I came home, knowing that I was running late for getting prepared for the wedding. Tara was dressed in a beautiful pink sari. It had embroidered flowers all over it, and was intricately wound around her body. She looked beautiful.
“It looks great,” I said as I walked by. I kissed her on both cheeks, an affectation we had picked up, but a fun one. Then I kissed her on the lips.
“You like it?” she asked.
“Yes, definitely. It looks really nice,” I told her.
It really was very beautiful. It was incongruous to have a white woman in a sari, yet it also looked very natural. Paradoxically, she looked both out of place and perfectly at home in a sari.
I walked toward the stairs and noticed that all of the boys were sitting in front of the TV dressed in khurtas and pyjama pants. Jonah ran up and screamed, “Daddy!” I was getting fewer of those every day with the aging of the boys. I grabbed him and held him. He was getting big and heavy, but I carried him up to my room. I placed him on the bed and proceeded to get out my clothing. I had a bright blue khurta and an ankle-length white stole that I would wear around my neck. I put on the pyjama pants that were worn underneath the khurta.
I walked downstairs and showed Tara my outfit. She gave her input that it looked nice. Then she said, “Now, for the shoes.” She went into the kitchen and got a bag. Out of the bag she pulled a white pair of silk-covered shoes that came to a point in the front. They were incredibly pointy, and the sides of the shoes were very low.
“There is no way I can wear these,” I remarked. Tara laughed. She got why I couldn’t put them on, but she also said, “The outfit won’t really work without them.” She was right. Oh, no. India had stripped me of so much that was comfortable and familiar to me. But this was simply too much. Silk, pointy shoes. I didn’t wear silk, pointy shoes. That wasn’t my thing. Not even here, even now. It was a very strange prospect, wearing shoes that looked as if they were for my grandmother. Everything in me was screaming not to put them on, yet there was a sound of far-off drumming somewhere in my psyche. India was beckoning me to put the shoes on. America was insisting that I not. A tug of war with my mind in the balance.
Then, I noticed a small man on my right shoulder. He was wearing a baseball cap, a flannel shirt, and jeans. He looked up at me, and I noticed a tooth pick sitting on the side of his mouth.
“Dude, tell me you aren’t putting those shoes on,” he said in a slow drawl. It was a Southern twang. Oh, no. I looked down at the shoes in my hand. Silk, pointy.
“You’re right, I cannot wear them,” I whispered to him.
“Alright, man. Good deal. Now, chuck ’em. You got plenty of sandal type things already, wear one of them. I have always been a bit bother by ‘em, too, but go for it. Better than those girl shoes.” He appeared to be chewing something. My suspicion was validated when he whipped out a pack of Red Man chewing tobacco and refreshed what he had been gnawing on.
I started to stand up and go for a new pair of shoes, but I noticed that on my left shoulder was a small Indian man. He was sitting there in a splendid silk outfit. And pointy shoes.
“Before you make up your mind, consider what I might have to say,” he said gently.
I stared at him for a few seconds.
“Fine, what?” I asked.
He started to make his case, with a slight Indian accent, but perfect English.
“These shoes are beautiful. Look at the embroidered silk along the sides. And look at your outfit. Such a blue lights up the heart, no? Such shoes belong with such an outfit. And we are going to prepare for a beautiful event. You just wear the shoes. Tonight you will see things such as you have never seen.” He peered across my neck onto the guy standing on my other shoulder. “And the likes such as this man would not understand. When the men of India wore shoes such as these, your ancestors were eating rocks in Scotland, without a written word. These shoes connect you more deeply with a life that you love – your Indian life.”
“But I don’t wear shoes like this,” I said quietly to the fellow on my left shoulder.
“And you don’t want to live in the Southern states back in America. And you don’t want to work in the corporate world. And you don’t want to move to India.” He stared at me with a knowing smile, knowing that my life had been a series of unexpected turns that arose out of my declarations of what I would not do.
“Again, man. Look at the shoes. It’s the kind of thing people wear in old folks homes.” These statements came from my right shoulder. I looked over at the American guy. He was sitting down now. His shoes were the standard athletic shoe of an American. They looked ok. I could wear my New Balance running shoes to the wedding, it would be ok…….
The guy on my left shoulder was staring up at me. He was sitting down on my shoulder, resting his back up against a fold in my khurta. He stared up at me with a smile. It seemed to be a knowing smile, and for a second I resented the look on his face. He seemed to know what I was going to do, and was now just passively watching me struggle. I felt like flicking him off of my shoulder. I reached my hand up and prepared to strike him with my cocked index finger. But he just sat there in the fold of my silk shirt, knowing…..
I put my hand down. I looked onto my right shoulder. “I am going to wear these,” I declared, holding the shoes up.
“Well, I’ll have to go, then. Ain’t no way I can see you do this to yourself. It just doesn’t seem right. I’ll check back with you tomorrow, or something…..” He turned and jumped off of my shoulder, hitting the ground somewhere out of sight with a sound of painful impact.
I put the shoes on. They glowed in the light of the room, showing up at me as I stared down at them. As I walked they made a click sound, as they were made with a small layer of wood at the bottom, shined to the level where you could see your face in them.
“You ready? Looks like you were just in the zone again. What were you thinking about?” Tara asked.
“Just thinking about these shoes and if I should wear them or not.”
“Oh, come on they look nice.” She yelled upstairs, “Come on, boys! Time to go.”
We all walked out the front of the house, down the marble stairs.
Click, click, click, click……
Out we went...........
