So , it was a sultry , hot and humid , sunny afternoon . The type where you stand in the shade and sweat buckets .
Your t shirt clings to your chest , and sucks out your soul from the vacuum in the back . Perspiration runs down in salty rivulets down the craggy landscape of your face and tries to empty itself in the ocean of your mouth . It gathers from your innumerable hair roots and runs down with the glee of a glacier fed spring down the nape of your neck into your already sodden back .
Then the crook in your dripping elbows , gathers all the grime , and whistle blows them into black lines of grime -crime , in polite -white company . When you raise your arms in air conditioned air , you are surrendering yourself to judgement of the sodden stinky armpits .
I will not even talk about the socks . Let us not go there .
My better half and I took a walk .
We take walks when we are bored with life . We take walks when the inanity of existence hits us hard . We take a walk when we no longer fit into the clothes that we left last summer in the cupboards of our home . We take a walk when people raise denouncing eyebrows , instead of telling us "you have grown fat " .
In short , it was a hot afternoon , sunny to boot and monsoonal humidity in excess.
We crossed familiar paths , came to a familiar school , and decided to walk through the fields , on our way back , thereby increasing our step count and attempting to please that fitness fiend called google fit .
Bad decision . Our noses tried to warn us . Rotten cow dung plus chemical fertilisers equals the odour of human faecal matter .
The fields were inundated . With monsoon waters in happy marriage with the above mentioned slurry .
So far as the shortsighted , glass aided vision could see, there were grassy strips of land , dividing this flooded land mass into neat , steaming squares of mud .
How difficult could it be ? We looked at each other , shrugged and marched straight into the man made swamp , bolstered with the confidence in our Skechers ( the most expensive brand of sneakers ) that will help us cross this perilous stretch , as it has done many other , in the past .
We crossed four odd fields , chess fashion , walking over grass covered soft mud , with slow , cautious gait as if stepping on land mined area , criss crossing at right angles , distracting ourselves with chit chat .
The path kept getting slipperier and narrower , as the ploughing tractors had taken a bite off the intersectional strip islands . It was a red flag .We should have turned back . We didn't .
At our fifth turn , we looked up to see a sea of sweltering , malodorous brown . Freshly ploughed by a tractor , there were enormous tyre marks , and the whole span seemed to be laughing at us . My better half has "Lion " in his name . Twice . That means he has twice this inexplicable tendency to plunge into sticky situations , with no way out . Unfortunately , I like a goat (from my zodiac ), tend to follow him , brainlessly .
The first step into the mud produced a loud sucking noise , followed by second . Now , he was stuck . Well and truly . Like a Rembrandt sculpture , probably titled "Marching for eternity , across fields of Punjab " , only with horror written across his face .The mud sunk with bubbly relief as it sucked him , ankle deep into treacherous gloopy depths . My poor hubby stood there , transfixed , teetering on the verge of plain disaster .
I must have screamed , but I was not aware of consciously doing so , for two turbanned figures emerged from a makeshift pump house on dry ground , some half a kilometre away . They kept watching our predicament , and retired inside without any word or kind gesture . I could imagine them rolling in laughter , clutching their sides , on their rope cots , hooting .
Humans .
It was just the two of us now .
Hubby backtracked , wearing one , and losing the other shoe . A teeny bit of dry , unsullied blue was still visible of the rapidly sinking shoe . It was the part above the heel . I carefully planted my feet on now inches wide grass , and leaned to pluck the shoe from the jaws of the mud . My hubby is 6feet 2 and weighs more than 100 kilos . The shoe had crossed the depth of soft forgiving waters and entered the dense , plucky , sandy -clayey unforgiving layer .
I pulled with all my might . The mud fought back with equal tenacity . By this time , my hubby had divested himself of his other shoe and both the socks , rolled them up into a muddy mass , and was encouraging me with loud shouts .
Thankfully , the fear of losing a 4000/- worth shoe (the pair costs 8000/-) , won over dirty games played by nature . I won .
Having handed over the shoe to its rightful owner , I realised I had wet my shoe too . Water had seeped in , while I was struggling , and had increased the weight of my feet , and slowed my movements .
Suck , squelch , suck , squelch , was how I walked in the water , relieved with the shaky knowledge that unseen parasites and reptiles were kept out , at least , from my interdigital spaces . My hubby marched ahead , barefoot , in watery slush , whistling a happy Kishore Kumar number. It probably soared his spirits and dampened mine .
To his repeated entreaties to take off my shoe , and walk like him , farmer fashion , shin deep in goo , I said a firm no.
Now , with my "Bhaari pair " ( pun not intended ) or heavy feet , I crossed the wafer thin grassy tips , arms out stretched , seconds away from landing face first , acrobat fashion , knowing pretty well , that there are no safety nets . I remembered God frequently , and fervently , and asked Him to forgive my hubby's wrong turns , and to reward my loyalty to him .
Once , on dry ground , we were lucky to discover a leaking tap . The leak being enough to wash grime off , and to enable wearing of sockless shoes .
At home , my daughter , a budding microbiologist , scared us into the horrors in the mud , starting with Taenia Solium (tapeworm ) and ending with Salmonella .
We were invited to dinner downstairs . When an entry was made in bathroom slippers , it raised eyebrows , but thankfully , no questions were asked .
