There is a photo of Premchand in front of me, one where he is being photographed with his wife. He is wearing a cap of some coarse cloth, a kurta, and dhoti. His temples are hollow, and his cheekbones protrude but his dense moustache lends a certain fullness to his face. 

On his feet are canvas shoes, the laces of which are tied haphazardly. Upon being handled carelessly, the aglets come off and it becomes difficult to secure the laces through the eyelets of the shoe. The laces may then be tied in any possible way. The shoe of the right foot is fine but the left shoe has a big hole through which the toe peeps. 

My eyes are stuck on this shoe. I wonder – if this is the attire to get photographed in, then what must be the daily wear? No, this man would not have distinct attires – he lacks the competence to change attires. He is how he is, as clicked in the photograph. 

I look at his face. Do you know, my literary ancestor, that your shoe is torn and that your toe peeps through it? Do you have no inkling of it? No shame, no hesitation, no embarrassment? Don’t you know that you could have covered that peeping toe by slightly adjusting the folds of your dhoti? Nonetheless, your face wears an expression of great indifference, of great confidence. When the photographer would have said, “Ready, please”, then out of convention, you must have made an attempt to smile, attempting to gradually draw up that smile lying somewhere at the bottom of the deep well of the pain. And, in the midst of it all, the photographer must have clicked your photograph, and thanked you. How strange is this half-broken smile! Why, it is not just a smile. It is a smile of mockery, a smile of derision. 

What kind of a man is he who not only has the audacity to get himself photographed in torn shoes but is also laughing at someone? 

If he had to get himself photographed, he could have worn proper shoes or else not have agreed to be photographed at all. And, what could have probably gone wrong if the photograph was not clicked? Perhaps, it was his wife’s insistent requests that he acceded to, and sat down for the photo with an “alright, let’s do it bhai”. But this is such a great tragedy that a man does not even have proper shoes to get himself photographed in. 

Upon regarding your photograph, upon discerning your distress within myself, I feel close to breaking down but the sharp bitter pain of derision in your eyes absolutely prevents me from doing so. 

You don’t understand the importance of a photograph. Had you understood it, you would have borrowed a pair of good shoes to get yourself photographed in. In fact, people end up presenting prospective grooms in rented costumes, and taking out baraats in rented cars. People end up borrowing wives to get themselves clicked, and you couldn’t even borrow a pair of shoes? You don’t understand the importance of a photograph. People splatter themselves with attar in the hope that their photos will give off a lovely scent. Even the photo of the filthiest man ends up aromatic.

A cap can be bought for eight annas, and shoes wouldn’t have costed more than five rupees in those times. Shoes have always been dearer than caps. Now, shoes have become even costlier so much so that twenty-five caps need to be sacrificed for one shoe. You too, were a victim of this relative equation between caps and shoes. Never have I ever been so severely struck by a paradox as this, made more intense as I continue to regard your torn shoe. You are a great storyteller, an emperor amongst the novelists, a revolutionary and so much more, and yet your shoe is torn in this photo. 

My shoes aren’t any good, either. They look good only on surface. My toe does not peep out, but the sole of my shoe has worn out. The toe rubs against the ground, and sometimes ends up bleeding after getting grazed against the serrated earth. The whole sole may fall apart, the skin of my foot may chafe but my toes will never peep out. Your toe is visible but your foot is safe and secure. My toe is hidden but my foot is getting grazed. You clearly don’t understand the importance of a veil, and here I am yielding to it. 

You wear your torn shoe with much display. I cannot wear it like this. I would have never gotten myself photographed in such a fashion, even at the cost of going without a photograph in my biography. 

Your satirical smile douses my morale. What is the significance of it? What kind of a smile is this?

Did Hori succeed in making the gift of the cow?

Did the bluebucks graze away, and destroy Halku’s field on that winter’s night?

Did Sujaan Singh’s son die because the doctor did not leave the club to attend to him?

No, I think Madho drank away the alcohol brought from the money collected for his wife’s funeral. Your smile seems familiar that way. 

I look at your shoes once again. How did it get torn, the writer of my people?

Did you wander about a lot?

Did you walk back home after wandering for a mile or two because you were busy dodging your creditors?

A shoe does not get torn by walking around, it gets worn out. Kumandasji’s shoes also got worn out because of his regular visits to and from Fatehpur Sikri. Dismayed, he remarked, “While walking here my shoes wore out, and I forgot Hari’s name.” 

And for such apparently generous callers, he remarked, “Now I must pay homage to a face, whose very sight pains me.”

A shoe does not get torn by walking around, it gets worn out. How did your shoe get torn?

I assume that you have been kicking against an adamant object. An object that had over the years accumulated layers and layers of adamancy, and kicking which probably caused your shoe to tear. It could have been an obstructing mound that stood in your way against which you exercised the power of your shoe. You could have avoided it by deflecting from its path. There could have been a tacit agreement with the obstructing obstacles. All rivers do not necessarily break through mountains; some divert their course to flow. 

You couldn’t make any agreements. You too, share Hori’s weakness – the same weakness that had overwhelmed him – the weakness of Dharma. Hori was fettered by Dharma. However, judging by the way you are smiling, it seems that you were not fettered by Dharma, instead it was your liberation. The toe of your foot seems to be signalling something to me – is it possible that you use your toe instead of your finger to point at something you consider despicable?

Are you pointing towards that object that you had kicked repeatedly against and got your shoe torn?

I understand. I understand the allusion of your pointed toe as well as your acerbic smile. 

You are laughing at me or at all of us, at those who have concealed their toes by grazing their soles, at those who prefer to detour when faced with an obstacle. You are saying, “I tore my shoes by kicking continuously against the obstacle so that my toe peeped out but my foot was safe, and I continued walking. However, in your concern to conceal your toe, you are ruining your sole. How will you walk?”

I understand. I understand the affair of your torn shoe, I understand the allusion of your pointed toe, I understand your acerbic smile.