Nimble

Flexibility. We all desire it. If not openly then at least secretly. As proud as we may be of our beer bellies and pizza paunches, we can't help but desire that rubber-like, athletic set of abs. We all want to be able to do the perfect splits, leave aside the fact that most of us don't even have enough space between our thighs to let our farts escape silently. And amazingly we Indians, as a race, amidst all the fat laden food or even the lack of food (both ensuring restricted bodily movements), have managed to achieve quite flexible sets of toes.

Flexibility. Achieved through constant curling, tightening, crossing, stretching of toes.

Toes curling, to grab the worn out, non existent grains on the surface of our flip-flops as we try to unglue them from the hot molten tar of the roads in the month of June, walking for minutes or hours or days depending on whether we are looking for a taxi or a bus or a job.

Curling, to loosen the stoppers of the doors of our bedrooms to prevent the people on the street from peeking into our private perverted lonely lives as we walk around naked in the rooms, cajoling people on the internet to look at our cocks, pussies, breasts and imperfect asses, desperately hoping to get them to show theirs to satisfy the forever hungry voyeur in us.

Curling, to grab the ends of our short blankets that can only cover either our feet or our heads in the biting winters; grabbing and pulling frantically only to decide that the head is more important than the feet and should thus be protected from the draft.

Curling, in the restaurant of a five star hotel in Europe, to gather strength to swallow down and appreciate, with a straight face, the bland, tasteless, half cooked piece of lamb because the sophisticated waiter is looking at us from a distance, probably sizing us up and we surely don't want him to think of us as fresh off the boat.

Curling, uncurling, curling, uncurling - over and over, repeatedly, pining to dig a hole in the soles of our shoes, then in the granite on which we stand, then in the cement underneath it, and in the soft earth below it, hoping to eventually make the hole big enough to bury ourselves in, alive, rather than swallow down the righteous hatred towards our dispassionate bosses who would probably never understand our wish for a lifestyle better than the one which involves mechanical work for 14 hours a day, living with 4 people in a house meant for 2, sleeping on the weekends because we haven't slept properly throughout the week and because we don't have enough money to go around doing touristy things (irrespective of the fact that we are a gazillion miles away from the place where we would never be a tourist).

Toes stretching, to reach and grab the bars at the foot-end of our beds while fucking our husbands; to prevent ourselves from shrieking the names of our secret lovers, who make much better love to us and notice the charred and puffed patch of skin on our soft wrists, burnt while cooking dinner for 9.

Stretching, to grab the cool blades of grass in the summer; seeking some respite from the summer winds, no matter that its only the tiny crevasses of our feet which will be soothed.

Stretching, as an extension of that nonchalant yawn that we present to the old man visiting the office for the fourth time this week, because we don't have the heart to tell him that the government doesn't think much of him and his pension.

Stretching, repulsively, as we bite on that white pellet of sand which is impossible to pick out from the rice and even refuses to boil and soften with the rice no matter how much we cook it.

Toes crossing each other, as a nervous reflex to the questions posed by our parents about our whereabouts from the past few hours, and also with giddiness of having had our first kisses with the boyfriends and girlfriends about whom the parents do not know and will not want to know.

Crossing, as we lie to the police about the accident we were involved in, because crossing fingers will be enough for visual evidence and telling the truth will be being too harsh on ourselves.

Crossing, in the night, in the fear of ominous sounds of the leaky faucets in the kitchens, creaky entrance doors, and silent whispers of the neighbours that travel through the cardboard thick walls.

Toes twisting, curling, stretching in the cheap, faux-leather, formal shoes to make ourselves sure that there is still some room for movement in the overcrowded local trains and city buses.

Twisting, curling, stretching, while we anticipate a chance to hit somebody/anybody in an ongoing street brawl to feel better about the pathetic day spent at the office trying to be hospitable and courteous towards the obnoxiously loud colleague with the hopes that this would count as "teamwork" and will help us get that raise or at least a couple days off to take the families to nearby, quiet, dilapidated, shady but affordable hill stations.

Toes, steady, as we stand on the railway tracks and face the diesel powered trains coming at us.

Toes, steady, as we stand at the edges of the roofs of the newly built skyscrapers.

Toes, steady, as they move to topple the wooden chairs we stand on, with our necks in the nooses hanging from the ceiling fans, hoping and praying for it to be the end of it all.


They say you can look at a man's feet and tell all about him. We may have cracked heels, sore ankles, dusty inner longitudinal arches with calluses in the soles of our feet. But we sure do have nimble toes.