Slippers in Delhi

Black, cheap, dusty summer footwear. In this city, it has a life of its own.

I see a slipper, alone in the middle of the busy street. It’s melted by the sun and flattened by hundreds of cars, bikes, autos, cows, eventually elephants running over it.

And I see a slipper, alone, hanging from auto-rickshaws or trucks’ bumpers. A lace around its tip, it swings back and forth, it jumps up and down, exhausted and weak in the noisy traffic.

I wonder. Are they two heart-broken half-apples? Did they use to match, were they walking side by side, until one disappeared, leaving a naked foot and an inconsolable partner behind? Which destiny happened first, if ever the two were connected, the hanged’s or the run-over’s?

Look in the middle of the road, for a wandering slipper. And under the bumper of the truck you’re stuck behind, for a hanging one. A trivial Romeo and Juliet that Shakespeare’s feet will never care about.

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