Mayank Chhaya Daily

Farewell to my boots

I have worn these Kenneth Cole boots for over 20 years, which is a third of my life. They deserve both my respect and gratitude as I am about to trash them. If I were in India, I would have got them repaired but here in America the repairs cost nearly half its original price of $250.  

I do not get attached to things. Trashing them will not cause any separation anxiety. At the same time though I do think about their journey. Once upon a time its upper was part of a cattle’s hide. That means enclosed within that was a living animal which too was some cow or buffalo or pig’s baby in China. My boots were made in China.

It is impossible for me to find out whether an animal was killed just for the purpose of obtaining its hide or the makers sourced it from carcasses. In either case there was once an animal inside that hide. If I add up the various periods in the boots’ cycle the particular animal likely lived some 35 or so years ago factoring in the average age of cattle.

In the last 20 odd years my boots traveled tens of thousands of miles, taking me to numerous events, many of which helped me earn my livelihood as a journalist. That in turn helped me support my family.

Speaking of family, very recently these boots were worn by me for my son Jashn’s wedding. I even danced vigorously in them. I am sure some guests noticed how completely torn the right boot had become. It is quite likely that some guests were either embarrassed or amused or both by the sight of the groom’s father in torn boots. I could have, with some effort, purchased new shoes. I did not. Instead, I chose these as my final tribute to them by wearing them at my son’s wedding.

Like all well-worn shoes, these too were like home. They had become accustomed to my feet, their shape, the angle and speed of my walking and so on. It is perhaps silly, but I do tend to respect inanimate objects as much as I do animate. Like I said, the boots’ leather once covered an animate lifeform.

If only boots could talk, mine would have so many stories to tell. Always at the bottom of my existence they were witness to so many events. Not once did they squeak in pain in the muscle memory of an animal they once enveloped.

Now that they are being thrown away, I feel selfish and even cruel.

Was that duck being a dick?

This is a story from the non-human sentient world. On a scale of events that can change the world, what happened this morning on my walk was not even laughably irrelevant. It might as well not have happened. Billions of such events unfold every minute on our planet without making the slightest alteration to anything other than those involved.

What happened this morning involved only a duck and me. It is a routine sight to see ducks and geese crossing roads at their own leisure, forcing cars to stop. Being birds they can fly across but for whatever reasons—most likely to preserve energy for their long flights—they choose to waddle at infuriatingly slow speeds. As fellow lifeforms which share this gorgeous planet with us it is as much their right.

I saw some 15 ducks, including babies, cross the road without any particular hurry since there were no cars. However, one duck got left behind. As it prepared to cross, a black Toyota Corolla appeared. The driver saw the solitary duck waiting at the edge of the sidewalk. He came to a dead stop allowing the bird to cross. The duck was confused. It came down a couple of steps and then turned right back. The Corolla driver waited a little longer, but the duck would not venture again. So, he drove away.

I was watching the duck watch me, perhaps sizing up if I posed any danger. I was about 10 feet away from it. Not to add to its anxious uncertainty I just stood there, waiting for it to make up its mind. And then suddenly, it took off and flew across to join the fellow ducks.

“What a dick!” I said out loud. “You could have flown earlier.” (This bit is true.)

I am reasonably sure the duck looked back at me and said, “You mean what a duck!” (This bit is just a joke and hence not true.)

Sometimes I get the sense that these birds choose to walk while crossing streets only to annoy humans. With next to no knowledge of ornithology I am guessing here. I think when birds, especially long-distance fliers such as geese, are on the ground they do everything to preserve and enhance their energy.

It is not as if a duck likes to be a dick by holding up traffic by waddling across roads. It is just that their routine often clashes with human routine. We ought to coexist peacefully. Of course, occasionally birds should also fly across a street rather than just saunter across.

The story of a solitary swan

This is the story of a solitary swan. It is a story as imagined by me and not narrated by the swan. Swans, as we all know, do not tell stories the way we understand them.

They just glide on often swampy waters of creeks with no identifiable purpose. Purpose is a human preoccupation. Attributing purpose to things in the universe is also a human preoccupation. I do not look for purpose. I just glide through life the way a swan does.

I have been observing this solitary swan for several weeks now. On my early morning walks it is there in the sometimes algae-laden and sometimes clear water of a creek near my house. I am not a particularly brisk walker. The swan's serene inactivity makes me even slower. I make it a point to look at it for a few moments before moving on. Occasionally, I take pictures. I doubt if the swan knows it is being photographed. 

Not being an ornithologist I am not well-informed about the various habits of swans other than that they clean their plumage from time to time. More often than not this particular swan just floats with its craning neck looking straight ahead at nothing in particular. There are some sudden moves when it twists its long and slender neck into what looks like an early version of a pretzel.

I am not sure about its gender but going by its generally large size, it is male. That means it is a cob as opposed to a female which is a pen. I am equally unsure about its status, as in whether it is single, married, separated or divorced. At this point I can crack a silly joke and say that going by its calm demeanor, he is not in any relationship; certainly not married. I have never seen a companion with it. Perhaps it is at an age where it leads a celibate life. I can ask the swan directly but like I said swans do not tell stories in the way humans understand. 

I make no attempt to befriend it because it is almost always 20 to 30 feet from me in the creek. Also, I see no point in actively befriending fellow sentient life. Of course, if an opportunity presented itself, I would pet it a bit. 

As is the case with aquatic birds, their bodies look completely steady and still above the water surface even as underneath they often paddle quite feverishly. I have not seen this swan paddle feverishly. It moves around ever so imperceptibly that I feel as if the water has moved even while it has remained stationary. 

I do not know where the swan goes at night and how it sleeps. It has been at least two months, if not longer, that I have always found the swan in the creek in the morning. I am sure it flies away as the day progresses. It is the only swan among a clutch of ducks and geese, which are quite loud in registering their presence, especially geese. It stands in a blur of greys and sandy browns of the geese and the ducks for me. In that sense the swan has great charisma.

One day, this swan will die unheralded as will I but little more remembered I suppose. 

So that is my story of the solitary swan.