Boots

At Netaji Bhavan,

I kept staring –

Two knee high leather riding boots

Worn out, yet polished, cleaned

Kept under glass

These were the boots, I wondered

That he had once wore

How must those shoes have felt?

If time were a landscape,

I would look back on a hill

And see him standing

Wearing these very leathers;

The shoes have rolled downhill

And here we are

Locked in modern Calcutta

I can't help imagine the grass trodden by these shoes

Something stirs in my skin

As I touch the glass cabinet,

I am lost, in a fog of space

And then, I see him –

Walking in these very shoes:

Here, as Orlando Mazzotta

Escaping from the British

Then returning as Netaji

There, in the beaches of Andaman

Claiming independence on white sands

Then one by one he goes away – to Singapore, Taihoku

Faraway Siberia,

Finally returning once again

Gumnami Baba,

But bereft of shoes 

Now that freedom has been won

He stares at me

Asking silently if we still remember?

I nod excitedly

Are we justifying his sacrifices?

Here I stop

How do I lie to this man?

Without an answer, Netaji disappears

The montage comes to a halt

I wake up –

That felt alive, I say

What a valley to walk!

The shoes stare back at me  -

But what is that on them

Fine white silicate sands?

As if, he still walks silently even now

In the eternal valleys of time…

11th June, 2026