Catharsis In A Metro

By Hrishit Pandey

<SHOE>

Ivory; natural as if the paint was sucked out of the grandest archaeological marvel - to dress me. My majestic vamp - the shiny matte of white; smart and striking. Just as expected. My long lushy laces with an undertone of white precisely analogous to my clothing. My sharp body was without a single mark, single-handedly redeeming the ground from the other lousy bodies that put dirt on its inanimate surface. There is life in my color, my every step produces music, every squeak is a tuned harmony producing the most wonderful music - accompanying the wet ground, which couldn’t get a hold of himself with every step that I put on it. Yes. The ground sometimes does become animated - masochistically even so. My tongue lavishes the memory of comfort, sharing with every cohabitating foot which decides to feel the taste of heaven. If heaven could be at the bottom of your feet - I am the reason. I solely am.

<Shard>

In the overcrowd of the morning metro, there were double the feet, and with respect to every foot there were double the laces. I am talking about a shoe. Until two lines ago I was not the one speaking. I am simply mediating to you - what is coming to me. I am a small glass piece. A mere extension of a broken mirror. The shape that I bear right now - is one capable of harm. I am the ‘a’ - symmetry is afraid of. I predate pain, in some cases even scratch or just harm to your defensive bottom. As I lay quiet in the metro without the notice of those around me; I heard all that you read. I didn’t write it to you, instead consider it as a parallelized medium of conversation. Both to you and me. One in which the speaker isn’t aware that it’s being heard. Over to it again.

<Shoe>

With my face up. I saw around. All I saw were legs. There were frequent taps as steps grabbed the ground - to keep their body up. And such ugly steps they were. Reeking of disappointment and sheer normalcy. Shoes which were not washed for atleast days. Laces which were half-heartedly tied. Loosely moving around acknowledging the frequent disturbances caused by the metro. Yes. I did climb the metro some time back. My man is standing. He did not get the seat today. But I am happy. I am sure he is at comfort. I am sure he is savoring my comfort. It is not but a delicacy to have me in your feet. My shine reflected away the stares from other shoes. I even heard a shoe whine as it moved down the metro alley. Ugh. I would rather break than whine away my uselessness. I remember seeing a shoe which was tearing down - its threads getting loose, its sole breaking. The toes inside were visible. It was such a bad sight. I could never imagine my wearer to get hurt. It is a reason to my immense pride that the legs contained within me are healthy. They are in perfect shape. I am sure I propagate this synchrony to my man too. I believe I am true. I believe my man - is in perfect happiness too. With shoes like me. Who won’t be?

<Man>

Last face I remember seeing was mine. I don’t see faces different from mine. It has been a long time since I saw a person who looked good. Everyone is masked with the same rundown, tired, asymmetric, under-maintained, pathetic face. And my face is the definition and visual embodiment of ugliness. Devoid of expression. I have not seen a single muscle of mine twitch - not in response to laughter, amusement, embarrassment, surprise or even disgust. There has been embarrassment, but it had no expressions. It just entered and conveyed itself using my face. My face card - ugliness with extra fifty percent ugliness. I am standing on this metro. I don’t know why I am taking this ride on the first place. Everybody looks like me. Still in some way or other they are better. Some have more eyebrows, some have fewer eyebrows, some had a better smile, some were the perfect kind of gloom. All were me but I could still sense they were better. There was a mirror right in front of me - at the top of the metro. It was a small rectangular mirror which was looking straight at me. My reflection though couldn’t bear the sight in front. It was escaping glances. It didn’t have the valor of sacrificing its peace at the sight of such an ugly face. Not just my face, my entire body had made me insecure. I was bulking uncontrollably. Not the good kind. Because I do not exercise. All I eat is junk. I drink minimal water. I am at my lowest physique right now. My arms, my breasts, my stomach, my thighs, my feet all are getting accumulated by more and more fat. No part of my body should be happy of how they have become. Let alone the body, even the clothes and accessories attached to them wouldn’t be happy of who they are covering. The absolute disgust of a man.

<Mirror>

Ever since I was created, I remember being pasted on the wall of this Delhi bound metro. I have been seeing people every day. Women sitting, men standing. Men sitting - then standing as the women arrives. Men sitting and sometimes standing as the elderly comes. Men sitting and standing out of habit. I see all this exaggeration happening. But today, I saw a man - who saw me. I saw him perfectly. I understood him perfectly. I know you read him too. I feel you understood him too. He has been so cruel to himself. He is not bad looking at all. I couldn’t make him see himself in me. I strongly desired to exemplify his beauty to him. I was right there, right in front of him. Waiting for a side glance, even a snare would have worked - to just have a look, a decent, controlled and sane look at himself. It feels like this has been my purpose since my conception. I wanted to help him look at himself. Vision can be blurry, sight can be bad, but having no desire to see onself is the worst. Learning from my past, I have realised there are two kinds of people. Or rather three, now that I think again. One who are possessed and obsessed by the way they look - 80% of the times they do look good. Then there are the 20% who believe they look good - which is definitely a good thing. Ugliness is a fiction. Reality is beautiful. Everyone is beautiful whether they agree or not. Then the second category - who don’t care about themselves at all. Mirrors are of no purpose to them. They just don’t care. And lastly, we have people like him who absolutely hate even the tiniest cell that builds their face. And it is always more satisfying to help people like these. Personally, it makes me remember the last hammering that I received - to get into this shape, the last minute inside the scorching heat to get this smoothness or the final stroke of polish to get this shine. But there was more to me. I know the human brain creates animation out of the inanimate. I wanted him to look for more in me. More than just me. If he would’ve outlined my border, even for a second. He would’ve seen the missing piece. Recently I was broken. I lost a part of myself. I do feel vacant, but have I lost meaning? Am I still not capable to mirror anything. Do you still not see yourself if you look at me? Why can’t he understand this much. A man like him understands unnecessary meanings wherever it’s not needed. Why can’t he look at me and get such a simple point. Why is he focusing on his missing piece? Which exists only in metaphor. Because he is perfect at how he is.

<Ground>

I am not a ground per se. I am just the metro floor. The floor every human stamp on. Every ant scrambles on. The same floor, every shoe rests on or sometimes even the floor which carries the extra load of human butt - just because they are tired. I happen to speak just now - immediately following the many consciousnesses who just bespoke what occurred to them through me. I know you read them. I know you get the point. I know this - because while you got it - you stood against me or rested on an extension of me. You were either standing on me, or sitting on something, balancing its gravity on me. I understand all that you thought or that you are thinking. I share your thought. I may not be agreeing with you. But it doesn’t matter. I am happy to share your weight. Here ‘your’ means everything and everyone. Whether you are the broken shard from a motivational mirror, or the naive shoe of a depressed man. I am holding all of you. In a way I am holding all your thoughts too. Your thoughts are safe with me as they travel mid-air cutting through my arch-nemesis - the air. With my presence each of you unite. The mirror may hold feelings for the person - who is specifically devoid of them. The shoe may be proud of his completeness as it lay just beside the broken piece of glass. Complementaries exist, I know as I shelter you.

Yet, each needs the other.

<>

With a sudden break, the metro came to a halt. The jolt had significantly shaken the compartment - which contained many things within. The mirror on the wall shifted a little because of its loose screws. Leaving its place temporarily and then returning back - if I remember correctly that is exactly how it lost a part of itself. The people standing pushed each other like a minute stampede. As a result - many standing men were displaced off where they stood. One such man - standing right in front of that same mirror blindly ventured a few steps towards the side - mistakenly covering grounds more than ventured. His large feet, stepped right on the broken shard. The broken piece, sharp and perfect for assault snapped right into the man’s feet. It burrowed its way inside to find the man and his feet. The man - who had long remained silent screeched a loud and much awaited wail of discomfort. His face as he shouted approached the metro’s wall - which had the mirror amounted. His voice, as it subsided produced a sigh of moisturized vapors as it fogged the mirror right in front. The man opened his eyes which were already watery just to look at the mirror. Where for the first time he didn’t see himself. That was a misty mirror, somewhere foggy and somewhere a little refractive. But as his eyes remained open. Slowly. Slowly. The mist subsided. The refraction reduced. The man. Finally, after a long time, saw his face. His eyes had tears in them. Seeing the tears, slowly trickling down his eyes, he couldn’t stop but concede to an outburst. The outburst contained within him. Since a long time, finally set itself loose.

In some time, he got a hold of himself. The passengers, who had suddenly stopped sharing the face resembling his - happily vacated a seat. It was a woman who got up first, for him to sit. The man slowly gained back his breath, and his eyes were now clearer. He could feel streams similar to those outlining his cheeks flowing from the middle of his feet. His legs were ornamented with the perfect ivory. Whose top view demonstrated excellent craftmanship, but the base was torn apart. The base was there, but its pride had cut along with its fabrics - remnants of which were still crying tears of blood.

By Hrishit Pandey