Feet

The long procession of men and women, walking into the burning heat of a Chaitra noon, are marching forward. Sitting in the soothing shade of my balcony it is difficult for me to gauge which is more scorching -- the merciless heat of the Chaitra sun or the anger of the marchers. The procession is headed by women, their hands festooned with banners. At the very head of the procession two or three of these women, though facing the congregation and walking backwards, yet are proceeding forward. Their march has a nice tempo to it. Every now and then the marchers seem to want to burst into a dance, in time to the shifting rhythm of their feet. One of them breaks into a slogan - "The price of rice, lentil, sugar" -- the rest of the crowd takes up the sentence flung in mid-air, and vibrating with the emotion the words evoke in them, finish the sentence - Has to go down, has to go down."

All of a sudden, as a Brahmachary wind, a wind of remembrance sweeps up and over the women into the ranks of the men, unsettling the women's ornas and aanchals. They seem annoyed rather than embarrassed by this sudden displacement of the extra coverings on their bodies. The woman in the lead ties her orna around her waist and tucks up her shalwar. And I get the first glimpse of her milk white feet! The soles of her feet are of a delicious reddish pink hue and shaped somewhat like an egg. My gaze now loses interest in her previously orna-eclipsed breasts to rest on her lovely feet where all her energy, anger and gusto seem to have converged. I marvel at the thought that she has taken to the streets under this fierce Chaitra sun, instead of resting those lovely feet on a lazy hartaal noon in the comfort of her bed. She must have come from a long way off, I speculate.

"Hey, you asleep?" asks Shanu, with a steaming cup of tea in her hand. I stretch my hand sluggishly to take the cup from her hand and thank her. Then, as if to explain my presence in the balcony, I tell her about the procession. Shanu stares at me curiously, but adds in a neutral tone, "Oh, that. Yes, I heard them too from the kitchen but couldn't leave the meat on the stove. You know how it is if it gets burnt." I look at her. The lazy pleasure she seems to be deriving from cooking at mid-day is reflected in her lips, in the spot of gravy at the corner of her mouth. This is Shanu, my wife, a Bengali housewife for all seasons. I tear my gaze from the beautifully sculpted features of my wife's face and look at the procession melting away in the distance. The image of the long road with its procession of people lingers in my eyes.

Shanu stands by my side. Maybe she waits for me to finish my tea. She knows I can't stay awake without a cup of tea after a heavy lunch. I don't know what prompts her but all of a sudden she asks, between yawns, "Do you know which party they belong to?" I am pleased -- at least she's showing some curiousity. I answer, "Whichever party they belong to, they are voicing our demands also." Stifling another yawn, she asks, "Really? What did they say?" And even though the words are indistinct, I can make out what she's saying. I reply, "They are protesting the horrendous price-hike of rice, sugar, lentil." Shanu laughs and says, "And you - you have a salary close to 80 or 90 thousand a month. So what if the prices are a little high, right? If only we could now buy our own apartment..." I am annoyed at these words but say nothing. Her beauty pales before my eyes. I tell myself -- "This girl is not only average, but quite selfish too." I return the empty cup of tea and as she walks happily away with it, she glances back once to murmur, "Listen..." But I tell her I'd rather sit here than join her for a nap. Her happily hurried footsteps falter a little at these words and give away the fact that she's disappointed.

I work for the UN, and can't afford to take any break before the weekend. Perhaps we should be whiling away this unexpected hartal holiday, lying down beside each other in bed, relishing the love and the warmth between us. And yet, something in me recoils at the thought. Before she disappears I take a good look at her without her noticing it. I fix my gaze once again on the anklets wrapped around her beautiful feet, which highlight the pinkish, egg-shaped soles of her feet. That pair of anklets is a gift from me to her. I married Shanu because I liked her. We were more like acquaintances then, not lovers. Her complexion is on the darker side but she's always had exquisitely pretty feet. Her pinkish white toenails have a brilliant luster to them. Her nicely shaped toes are so inviting that I feel like touching them every time I see them. My mother tells me that since my childhood days I've always had a fascination for human feet.

Sitting still in the balcony makes me doze off a little. I step softly into the bedroom, trying not to wake Shanu who's by now fast asleep. My heart goes out to her. I lie down next to her. I detect that yellowish gravy-stained spot on her lips. Sleeping sideways, her soft, cuddly breasts brush against the fabric of her maxi. I scrutinize her posture and tell myself -- "There's no simplicity in her sleeping posture." I realize I'm still holding a grudge against her for her nonchalant reaction to the procession that walked past our house. I don't reach out for her. Instead, thinking of a recent incident, I feel more annoyed than ever. Last Friday we had gone to visit a relative in the hospital and by the time we reached home after some bazaar-shopping it was noon. It had been intensely hot. On top of that we hadn't been able to get any CNG-driver to give us such a short ride home.; they usually preferred longer trips. So, as we stood helplessly in the scorching heat, an old rickshawallah came to our rescue. And reading our minds, he said, "How long have you been standing in the heat? Come on, let's get you home." Shanu and I almost jumped into his rickshaw at these words. The old man helped us get our grocery stuff on to the rickshaw. As we hopped in, my gaze once again found its way onto his old, and yet incredibly industrious, feet; they defied the scorching mid-day sun, the fatigued passengers' arrogant behaviour, and even the 8-9kg-load of our groceries and paddled on efficiently. We had taken the umbrella with us, anticipating rain before leaving home. So I said to the rickshawallah, "Do you want me to hold the umbrella over you?" The old man looked at me over his shoulder and I saw his face -- his sweat-soaked face-- light up with joy. He replied, "No, sir, but you offering to do so filled my heart with joy."

When we reached home, I was busy taking the groceries off our rickshaw. Shanu, meanwhile, gave the old man a 10-Taka note, then asked for two Takas in return. The joy he had felt just a while ago got swept away at these words. He pleaded, "That road was hard on me, and this heat…" Shanu, unmoved, lashed at him, "Don't tell me the heat made the road longer!" I intervened quickly at this point and told her to go inside and send our maid out. Then, turning to the old man and tucking a 2-Taka note into his palm, I said apologetically, "Don't mind her, the heat has gone to her head." The old man put the money in his little purse and stared at me, joy suffusing his face once again. Taking the gamcha off his waist he rolled it up and wiped the sweat off his face, hands and neck. Then he mounted on his seat -- ready for another trip. His robust feet paddled away and took him slowly out of my sight. I kept staring at his hard-working feet, spellbound, until they disappeared into the distance.

Shanu, lying next to me in bed, rolls over to the other side all of a sudden, shaking the bed and with it my thoughts too. Her maxi rides up to reveal her ravishingly beautiful feet. They tempt me. My anger starts to cool off. I slip my feet in between her nicely stretched legs and close my eyes. Sleep descends quickly.

These days I make it a point to come home early from work. Shanu and I are expecting our first child! When I'm at work Shanu is left at home with a boy who helps her with the household chores. I feel a kind of affectionate longing to come back to her as soon as I get done at the office. Or, maybe it's the as-yet unborn member of the family, dwelling safely in Shanu's womb, who makes me gravitate toward home. And almost every day Shanu regales me with one anecdote or the other about our womb-dwelling child. She would say things like --"Guess what? Your child moved quite a bit today", or "Your son rolled over at least three or four times today", or maybe "The little brat pokes me from inside quite often. He's kicking too much these days." I laugh at these words to express my affection for both mother and child. But I'm quick to detect Shanu's use of gender while talking about our child. "How do you know it's a boy?" I ask her. Shanu replies with conviction, "I know it's boy, it has to be because I want a boy. I would be upset if it's not a boy. Men carry on the family legacy. They are the torch-bearers." I am tempted to retort, "And women are not?" How can she think like that being a woman herself, I wonder. I decide not to get drawn into an argument over this and so remain quiet. I don't want her to get upset about anything at this vulnerable stage. So, every Friday, like today, I lie down beside Shanu after lunch. I do this because I feel it gives her some moral support and company. Shanu, lying next to me on these lazy afternoons, sometimes buries her joyous, self-complacent face coyly in my chest every now and then. Sometimes she makes me touch her belly so I can feel the movement of our child kicking away inside. Shanu would point sometimes to the left or to the right corner of our belly where she feels it nudge. I trace the shape of two little feet protruding from her belly. I touch Shanu's belly and the contact with the child overwhelms me.

A few days later, Shanu gives birth. I enter the cabin and find her lying in bed with a kind of languid pleasure. Next to her lies a tiny human being. Our first child --and it is a boy. Shanu is happy beyond words. She's had a normal delivery and that's why she seems to be in good shape already. A nurse changes his nappy and checks his belly button. I stare at the soft, naked body of our son. His resemblance with Shanu is quite perceptible already. He has feet like hers! I feel a joyous shiver throughout my body as I touch babu's small feet. The nurse signals me to go outside for a while--it must be some woman-to-woman issue. I step out onto the balcony.

It's dawn now-- a dream-like dawn surrounds me on all sides. I feel elated. I resist the temptation to smoke a cigarette. Standing there I think: "The boy looks like his mother but I will shape his mental terrain. His little feet will accompany me on my journey in the days to come..."

Some twenty minutes later, the nurse comes out of the cabin. I smile at her. She smiles back. But neither of us disturbs the deep silence of the dawn. The nurse then starts walking away along the mosaic floor of the balcony. The stiffly starched white sari that they wear as a uniform is usually worn a little above the heels. I guess that's because it makes their movement easier. I stare at her quickly moving feet. Her heels move up and down as she walks forward. Ah! Those feet -- in defiance of a good night's sleep and the fatigue that comes from a sleepless night -- carry her forward to the next patient who needs to be nursed. Staring at those feet, my gaze lights up like the rays of the early morning sun.

Parveen Sultana is a young Bengali writer. Andaleeb Shahjahan is a free-lance editor/translator.