Shoe this, shoe that: Not in your size, ma'am!

Women who have been through the pain of fitting into a one-size-fits-all piece of clothing know the joy of going shopping for footwear. No matter what our waistline might say, the foot size is a constant, all through the adult years. So, while one might rue the inability to fit into a favourite pair of skinny jeans after putting on some weight, our favourite pair of heels – till the material is undamaged – will always be by our side. And once you've spent considerable amount of time using and abusing them, you might even be able to get the same pair repaired and use them for a re-run. If not, you can always fall in love with a different pair. Your foot size will always be a constant; will always be your best friend, when in a shoe store.

Cut to somewhat less fortunate people. I grew up in a tiny town, which boasted of just one Bata store, where people from affluent families went to buy their shoes from. Back during my schooldays, shoe-shopping was a task my dad was never trusted with. Reason: buying shoes with my father would mean buying a new pair after exactly six months, thanks to our growing feet. With my mother, these much-hated shoe-shopping trips happened once in two years. The ugly black school shoes, when bought with mom, would always be at least three sizes bigger than our foot size. Cotton balls stuffed into the shoes, plus the socks, would ensure that our uncheckedly-growing feet were outsmarted by my somewhat-parsimonious mother. 

I always had broad feet. Which always meant ugly shoes for Durga Puja. I might have loved a particular pair of heels on display in one of the Khadims' stores, and gotten in and asked the shop guys to show me one in my size. Their eyes would travel to my feet, and back to my face; a sad smile breaking my heart. "Tomar pa-er maap-e ei juto ta hobe na go..." (We don't have a pair in your size, dearie.) The dearie, on the other hand, would mutter a few curses under her breath and settle down for some ugly-looking pair of shoes, yet again, year after year.

Things went on this way for many years, and then Delhi happened. It was as if the numerous street-side shoe stalls all over the numerous Delhi markets were put there to appease my inner hunger for good, good-looking shoes. I soon developed an insatiable thirst for buying shoes. During my initial days of shoe-shopping in Delhi, once when I’d remarked that I had really broad feet, a kind shopkeeper once refuted the statement by saying that mine were among the smaller feet that he'd seen. I sighed a sigh of relief.

Ever since, shoe-shopping has been my favourite pastime; heels, my true love. 'Til about two days back. Once I began earning, shoes have eaten up most of my salary over the years. I ended up biting the Forbidden Apple called branded shoes. And once past the point of no-return, Fate decided to present me with a déjà vu of sorts.

So, the other day, when I travelled about 35 kilometres from Noida to Saket to pick up a pair of shoes that I'd salivated over for several weeks, I was treated to the brutal piece of information – the particular shoes were "out of stock". Hope, somewhere from some corner of my heart, still asked me to hang in there. From one store, I went to another. To buy a pair of knee-high boots. The salesgirl went in, came back, with the same sad smile that had troubled me for so many of my teenage years: "Ma'am, these are not available in your foot size." Walking out dejected, we walked into yet another store. Same smile; same story; same sorrowful tale: "These are designer boots. Not available in your size, ma'am." Yet another store; a similar story, yet again.

Inside those stores, almost close to tears, I asked them exactly what kind of foot sizes did they consider "normal". Exactly what size did they receive the maximum number of pairs in. The answer was the same in most of the stores – "Your foot size is not the problem; the breadth of your feet is". I was also told that a certain pair of designer boots that I’d had the misfortune of falling in love with, came in only two sizes, both less than my number. I couldn’t help but wonder, did they actually think that here, in Delhi – or anywhere for that matter, they would find flocks of women whose feet size would be the same as the ones on the runway? What, then, about lesser mortals like us? What is this custom of designing shoes that cater to only a certain size? So, even when we can afford these sky-high heeled, sky-high priced pairs, we would be deprived of the joy of being able to strut around in them? And what hurts the most is the fact that even though you can actually work on your waistline and fit into a one-size-fits-all piece of clothing, you can’t do the same for shoes. Your foot size, you see, is a constant.

Once out of the glittery mall-interiors, as I walked out with just one pair of consolatory somewhat-okay-looking boots, I couldn't help but thank that elderly man who'd once tagged my feet one of the smaller ones that he'd come across. The steep-priced, out-of-stock, not-in-your-size guys be damned.