Brown soul shoes

 Everything was suave and chic and a good dose of bling. Glamour suited her. Every word uttered was precious reinforced by the thumbs ups, the likes, the hugs & kisses. All virtual cheers, all showing the world how wonderful, charming, cute, happening she was. This was her world. She ruled this space. She mattered. She was the trend. And she wanted more.

She sat up on her bed hugging her knees in indecision. Her pink sheets with unicorn motifs complimented her new silk jammies. The coordination was deliberate, designed and well executed to look effortless. A hip song of some man and his car being the largest in the city, of him being the dirtiest man played loudly in the background. Her short-shorts were the newest on the block with the ripped back pockets. Save few threads, the structural integrity of the shorts was a point which was under deep research by some physicists.  A lock of hair protested in her hands and she won the battle putting it aside and taming it with a clip.

"What to donate?" she  declared to the empty room. 

"Right, lets see .." Pointing an imaginary gun at the series of cupboards, and aiming at each row and making  mental note. 

She felt magnanimous. She could already see the poor girls wearing her super-trendy clothes and feeling awesome about themselves. She thought of giving up the green one, the one with gold prints.  Oooh! the purple ones with silver fishes on them, everyone would love those! The cause was floods or fire or something in some part of the world she had never heard of. That never mattered. She would ask her manager. Maybe she could pack some water-proof gear that were so-oh!-last-year from a brand that had troubling image these days. Their lead designer was caught with some child. That fool! He ruined a good contract for her. 

Her thoughts switched through her wardrobe faster than light could reach the corners. She remembered them all. That was her special talent. She was lucky with picking the next trend. She looked good in everything! 

Her moderate fame and jingling posh money had given her the confidence she never had. Her own narration however varied from reality, well rehearsed and well vocalized a million times even before she ever got to narrate her story. 

She had already made herself the princess Di of our times. This donation, with the right coverage would put her on the same career path as Oprah! It was about playing the game right. Keeping the right image.  But, that's the thing, all the jazz aside, true character shows through the shoes you wear. Her true character lay hidden in a box. Still stained with grass and pigsty stains. She hid those shoes, too common, a dull brown, too country. They reeked of a the country air, fresh and green and unscented of Chanel No.5. There was no character to them, too innocent looking, especially the discolored light pink threads that made her fall in love with them the first time. Too guilty to part with her true self, betraying all those who put her here. Nana who gave all her savings for the trip to the city and Marcus who promised to wait. 

As she scrutinized every nook and corner in her room, she never touched that corner. Even as she piled and piled things for donation, she deliberately ignored that part of her soul. 

Hidden in a large cardboard box with gold motifs and light pink hearts lay those shoes. Those shoes loved the sun as much as her. They could hear the rustle. Many days had past, months or years, The shoes couldn't count. But, they waited with patience for a chance to step on soft grass again, breath fresh air again, feel the muddy scents again. Though they detested the filth of the pigs, but after this much time away, they even missed the scent. They lay there, hearing the rustle, hoping it was their day. They missed her little feet. She had very tough nails. She never cut them correctly. They might have pushed back on her nails with an intent once or twice. They did not regret that at all. One should know to cut their nails!

More rustling.

They became even more attentive. Closer than ever. 

Thud!

She was surely very close now! They tossed and turned and tumbled. They were ready for their moment in light again!

They found themselves rolling, banging against the walls of the box.

The light never came that night. Silence gain. Somehow it was warmer tonight. But still no light. Their heart sank, aching to be on their ground again.

Tonight, she lay there, curled up, on the pretty pink unicorns and her glossy silk jammies hugging her shoe box. Far more tightly for her comfort.  Still not ready to admit to herself that she wanted to go home.

The square

It was daunting to walk across that square in those first weeks. This square lay in the middle of the city, surrounded by a place of god, and behind the place of law. The gray imposing walls matched the gloomy, gray Irish skies more often than not. They grayness was a far cry from the crisp,warming months leading to sultry Indian summers that I had just left behind.  A sunless chill hit me every time I walked through this square. It was not as much the square, but that it led from a very broad, open streets to a series of alleys. At the first glance, it always felt like a dead end. Whenever I walked into this square, the street seemed to narrow in on me and the dark pubs and alleyways exiting the square made me feel even more claustrophobic. On most of those early days, backed with the weight of prejudice and typical Indian upbringing,  I could feel my body tense with anxiety of an impending attack by a wayward drunk. I would scurry along, in a hurry, to get out of there, reach wherever it was I was sleeping tonight, back to warmth and bright electric lights of my current AirBnB. Temporary accommodation days.

Two years, to this St. Paddy's day, I could remember my trip from India. My entire comfort zone was packed in my 23 Kilo suitcase. It felt heavier with the memories. Scared, determined for a new start I had left my life I had known and built over 30 odd years. I swiped and swiped through the old albums I had scanned in the days leading to my departure. It was a desperate, last minute attempt to pack all the memories of my entire life on the 15 GB free space provided by Google. Sadly, there is no storage for Amma's idli, cutney and kaai haalu (coconut milk side-dish, sweet and fragrant), or for Anna calling me "Putta (little one, I am 30+, but my dad still calls me that)! Putta!" every morning, or for the baby smell from my 3 month old nephew. 

Out of the corner of my eye I saw and heavy cloud part and blue-green waters appear. Then, I saw the emerald island. Much of it is blur now, but not the friendly banter of the immigration officer. 

He asked -"How ye doin'?"

I almost blurted my entire life history and emotional health, surprised by his kindness to actually care about my well-being. I would learn over the years that this was very Irish, you are not expected to reply to the question at all, simply consider this as an exaggerated hello, and ask the same question back, and say - not too bad if you feel too energetic that day. 

Even before I even summarized my life history in an audible reply he went on.

"Oh! You here from India, are ye? Here for  much sunshine?"

I replied, despite my internal doubts that a wrong word here could send me back home, worst get me arrested! My sarcasm leaks out when I am nervous. Despite my best efforts, I heard my sarcasm replying.

"Ya... and I am here for sunshine & warmth for sure". 

We both laughed and I warmed up in my heart under the four warm layers for the first time since I had left home.

I was in Cork, Ireland. Walked out of nearly empty airport, saw nearly empty streets, swaying drunks here and there. Wondering if I was truly in the most drunk country in the whole world. No, it was just after Paddy's day parade. I was lucky I got a taxi! Irish flags were here and there. I tilted my head 90 degrees and saw Indian flag, felt a little relieved.

Slowly, warmed by the heater my kind AirBnB host had left on for hours expecting me, I realized I am finally in Ireland! Enthusiasm filled me, I looked into my little notebook where I listed all the things I wanted to do. Then, the fear of being in a new country with new culture took over. Over the next days, the enthusias­m would wax and wane in a battle with anxiety and fear. I would walk across the gray square on the way to work, coming across many strange faces, still unable to discern their features. Being an Indian woman,  I was trained in stranger-danger. I would stare down at every stranger, especially a man with laser-eyes. A warning look to not try funny business. Strangely I got a -" hello! how are ye! ", at times. I was left bewildered. Did I know them? Was I expected to answer to strangers? My instinct would blare out my mental alarm system - STRANGER-DANGER!! Do nothing! Do not engage! Do not look! Walk away as soon as you can!

Who would have predicted that I would come to love this Irish quirk of saying hello to all. You never knew if you were running into a cousin here.

Another Paddy's day is here, two years on. What changed between now and then is perhaps time, and me. Last Sunday, I found myself walking down the same gray square. There are far fewer people for a Sunday, thanks to the lock-down. I look up at the impressive church and the swanky Sunday crowd catching on local gossip after Sunday mass. On other days I see the neatly pressed suits and stylish dresses of the litigators out for a smoke behind the courthouse. I look ahead and invariably taste in my mouth the sweet, sour and nicely spicy, hot pad Thai from Malay Kitchen, closest thing to homemade rasam (spicy, tangy and sweet broth soup from South of India, very specific to each home). In one of those narrow streets sits my favorite charity shop, Irish cancer Society, showcasing all of my current fashion sensibilities. Many a winter nights have been spent in the cozy pub Raven, around the corner, with warm people having a bit of craic. On this Sunday, I find myself rejoicing the blooming daisies in the little garden of St. Francis church, on the corner of the square. On my previous trips in these two years, ever so often, I have run into a friend or the other, or made a new friend here. I have enquired of many a strangers on how they were doing, without expecting a reply. How very Cork-ian of me! 

I am going home this day. It is warm. Spring is here. Home, not an AirBnB, well lit and feels like my space. I see another face, fresh off the boat. Much like my two-year past self she is scurrying along this square, avoiding eye contact. She gave a sheepish smile of familiarity to me. I returned a big smile, knowing exactly what she was going through, having an imaginary conversation with her, telling her- "It's going to be fine. You are going to be fine. You are in Cork now. Give it a little time. It's all going to be grand."

[The opinions here are mine and mine only. I do not intend to offend anyone. This is not a reflection of any class of people. The writing here, is in good faith.]