The Hattichhap Slippers: A Short Story by Ashok Thapa [📖🎵]
How could a pair of slippers that barely lasted a few weeks be compared to the might of an elephant? Dive into this captivating short story to unlock the mystery behind this intriguing comparison.
🎧 Listen to Ashok Thapa’s audio version of short story translated by Lisha Dangol. 🎧
Every morning, as I readied myself for school after devouring a plateful of dhido, Radio Nepal would broadcast its familiar ad: Hattichhap, the slippers as mighty as elephants. I would dash through the door, reach the fence of my house, and bow my head down like a swan, eyeing the slippers on my feet with skepticism. No matter how many times the radio touted their strength, I couldn't bring myself to believe that those Hattichhap slippers were as robust as an elephant.
The same question nagged at me day after day. How could a pair of slippers that barely lasted a few weeks or even months be compared to the might of an elephant? Memories of repairing the broken straps flashed through my mind, the frustration of trying to fix them as they came off unexpectedly. I recalled the makeshift repairs I had attempted, melting the strap over fire or using whatever materials I could find. Despite the changing seasons and the introduction of different colored straps, one thing remained constant—their tendency to come loose.
When the straps inevitably came undone, a mix of anger and hopelessness would swirl in my mind. Frustration would build with each failed attempt to mend them, leaving me feeling defeated. After resorting to various makeshift repairs, the only solution was to discard them in a bush and continue barefoot to school. Walking barefoot had become second nature, a routine born out of necessity.
Despite the inconvenience, there was a certain charm in watching ants decorate the discarded slippers with clay on my way home from school. It was almost like watching an artist at work, transforming the sandals into something new. Some people even jokingly referred to them as "Bread sandals," a nod to their popularity among ants.
But even amidst the frustration and inconvenience, there was a sense of camaraderie in facing these challenges with my friends. We would laugh off the embarrassment of walking barefoot to school, finding humor in our shared experiences. And as we continued on our journey, the Hattichhap slippers remained a constant presence, their flaws overshadowed by the memories they created.
Whenever I had to attend a special event or visit the city, it seemed like fate conspired to ensure that my Hattichhap sandals would break on the same day. I couldn't fathom the strange coincidence.
On one such fateful day, the Hattichhap slipper lived up to its reputation when the strap of the right slipper came off. I improvised by inserting the torn slipper into the left one and discarded the pair in a bush by the roadside before continuing my journey to school. My friend Krishna couldn't help but notice and quipped, "Your Hattichhap betrayed you, huh?" I simply sighed, "Yeah, my friend, this fu****g slipper left the strap again."
It was meant to be a special day in my school life as I had been selected for a handwriting competition at a neighboring school. I was overjoyed at the opportunity, but fate had other plans. To reach the competition venue at the school, we had to pass by the very spot where I had disposed of my broken slippers earlier that day.
As I stood barefoot on the school balcony, clad in a sky-blue shirt and blue half pants, reality sank in. Just the day before, the excitement of being selected for the competition had filled me with anticipation.
My teacher, Man Kumar, approached me and scrutinized my bare feet with a deep frown. It was painfully obvious that I lacked proper footwear. After a prolonged silence, he delivered his verdict, "You cannot attend the competition today. Being barefoot will only bring shame upon yourself in front of your competitors. Besides, Renu and Krishna, your classmates, are more skilled writers than you and are going to the handwriting contest."
I was rendered speechless, unable to muster a response. This wasn't like me—I was usually quick to argue my case. But on that day, I remained silent, my gaze fixed on the sky above. My heart ached with a myriad of emotions—frustration at the lack of footwear, disappointment at missing the competition, and a sense of helplessness that weighed heavily on my soul. It felt like I was spiraling into an abyss of despair, my heart twisted with pain like the turbulent waters of the Ghumauri Ghat River. Anger simmered within me, threatening to erupt like a volcano.
Since the outset, my frustration with Hattichhap slippers would rear its head in two distinct scenarios: firstly, when they showcased their might by splashing water during the rainy season, and secondly, when they exhibited their weakness by slipping off at inconvenient times. It was these same slippers that my sister would swiftly wield to land a blow on my back whenever she was angry.
However, amidst my anger towards the slippers, its numerous merits would often come to mind. A piece of Hattichhap proved invaluable when hammering sheets of tin on the roof, and repurposing the sole to make wheels for my handmade toy car was equally enjoyable.
As the teachers assembled on the school balcony in preparation for the writing competition, their attire appeared impeccably neat. Krishna's excitement rivalled that of a newly erected Dashain swing. Yet, our anticipation was tinged with impatience as Renu failed to emerge despite prolonged waiting. Observing her hurried entrance into the shop, I surmised that she was being reprimanded by Man Kumar Sir. Though I couldn't discern every word spoken, the urgency in his tone was evident. Eventually, Renu joined the team, and with Krishna, Man Kumar Sir, and Bibek Sir leading the way, they embarked on the uphill journey to the neighboring school for the competition. With a strange sensation in my heart, I watched them ascend the hill until they vanished from sight.
My mind inexplicably grew sluggish, overshadowed by overwhelming disappointment. I lacked the energy to concentrate on studying that day, consumed by a melancholic sadness. The image of my friends striding eagerly towards the school persisted in my mind, akin to the undulating waves of an ocean. Like a leaf falling from a storm-ravaged tree, my heart felt on the brink of collapse. Leaning against the wall of the toilet, I remained lost in thought for an extended period, my mind flooded with memories spanning from childhood to the present moment.
I reminisced about the ticklish moment when I slipped postcards into Renu's bag during Dashain and New Year festivities. However, my joy was short-lived as I recalled the slaps she received for my mischievous gesture. Memories flooded back of Renu's father pulling my ear outside her shop while we were engrossed in a game of carom board. Another recollection surfaced of the time I secretly placed gooseberries in Renu's bag as a token of admiration, too timid to express my feelings directly. With the gooseberry tree bearing witness, I silently professed my love for Renu in my heart.
Unable to focus on the remaining classes of the day, I followed the path my classmates had taken to the competition. Alone, I ascended the hill through the bushy graveyard, my anger towards the Hattichhap slippers unabated. Ideas of destroying them flooded my mind, but I knew it would be futile as they could easily be repaired. My energy depleted, I felt drained both physically and emotionally.
As I approached the bush where I had discarded the slippers earlier that day, I hesitated before entering. Unlike before, there were no ants beneath the slippers, only a colorful envelope containing currency notes and a letter addressed to me. Bewildered, I glanced between the slippers and the letter before looking towards the farmers singing folk songs nearby, feeling a sense of relief wash over me momentarily.
Despite the daylight, I couldn't shake the feeling of unease. The burial ground, designated for the Gurung community, seemed to hold a mysterious aura. Unsure if I was awake or dreaming, I scanned my surroundings nervously. The forest appeared desolate, with only the clicking of beetles breaking the silence. Feeling like a vulnerable animal amidst unseen dangers, I hastily gathered the torn slippers, money, and letter, not even noticing my bare feet. My heart raced with curiosity and fear as I sought refuge beneath a needle-wood tree to read the letter.
As I unfolded the paper, my hands trembled uncontrollably, mirroring the swaying of banana leaves in a gust of wind.
My friend, as I spotted you standing barefoot near the school, your face bore a deeper shade of sorrow than usual. I couldn't help but wonder why you were fixated on the old fig tree, concealing your tears behind your bag. In a moment of impulse, I dashed to my father's shop, broke open his piggy bank, and retrieved the 23 rupees I had stashed beneath your slippers. Witnessing a boy cry over torn slippers for the first time, your tears turned me into an unwitting thief.
Driven by a desire to ease the burden on your innocent heart, I decided to act. Krishna, secretly pleased that you couldn't join us, had divulged the location of your discarded slippers near the solitary bush on the cremation hill. Under the pretext of needing to urinate, I lagged behind, swiftly slipping the money and this note beneath your footwear.
Yet, I couldn't shake off the overwhelming sense of confusion that engulfed me. It felt as though the world had tilted on its axis, leaving me stranded amidst a whirlwind of fear, concern, and shame. For two hours, I remained rooted to the spot, my body tingling with unease, as if caught at the epicenter of an earthquake, unsure of my next move.
Nearby, a needlewood tree, home to a nesting pair of eagles tenderly caring for their young, stood tall. Entranced by the scene of parental devotion, I found solace momentarily. With a pointed stone clutched in my left hand and Renu's letter in my right, I began etching onto the bark of the tree. Like an artist chiseling an image of divinity into stone, I painstakingly carved for hours, the letters taking shape beneath my touch. By the time I finished, a simple yet profound message adorned the tree trunk: A+R.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ashok Thapa, born in Pokhara, Nepal in 1979, began his literary journey early. Graduating from Prithvi Narayan Campus and later Tribhuvan University, he published his first article in 2000 and released his latest short story collection, "Santaapko Dhoon (The Cadence of Sorrow)," in 2023. Thapa, an acclaimed author, literary critic, former Sahitya-Kunj chairman, and assistant professor at Central Department of Nepali, Tribhuwan University, passionately advocates for writing and publishing initiatives, fostering cultural connections through his works.