Counting Boots

As the door opened, a stream of colours flooded in: red, brown, white, yellow and black. A brief moment of fanciful colours flowing out and moving in separate directions, enlivening the grey street in a pool of colours.... 

As the heavy door slid shut, the flow stopped. “Did you like any colour?”

“Yellow. You?” 

“Nah… I didn’t like anything. Okay, here comes another flow. Let’s watch.”

As the glass doors slid open, Amar and Surya fixed their eyes on the street that seemed ready to absorb the colourful streaks. The colours are always the same, one might say; but for Amar and Surya, they were always different, splendid in hues that amazed and befuddled them. So every day, at 4:30 pm, they would sit together on a metal seat at the bus station, waiting for buses to stop by, watching the rhythm of the flock of people getting on and off the vehicles, counting their colourful boots, and revelling in their own bewilderment at the change and variety of hues.

 “Three boots, and the colours weren’t even good,” Amar said, with distaste in his voice. His shoulders slumped as he sat lower in the seat, evidencing his growing frustration.

“Three isn’t bad. But why don’t you like any colour today?” Surya asked in astonishment. It wasn’t like Amar to get disappointed by the flow of the colourful boots. Any other day, he would have counted the boots, made a list of his favourite colours and drawn some random sketches in his notebook—some with fur, with stiletto heels or with maze-like threads that wound around someone’s leg.  But all he did that day was scribble on two pages of his notebook.

“I don’t like the colours today. They’re not sophisticated,” said Amar with a pout and the same distaste in his voice.

“So what?” Surya shouted.

“So-phis-ti-ca-ted,” Amar said slowly, emphasising the five syllables. “You’re too young to understand this.” Amar, thirteen, only eight months older than Surya, always said this to annoy him. Any other day, he would have spelt the word for Surya, told him the meaning, and made him understand it, but not that day. The day was different. 

Amar looked at Surya; his face gaping, his lips chapped by the cold, harsh, winter wind, 

and the red hat he had been wearing since forever. Its carefully woven threads had now begun to tear apart. Why can’t those threads always stay together? Amar thought. 

Surya pulled his hat to cover his ears as a cold gush of wind snaked around them. “You haven’t counted yet. And you haven’t drawn any boots,” Surya exclaimed in surprise. It was very unlike Amar to not notice any colour, or not draw any boots. He looked at Amar. A straight, firm body, well-trimmed clothes and hair; everything about him was sophisticated. “Sophisticated,” he murmured the word slowly. He knew what the word meant. It was one of the first few words Amar had made him learn. They had made fun of that word, at how a part of it had ‘sophi’ in it —the name of a girl in Amar’s class. Surya smiled thinking how a 

simple word could be so sophisticated. He remembered how he had resisted pronouncing 

that word. “No, I can’t. It’s too hard,” he had said, and Amar had given him a long, hard stare. Since then, he had realised that it was very unlike of him to say no to Amar. He was sophisticated that way. 

Amar took out his notebook and started drawing. Surya kept looking at his smooth lines and fine strokes of colour. As the colour red came to life on one of the pages, Surya realised what Amar was drawing. 

“Hey, it’s my hat,” Surya said in a cheerful voice.

“Yeah, with a hole in it,” Amar moved his hands gracefully.

“I love this hat,” Surya said with a pout, and pulled his hat tighter.

“Yeah, yeah...your precious hat. Maybe, one day, a cat will jump out of that hole.”

Both of them laughed; their first laugh together that day, its hilarity ringing clearly in spite of the traffic and the noise. Surya mused as Amar turned the pages of his notebook. There were boots; colourful boots he had drawn and they had counted that winter, and the winter before that. But he did not know if he would be drawing next year, if they would be counting next year. He closed the notebook with a thump that made Surya blink his eyes.

“I’m leaving, Surya,” Amar said, as he placed his notebook in his bag.

“Yes, I’m leaving too. It’s 

getting really cold.” Surya said, 

as he stood up and pulled his hat tighter.

“No. I mean I am leaving. I’m leaving the town.”

Surya looked down at him, the pink of his cheeks changed to red, his round eyes slowly watering up. It was like watching those distant, swollen, clouds that crack up only after a gush of the north-wind. Amar had always liked those white, puffy, clouds and the wonderful shapes they made, not the dark ones that could not bear the mere shadow of a lightening.

“But we’ll be coming here every year. Daddy says he loves this city,” Amar gave a fake smile as he tried hard to remember those white clouds. He stood up and patted Surya’s shoulders. “We’ll be here next year, really.”

Surya tried to smile. He knew that Amar would not come back. People who left for the big cities never came back.

“But what about counting the boots? You said we would count until the number reached 248,” Surya said in a voice so low that it reminded Amar of his cat’s whimper. “Let him play, Amar,” his mother would whine whenever she heard Jack’s painful whimper, although playing was the last thing the whimpering cat would ever do.

“Next year. There will be many colourful boots next year, I promise,” Amar tried to sound hopeful.

“You won’t be here next year,” Surya shouted, as tears started dripping down his cold face. Amar didn’t want to look at those droplets. Instead, he looked at Surya’s red hat, and the hole that allowed a few strands of his dark hair to flutter. One day a cat will come out of that hole, Amar said to himself. All of a sudden, he wished for dark clouds that just break up and start drowning the world. It was getting dark, he could not make out any clouds. But he knew how unpredictable the weather was. Well, not as unpredictable as a young boy feeling deep affection for his 

servant, Amar smirked pensively. I should have played with Jack, and not with Surya, Amar pondered as he reflected upon bygone days. He turned sideways, ready to face the indefinite trails on Surya’s red cheeks. But all he could find was a vacant space. He stood there alone as people rushed along, the distant rumble of thunder sounding very clearly. Not far away, he could see a red patch on the road. As the torn threads danced to the tune of thunder, a faint trail made its mark on Amar’s cheeks.

Surya woke up with a start as the whimper got louder. Although his mind begged him to keep sleeping, his eyelids fluttered open.

 “Okay, okay. I’m coming,” Surya groaned, as he left his warm refuge. He made a face as his feet touched the cold stone slate. He hated the cold gust that made its way through the walls, despite the heating system. But he knew that as soon as he felt the warm fur circling around his legs, he would feel warm and happy.

“Here, your special food,” Surya said, as he emptied a can over a huge bowl. “I don’t know how you can store all this food in that little stomach of yours, Jack.” He waited for the cat to come over and eat his breakfast. Realising that Jack didn’t have the least intention of eating, Surya sighed and grabbed his overcoat, and put on his favourite boots. “Okay, okay. Let’s go, shall we?” He could swear that he almost saw a wicked grin spread over Jack’s face as he gestured his hands toward the door.

As Jack walked his gracious walk, Surya opened the door and peered at the distance. The bus-stop, he mused. Eight years have passed and few things have changed, he thought. The colours of the boots have faded, the iron detailing on the bus-stop has rusted, and the two seats have grown cold since. Just before he closed the door, he looked behind and smiled. “Sophisticated,” he muttered. Hanging on the wall was a familiar painting, a familiar red hat with a hole, and a cat coming out of it.

- Barsha Chitrakar