Footloose

| Swati Amar | April 2025 | Flash Fiction |

I do not have a fetish for feet. But the feet I see every day keep me in a state of disturbance all the time, a reason I am unable to fathom. 

Soft, light-skinned toes painted in glistening red nail polish swim before my eyes as I rush to the balcony at the back of my home to get a glimpse of the young girl who bids goodbye to someone in her house, kickstarts her scooty and disappears into the morning light. She wears a helmet that covers her face and glides down the stairs. I can hear a faint murmur of a lilting melody from her lips, carried by the morning sea breeze. I surmise she must be a college student. She carries a backpack, which she places in the side case and sits elegantly on the scooter. She likes to wear floral tops in pastel shades and contrast pants or skirts and leaves her long hair flowing under the helmet. 

I am Ajit. I work for an IT company, and I live alone in my first-floor apartment in this city.  The city is new to me, and this is my first job. Just outside my kitchen, at the back of my apartment, is a balcony that overlooks the back of the house in the street behind ours. This scene unfolds every morning when the girl whizzes past a winding staircase outside her sprawling house, which has a huge front yard, but their backyard is constricted and their compound wall is separated by a narrow backstreet. From my balcony, her first-floor staircase landing is just a few feet away. As she breaks into a trot down the staircase, I catch a glimpse of her beautiful feet. I have never seen her run down the stairs without wearing a helmet, eliciting irrepressible curiosity about how her face looks.  

For some reason, the image of this mysterious girl keeps haunting me  for a few weeks. When the desire to see her becomes overpowering, after a couple of months, I muster courage and decide to go to this house on a Sunday morning, if only to see the owner of the beautiful feet. I am surprised to see the huge, unkempt garden and the entryway to the house, which seems to have been built right at the back of the plot and has a vast front curtilage.  I hesitate at the foyer wondering how foolish it can look if someone opens the door and asks me who I want to meet. Because I have no idea whatsoever about that girl. Before I can decide, to my horror, I see my hand reach out to the calling bell and press it. I can hear a faint ring at the back of the house. Through the glass panels of the front door, I can  see the curtains move. The house is dark, and a silhouette is moving towards the front door. I develop cold feet and am about to leave when a woman opens the door. Her withered face peers at me through metal-framed glasses that are perched on the tip of her nose. 

“Who are you? What do you want?” she asks curtly. I am  surprised to notice her voice is high-pitched and sounds like that of a young girl. I am about to ask her if there is a student living in the house when I notice this woman, probably a septuagenarian, has tucked her wrinkled arms into the pocket of stylish pants, and  is wearing a pastel-shaded floral top.  Her hair is jet black and  has been rolled into a bun on the  top of her head. 

I feel uneasy and stammer in panic, “I am looking for Nancy,”  uttering  the first name that comes  to my mind. Nancy had been a good friend in college. 

“There’s no Nancy or any girl here!” the woman scowls and shuts the heavy door. But before the door bangs on my face, I catch  a glimpse of her feet. They are soft, light-skinned, and the toes are coated in red nail polish!

I am shaken for a moment and stand  in the foyer befuddled. 

“Hey! You there! Who are you?” a rugged man in a white dhoti and kurta that has seen better days, hurries up to me from the gate to the house. 

“Why did you enter the house?” he asks me suspiciously.

“I came to see the college girl who lives here. I spoke to her grandmother who banged the door on my face!” I blabber. I am not pleased that a rustic country bumpkin is questioning me with authority. 

“Don’t you dare lie to me. I know your kind. I saw you peering into the house through the glass panel of the door. I’m sure you have come to palm off anything you can lay your hands on. As long as Bhola Ram is here, that will not happen!”

I lose my patience and raise my voice. “I suggest you talk with some respect! I live in the street behind this house, over there!” I point to my apartment, “I see a girl going to college every day. Having heard her sing, I thought I could talk to her about an event we are planning in our company. ”

Bhola Ram looks at me as though I am an insect. He spits  on the ground and retorts in anger , “Ha! Who are you trying to fool? This house has been vacant for several years and the land is in litigation. The heirs to this property are living abroad and have employed me as the watchman. Now out you go!” he chases me away, out of the gate. 

I sprint to my house as fast as my legs can carry. I let myself in and plonk on my couch, placing my hands on my head. 

I then  go to my bedroom and look at the night stand. The bottle of Qutan 50 stares at me, untouched, unopened.

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_{Swati Amar ( Lata Amarnath) is a media entrepreneur and consultant, independent journalist and fiction-writer.  After MA Psychology from Delhi University, she was an officer of State Bank of India for five years. She took up professional writing after a life-threatening brain tumour surgery. She is a member of the Chennai Press Club and writes for eminent national and regional newspapers, magazines and online publications. Swati launched and ran ‘Eve’s Times’, and is the founder-coordinator of Citizens for Harmony, Amity and Integrity ( CHAI). Her short stories and novels have been published in English and Tamil.}    

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Feature image is an original painting by Nish Amarnath

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