Manasi Gyawali
The muted green shoes caught my eye. I was right across from the shelf that displayed the Puma shoes I so desperately wanted to wear. The harsh fluorescent lights cast a perfect halo around them, beckoning me.
I walked towards the shelf, avoiding my mother’s gaze. We were in a Puma showroom. It housed expensive clothing. Our mouths were left ajar each time we looked at the number on the tag.
But this one was different.
I just wanted to try them on. What’s the harm in that?
My hands reached out to touch the soft fabric-like texture wrapped around the shoe’s mold. I traced the white stitches painted across the vast green canvas. The golden label placed delicately on the left side of the shoe said its name—Puma.
The leaping jaguar, arched mid-air, jutted proudly at the back of the shoe. Then my eyes drifted to the accent of blue added along its lateral sides—perfectly curved, after the stitches.
That’s it, an art piece: a perfectly made pair of shoes.
As my face opened into a small smile, my mother’s body hovered over me. She slowly lifted the shoe from my hand. Her eyes squinted, searching for the small white cardboard that was threaded as a companion: the price tag.
My middle and index fingers interlaced together. I hopelessly hoped for the number to not be absurdly high. It was Nepali Rupees 12,000.
I was doomed.
My mom turned towards me with a forced smile on her face. “The color isn’t even that good,” her soft voice pierced through my chest, ripping away my desires to own them.
The translation of what she wanted to say was, “It’s too expensive.”
I matched her smile. “Yeah…true.”
We left the store, inching away from my small dream. My shoulders slouched as I dragged my feet across the concrete pavement. My head tilted downwards. The dirty cream color stared back at me from the bottom of my body—from the shoes I was wearing.
I let out a dramatic sigh. It was silly to be upset at a pair of shoes. But also… it wasn’t.
My eyes drifted, landing on my mother’s feet. She wore a worn-out sandal, the black faded to charcoal.
The pink polka-dot socks peered at me through the tiny hole on the front of the sandal.
My stomach sank.
I matched her strides. Despite what she wore on her feet, her body remained upright, with grace and dignity. My fingers tangled across hers, holding her close. I nudged myself gently against her and then rested my head on her shoulder.
I hummed—or tried to—“Let’s shop for a new sandal for you.”
My mom’s head slowly turned towards me, and this time a genuine smile tugged at her lips.
Words aren’t expensive.
I tried to picture the Puma shoes again, but I couldn’t remember the color anymore. Was it red? Or green?
It didn’t matter.
Isn’t it hilarious how a smile can outlast a want? And sometimes it outlasts everything else.
Manasi Gyawali is a seventeen-year-old writer. She now studies at St. Xavier’s College, Maitighar.
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