Nira and The God Who Misplaced Magic: Part 5

THE PARLIAMENT OF SHOES

In Padukapur, people did not wear shoes. Shoes wore people.

A polished black boot marched past us with a nervous clerk attached above it, bouncing at every step and clutching a bundle of files to his chest. A slipper covered in jewels carried a princess who kept apologising because she could not move as quickly as the slipper wished. Nearby, a pair of muddy sandals dragged a tired farmer towards a narrow side lane marked ORDINARY TRAFFIC, while a row of shining boots strode proudly along the broad road reserved for IMPORTANT FOOTWEAR.

The strangest citizens were those who had no shoes at all. Barefoot people were almost invisible. We could hear their voices, coughs and songs, but officials looked through them as though they were made of perfectly clean glass.

At the city gate, a shoe inspector blocked our path. He wore a magnifying lens over one eye and carried a brush for measuring polish.

“Umbrella: respectable accessory,” he said, examining Chhataram. “Goat: uncertain footwear status. Teacup: indoor object. Girl: unacceptable.”

“What is wrong with me?” I asked.

He bent towards my feet. “Your left sandal costs less than your right sandal.”

“My right sandal was bought last year,” I explained. “The left one replaced a sandal that a dog ate.” The inspector wrote something alarming in his notebook. “Mixed-footwear households are socially confusing.” He handed me two brown paper bags and ordered me to wear them over my feet so that nobody would be disturbed by the difference.

The Parliament of Shoes stood inside a cupboard so enormous that clouds had formed near its upper shelves. Royal boots, ceremonial slippers and imported sports shoes occupied the highest compartments, where the air was clean and the cushions were soft. Work shoes sat on the middle shelves. Worn sandals, cracked slippers and repaired footwear were placed on the floor beside dust, cobwebs and a notice requesting them not to look upward unnecessarily.

The Speaker was a tall leather boot named Lord Laceworthy. He stood behind the podium with his laces tied in an impressive knot. “Order!” he cried, kicking the podium. “Today we shall debate whether inexpensive footwear should be allowed to squeak in public.” A rubber slipper raised its strap. “We squeak because the roads are broken.” “Then squeak privately,” replied Lord Laceworthy.

A farmer’s sandal tried to speak about irrigation channels. The royal boots immediately complained that it smelled of soil. “That is because it walks upon soil,” I said. Lord Laceworthy stared at the paper bags covering my feet. “Unregistered footwear has no voice.”

At that moment, the golden Missing Minute floated out of Tipu’s teacup. It hurried across the polished floor and stopped beside a barefoot boy whom no one else appeared to notice. His name was Kabir. He sold songs outside Parliament and could imitate rivers, trains, wedding bands, monsoon winds and the exact sound made by a mother opening a report card.

“Why are you invisible?” I asked. “Because I have no shoes,” he replied.

“That is ridiculous.”

“Thank you,” said Kabir. “People usually call it tradition.”

Padukapur’s ranking system was managed by Solemani, a measuring tape who wrapped himself around every pair of shoes and announced its social value. “Worth is determined by shine, height, price and distance from mud,” he explained.

“Does comfort matter?” I asked.“Comfort encourages equality,” Solemani said gravely. “Equality makes shelves difficult to arrange.”

Professor Bhokambol noticed that the clerk being worn by Lord Laceworthy had painful blisters. “Surely those should be treated,” said the Professor. “Sacrifices must be made for status,” Lord Laceworthy declared. “By whom?” asked the clerk. Lord Laceworthy kicked him gently into silence.

That evening Padukapur celebrated the Great Exchange Ball, though no actual exchange was intended. Shoes gathered to display their owners. Royal boots danced with embroidered slippers beneath chandeliers made of buckles. Work shoes served refreshments. Torn sandals waited outside in case anyone needed to cross a puddle, carry a sack or perform some other task too useful for the ballroom.

Kabir and I slipped away to the storeroom where spare footwear slept. The shelves were filled with snoring boots, dreaming sandals and slippers whispering about feet they hoped to meet. There we found an old sandal whose strap had been repaired seven times. “My name is Dharti,” she said. “I have walked through three droughts, two floods, one wedding, six harvests and nine government offices. The floods were easier than the offices.”

On the highest shelf sat a crystal shoe named Maharani Cham-Cham. She sparkled proudly beneath a glass cover. “I have walked exactly twelve steps,” she announced. “Why so few?” I asked. “Floors are dangerous,” she replied. “They contain dust and democracy.”

The Missing Minute circled Dharti and Maharani Cham-Cham. Then it divided itself into glowing footprints that moved from one shoe to another. I understood the clue. “At midnight,” I told Kabir, “we shall exchange every pair of shoes.” Chhataram approved immediately. “Confusion is the beginning of interesting weather.”

Jhilmil summoned a team of moths to chew the labels from the shelves. Tipu filled himself with extra-strong ginger tea. Professor Bhokambol ate the official footwear register, pausing only to complain that the section on imported shoes lacked fibre. Mangaldas objected until we appointed him Temporary Acting Commissioner of Secret Exchanges. He then demanded a desk, three stamps and complete authority over whispering.

At midnight, every shoe in Padukapur was rearranged. Lord Laceworthy awoke beneath the farmer. Dharti found herself carrying the princess. Maharani Cham-Cham was attached to the street sweeper. Sports shoes went to an old storyteller, velvet slippers to a postman, ceremonial boots to a dancer, and a pair of tiny school shoes appeared beneath the Minister of Proper Walking.

Chaos began before breakfast. Lord Laceworthy followed the farmer into a wet field and sank immediately into the mud. “My shine!” he cried. “Lift your heel,” said the farmer. “The mud is not insulting you. It is merely present.”

Dharti carried the princess along a rough village path. The princess looked beyond the city walls and gasped. “I never knew the city ended.” “The city always ends,” said Dharti. “Roads simply stop mentioning what comes next.” Maharani Cham-Cham walked beside the street sweeper for twenty minutes and developed a crack. “This work is impossible!” she cried. “It is performed every morning,” said the sweeper.

Inside Parliament, nobody knew where to sit. The entire ranking system depended on shoes, but the shoes now carried unexpected owners. Imported sports shoes demanded a storyteller’s seat. A postman in velvet slippers was directed towards the royal shelf. The Minister of Proper Walking was placed near the schoolbags and told not to talk during lessons.

Lord Laceworthy proposed that citizens should now be ranked by their hats. Chhataram opened himself with a threatening snap. “Perhaps by umbrellas?” “No,” said Lord Laceworthy quickly. “Wise answer,” replied Chhataram.

The confusion might have continued for weeks, but Padukapur’s only bridge suddenly collapsed. A royal procession, labourers, children, animals and officials became stranded on opposite sides of the muddy river.

The expensive shoes refused to enter the water. They feared stains, scratches and accidental equality. The work sandals knew where the hidden stones lay. The fishermen’s slippers understood the current. Barefoot Kabir knew the shallowest crossing of all. Still, nobody listened. The citizens had been trained to look at feet without seeing the person standing above them.

Kabir began to sing. His song sounded like the river speaking through pebbles. It carried the rhythm of bare feet on hot roads, workers returning at dusk and children running before the rain. The river quietened to hear him. One by one, people removed their shoes. Without footwear, everyone became equally visible.

Kabir stepped into the river and led them across. The princess carried Maharani Cham-Cham carefully in her hand. The farmer tucked Lord Laceworthy beneath his arm. The street sweeper supported the Speaker of Parliament, who had never before touched a public river. Work sandals showed the safest stones, fishermen’s slippers warned of the current, and barefoot citizens guided those who had spent their lives looking down without ever learning where to step.

When the last child reached safety, Lord Laceworthy cleared his throat. “I have reconsidered the ranking system,” he announced. “Because it was unjust?” I asked. “Because mud entered my left side.” Mangaldas nodded thoughtfully. “Reform has begun for worse reasons.”

The Parliament of Shoes was dissolved. In its place, the citizens formed the Council of Journeys. Footwear was no longer respected for price, height or shine, but for the roads it had travelled, the burdens it had carried and the people it had helped reach home. Barefoot citizens were given seats, although Kabir preferred to stand because he composed better rhythms that way.

The golden Missing Minute returned to us and touched the ground. It formed a glowing footprint with no foot inside it. Around the footprint appeared the words:

CARRY THE FOOTPRINT THAT NO ONE COULD SEETO THE FOREST WHERE AIR GROWS ON A FEE.

Kabir decided to join our journey. “I have always wanted to meet the God of Magic,” he said. “I know a song with no ending. Perhaps he knows the final line.”

As we left Padukapur, Lord Laceworthy was attempting his first voluntary walk through mud. He took one step, groaned loudly and demanded that a committee be formed to study the experience.

Dharti laughed. “Walk first,” she said. “Write the report after your feet know something.”