FETISH

I watched them intently as they padded across the floor- the very perfection of bipedal motion. Perfectly shaped, with a pearly sheen to the calcium coverings, there was not a wisp of hair-curly or otherwise, marring their symmetry. I gave an involuntary sigh, a little helpless shudder, and went back to worshipping Professor Narayan’s feet.

Yes, I, Nalini Basu, twenty-three years old and in the final year of post graduation in Political Science, have a foot fetish. I have always been attracted to feet- my cutest baby picture frames a tiny me crawling towards my mother and making a grab at her petite toes, a beatific smile splitting my baby face. My unusual predilection has always been a part of my life. Family functions are often traumatic- touching strange feet seems an invasion of my sense of decency. Shoes stud my bedroom floor like colourful jewels, glistening in their many hued splendors. Missing my weekly pedicure depresses me immensely. My inter- personal relationships have often, if not always, been based on the feet of the person in question and I have a clearly enumerated set of rules on the subject-

a) Size does not matter, shape and proportion do- the more streamlined the better.

b) Ingrown toenails, crusty dirt, flaking skin, scaly corns - and the person is probably a close relative of the Abominable snowman.

c) Too hairy- and he or she should be presented to the scientific fraternity as the missing link in human evolution.

d) Smelly feet- the sub-human should be put out of its misery as humanely as possible.

e) Reasonably clean, civilly groomed feet- there is a distinct possibility of receiving a Christmas card from yours truly.

The journey of my love life can also be measured out in a series of footsteps. When l assess the attractiveness of the opposite sex, my gaze is always directed downwards…to the feet. If I haven’t had the occasion of viewing a prospective’s feet, I have a ready stock of excuses- “Let’s walk barefoot on the grass” or “Let’s go to the beach.” There have been many pairs of feet in my life, but the most memorable pair belonged to Rahul, stunning in their simplicity of design and elegance of execution. The possessor of those miracles of nature also possessed my heart. Our break up was traumatizing. I had spent a lovely morning with him- clipping his toenails and filing their pearly thickness. Then I had left for college, only to remember half way there that l had left my books back at his place. I walked in to find him giving a foot rub to Sanya, the wannabe supermodel from his class. I cried so much for the next month that I forgot my calcium supplements- for an entire week!

Professor Narayan was the latest inclusion to the faculty. With a PhD from Cambridge and a face like Adonis, Shankar Narayan was the latest craze on campus. His forty years of single hood tantalized female students- and a few male ones as well. But I loved him, loved him not for his modulated British accent or his ‘darling’ curly locks but for his feet. His feet were the object of my fervent admiration. So while the rest of my (mostly female) class gaped at his face, my intent adoration was directed about six feet below. I wanted them, him, very badly. To give him a pedicure would be the ultimate bliss. I had spent nearly a month gaping at his magnificent metatarsal constructs and l had finally decided to take matters into my own feet.

Class got over to the despairing sighs of the population unhappy to be separated from their god because after every afternoon class Professor N always fended off the delaying tactics of several besotted girls and would disappear into the dusty interiors of the empty afternoon staff room. Today was no different and as has he strode down the dimly lit corridor in his peculiarly jaunty gait; I followed him with quick steps of my own. I shadowed him into the staff room but before he could notice me, I lost my nerve and ducked behind a limp curtain. I had meant to speak to him, to try and tell him of my confused adoration but my brain had temporarily been reduced to dirty toenail clippings. I watched him from behind my musty shield as he sat down and plonked his jhola on the table. He lit a beedi, very popular with the intellectuals on campus, and puffed on it absently. Then he looked around carefully, as if to make sure of his solitude before striding up to shut the only door and latch it securely. The blood was pounding in my ears. Did he know I was there? Was he going to admonish me for spying on him? I watched his movements with bated breath. Professor Shankar Narayan walked back to his chair, sat down, rolled back his faded jeans and pulled of his prosthetic feet with a sigh of relief. “No wonder they were so hairless…” I thought as my feet collapsed under me.