Polishing Daddy’s Shoes

Searching for the coir shoe brush and Cherry Blossom Black Liquid Shoe polish that has the grotesque imitation of Charlie Chaplin’s face is not something you are used to – if you are not into polishing your shoes.

The art of getting the right shine and texture in every little hem and stitch of the leather, you take special notice of rubbing the wax on the heal as well. You then follow a slow sedate movement of brushing the shoes that is delicately placed in your palm. You take the folded muslin cloth that is kept for the last ritual. The delicate hands rub and caress the wax on the leather, allowing the shine to grow, lucid and smooth. You tuck your tippy toes into the delicately placed shoes that daddy is holding in his palm or may be when you stand straight adjusting the pleats of your pinafore, holding your daddy’s head, while he ties your shoelace not too tight. He then says “walk away you girl!”

You walk free. Unabashed that it does not matter to kick the dust while walking to school, with the big bag on your back and the slinging of the pink water bottle. You look at your feet all the time and may be dust your shoes with your bare hands to clear the dust that has settled on the shine. You smile.

Daddy knew the right way to polish my shoes. He knew to tie the shoelace perfect. Not too long, not too short – a perfect bow that made his baby girl glow.

We soon grow out of our black shoes and white socks. High heels are fashion. No wax needed to rub delicate stings of High Fashion heels. With every inch that grows in heels, Dad’s age has tripled. Daddy is 70, or may be older. We forget to count their age anymore, as ours takes priority. When he steps out, he loves to wear his shoes. His suede slip-ons give him the grip to walk. No more are the formal shoes on his feet that wore the same intense shine and the same perfect signature knot of firm shoelace that was seen in my tippy shoes. His health has dipped with his soaring age. His legs are swollen due to a thrombosis of the veins. He cannot push his feet into formal shoes even if he wishes to. The love for polished shoes has waned off, just as much as wearing a shirt that may be slightly creased.

Daddy has to attend a wedding this morning. His full-sleeves shirt beautifully contrasts his trouser. He cannot iron his shirts the way he would iron my brother’s apron, when my brother has just entered Medical College. Daddy now gets his shirts ironed at the dry cleaner. But the moment it is brought from the dry cleaners’, he promptly puts it in a hanger. When his boys wore creased shirts and faded T-shirts he would grumble and then iron the shirts for them. For long every shirt they wore for a wedding or a function, dad would come to their rescue. He knew the right way to iron the sleeves and the collar!

I watch him looking hard at the shoe-shelf. There is clear clutter of every shoe there but his. I see him trying hard to locate his shoe. He is making an effort to bend and search his shoes that he knows is pushed to the lowest corner of the rack. I come to his rescue, and tell him “let me dig it out for you”. I spend few minutes searching and pull out his slip-ons. The shoe has fungus all over it. It looks old and clearly it does not match his outfit!

He looks at it, as I place it closer to his feet. He tells me “It’s ok. This does not need polish. Just give me a wet cloth, I’ll wipe the white patches off and that should do.” Whoever notices an old man. Whoever notices the shoes of the elderly.

I tell him, " I’ll polish it for you and make it as good as new in a bit."

I follow each of the steps of shining leather shoes. This is a lesson that I learnt from Daddy. I plonk on the floor, place the shoe “delicately” in my palm. I dust the shoes vigorously. I open the wax jar, pat the choir brush and smoothen out the black shoe polish delicately on the leather. Every stitch, even corner is neatly touched. Then begins the one lesson that my daddy taught me: “ you need to brush as hard as you can, to get the final shine.” I know this is just the intermediate step. I brush as hard as I can. The movement of my hand on the shoe follows a pattern. I brush the heels with added force and rhythm. I am done with the left shoe. I pick up the other. The ritual follows. I take a clean cloth and apply the delicate pressure to bring out the shine. It takes a while. I don’t give up. I hear my daddy say, “it’s enough, don’t bother to work so hard at it. It is an old shoe.” I don’t give up. I allow myself to go with the movement of my hands. The shoe has a shine. Not like new. But, close enough. I smile.

 I take the shoes to my dad. I place it by his feet. I hold it so that he can slip his feet into the shoes. He places his hand on my head for balance, like I did, when I was little.

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