I collect chappals
From stampedes-
Not bodies.
Not names.
Just resilient soles.
Rubber. Plastic.
Faith-worn. sweat-kissed.
Some still warm with
Unfinished pilgrimage.
___
I pair them-
Left with a right.
Sometimes a Bata
Marries a Relaxo.
Kolhapuri with
A Lee Cooper.
A child’s slipper gets
A grown man’s sandal.
A womans shoe gets
A dirty flipflop.
And like anywhere else,
Even here,
Love of course is a
Compromise.
___
Sprinkle Holy Water for
Bloodstains.
But don't clean them
Entirely.
Incense for odour.
A little glitter to make
It presentable.
Loss sells better
When it sparkles
You see and fetches
More when I adorn
Them with an made up
Story-
“This survived Kumbh 2025.”
"RCB's victory parade- hola ESCN"
“This one tripped a minister’s
Convoy in Tirupati.”
“These? Blessed by accident.
Someone literally died on
Top of it.”
_____
Collectors love it.
NGO execs.
Art curators.
One Berlin museum
Paid ₹1.2 lakh for a
Pair that smelled like
Cow dung and crushed belief.
One in New York got
Over a crore just because
It the bloodstains were
Still fresh.
Sometimes,
A grieving family shows up.
“That slipper… it was my mother’s.”
they whisper.
I offer a discount--
Grief should never pay retail.
⸻
People ask:
“Isn’t this unethical?”
And I say:
So is God’s crowd control.
At least I give closure
To a sole.
I’m not a monster.
I just turn stampedes
into exhibits.
Into commerce.
Into matching pairs.
I'm human..
An opportunist,
A capitalist and
I tend to profit from
Chaos. And why not?
When someone with
A brush can do it?
When someone with
A book, pen and
Broken words can do it?
Why not someone
With a conscience
And a size chart with an
Ability to find
An able match can't?
Why can't this be
Labelled as art?
___