to hide the shame of defilement. Leather that weathers, they said. Should I risk wearing a wet slipper with a dry one? Different levels of friction, increased risk of slippage- especially on a rainy night. In any case, it’s clean now; a little wet, but clean nonetheless. Damn! I should have just checked them in.
He took the dry slipper off his left foot, placed it in the plastic bag with the wet one and began to walk again. No sense in wasting time with moral debate, better to get moving and salvage the remnants of the day. This belief in poetic justice is a figment of the subconscious desire to deal with the bitter bile of guilt, better improve my digestion lest I choke on the backwash of my own gullibility the next time around.
The plastic bag swished against his pant leggings as he walked, and he swung it with a consciously gay abandon, conveying to his spirit that it was not to be subdued by these tussles over morality. The more the swishing built in rhythm, the more he felt alive. After all, it was ages since he had walked free and barefooted in the rain.
And then the dogs struck.
Lavande’s morality movie had played out so well that once again, he had forgotten to watch the terrain in front of his nose. The city was well known for stray dogs- self appointed guardians of the night- that chased all that attracted their attention. In some cases, children had been reported to have been killed from savage maulings inflicted by these normally lethargic daysleepers. Right now, there were three or four strays that had been attracted by the unfamiliar sounds of the plastic packet.
Shoo! Shoo! Stupid creatures… get lost….
He waved the packet at them in the hope that they would run away, but this only stirred them up further. What Lavande did not know was that these very dogs had been involved in an incident earlier that evening, which had resulted in sever loss of respect for them, much worse than his own Waterloo
The result of nagging after a much larger purebred German shepherd had resulted in chaos and pain, when the walker had lost control of the leash. Local and national canine pride, was at an all time low- and in times like these, even fellow countrymen were good enough, as long as they were bad enough in the mob sense.
Baying for blood, the beastly canines went for Lavande, who instinctively defended himself with the packet in his hands, striking out as the salivating jaws snapped.
As he held on to the packet, Lavande realized that the leader of the pack, the energetic brown stray, had managed to sink his teeth into the dry slipper. The soft leather was not unlike the feel of flesh, species immaterial. There was a time for judgment and a time for blood. Mesmerised by the texture and feel of the lovely leather slipper, the dog began to pull strongly at it, and to his horror, Lavande felt the hide slowly give way as it began to rip. Crazed with delight at their prize, the dogs focused on chewing and tearing at the slipper they had managed to wrest from their human opponent. It’s always easy to distract simple souls with toys, someone once said.
Lavande was in a daze as he stood, one wet slipper in hand, a faint smell of dung in the air, watching the now stupid- more than crazed- dogs tear at the one good slipper that he had once possessed. Possessed, himself, with a rage that comes to good but mild-mannered people when pushed to the precipice of their self respect, he tremblingly reached down to a plank that he had noticed beside the pavement a few seconds earlier.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust and blood for slippers that went into the temple that men built. Is this poetic justice? Lavande wondered, as his pulse raced.
As he raised the plank to strike the nearest canine head, he lowered it once again and then dropped it on the pavement. Something stopped him.
Not divine intervention. Not guilt- well, not entirely; some part of his inner gentle nature maybe, but not entirely.
Throwing the other slipper to the happy pack of pups, he walked away in the now light drizzle- a gentle end to a tempestuous night. Stopping for a moment under the streetlight, Gopinath Lavande cupped his hands to light the last cigarette, puffing away in simple self content.
If slippers walk the path to damnation, then heaven and Horlicks can wait.
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