The Great Shoe Expedition

WARNING: not one of my best posts but it'll do I guess...maybe the sequence of events did not take place in the below mentioned record of minutes, or for that matter, days, and the library scene is an added touch on my side. That it why I will proceed to say that the following narration is 50% true.

We were torn.

Sweat beaded down our forehead and fell with a tremendous splash on the ground. Our eyes darted back and forth, and our heads were spinning. All the sights around us were blurred and the sounds were a distinct babble. We could hear the loud, ominous ticking of the clock, even thought there was none nearby. We were chewing on our bottom lips and hopping from one foot to another.

We were completely, completely torn.

Our breath came in quick, tense rasps. Our knees banged against each other. We were tremblig from head to toe. This was no mere decision. It was a decision that required advanced intelligence level and extreme daring.

We were in a mall.

Searching for shoes.

Not just any shoes though. They were special shoes. They were the shoes that were "in". Everyone who was anyone wore these shoes. Which classified me as a no one.

At least, that's what Goonjan said.

Yes, here we were, once again, the two of us.

Anyway, back to the shoes.

Flashback

"Oh my god Namrata, I have GOT to get those shoes!"

Me with my usual brilliant taste in fashion crinckled my nose. "Urgh Goonjan, you're taking ballet?"

She shoots me a death glare. "Jesus, those aren't ballet shoes. They're flats."

"Ballet flats." I added. Well really, the looked like ballet shoes. They were longish and extremely flat and displayed about seventy-five percent of your foot. And they looked pretty uncomfortable.

But who was I to question the high power?

"Let's try to find my size. 51/2."

Leave it to dear Goonjan to put me to work.

I sighed, placing the bookmark back in my book, and started to eye the large shoe rack with distaste. It's hard to believe that Goonjan is my best friend. I've never seen someone who is so unlike me. For one thing, she absolutely detests reading. For another, she is extremely conscious about looks. She go ther hair highlighted at age eight. I mean really, isn't that enough?

And then there's me. Well you all know me pretty well I hope.

Enough to conclude that me and Goonjan are totally controversial.

Like Shakespeare and Rick Riordan.

Or as Goonjan would've said, like flip flops and high heels.

See what I mean?

Anyway, I hopelessly dug through the stacks of shoe boxes trying to find the right size. I mean, these 'organized racks' are so completely useless. You can find everything and every size except what you're looking for.

Fifteen minutes later we were assembled together bending over two pairs of shoes. Goonjan eyed them with indecision and scrutiny. I eyed them with distaste. The first pair was black, but a litlle too small for Goonjan. He second was a perfect fit and was a bright golden colour.

Which brings me to the situation mentioned in paragraph one.

We were completely torn. Correction, Goonjan was completely torn.

Wracked with indecision, her hand stretched out towards the black shoes. Then just as quickly, as if scared that they would bite her, she drew her hand away and navigated it towards the golden pair. Then she bit her lip and wrung her hands.

"Oh God, which pair should I get?"

I groaned loudly and sank into the cushioned chair nearby. This was going to be fun. Two hours at the mall and I was the only sane one around. Me and my good old book.

"The black pair go on all my outifts," Goonjan continued, "But gold looks much fancier. Black can't be worn for fancy."

"Why not?"

"Well for one thing, it looks casual. Like you just came home from school."

"Erm..."

"And plus, it clashes horribly with party wear. Golden gives you the I-so-know-what-I'm-wearing-is-hot outlook. It radiates confidence."

"Uh..."

"And it is universally known that you do not wear golden on casuals. It looks way to sober. Showoff-ish you know?"

I slumped back. "I give up."

Goonjan turned back to her shoe dilemma. "Oh jesus, which ones should I get?"

Half and hour later

A girl is sitting on the floor cross-legged chewing off her perfectly manicured nails. She alternately reaches out and draws back from the two pairs of shoes in front of her. Her eyes dart back and forth and she is whimpering. The girl is stricken with indecision.

A second girl is sprawled spectacularly across an extremely fluffy armchair, a book covering her face. She looks like a person who had just walked out of Ring Two. Gentle snores wafted through the air near her. She asleep dreaming inevitably about shoes.

"Namrata!"

In my hasty attempt to get up, I fell off the chair with a thud, sending my book skidding across the carpeted ground.

"Wha-a...?"

"Help me!" Goonjan cried, wringing her hands.

'Lord almighty," I muttered, "Just get both of them."

It took a few minutes for the idea to click. Then Goonjan's eyes lit up with joy and realisation. She grabbed the two pairs of shoes, grabbed me by the collar in mid-yawn and hightailed to where her mother was standing.

"Mom mom pleeeeeease can I get both pairs?"

Goonjan was screaming and jumping up and down as I stood a few feet behind her looking like a zombie.

Goonjan's mother pursed her lips, "no Goonjan..."

"No mom I want it pleeeeeeeeease mom...."

I yawned audibly.

"I guess so...fine."

Before I could react, I found myself being flung across the mall corridors in a bizarre attempt to, from what I deduced, hug me. I could hear the loud screams that echoed around me as Goonjan yanked me back up and twirled us around and around.

"Thank You so much mom!" Goonjan flung herself on her mother. I was still twirling in the background and had to steady myself as the world around me slowly stopped spinning.

"Isn't this great Namrata?" Goonjan beamed.

"Urgh..." I replied intelligently. Goonjan took no notice and enthusiastically put an arm around my shoulders.

"I'm going to take you to the library."

I did a double take. "What?"

"Really."

Half and hour later

A girl sat cross-legged on a soft carpeted floor. She was surrounded by a fortress of books so that she was practically hidden under them. She was chewing her lips, her brows furrowed, deep in concentration. She ran her tongue over her dry lips. She was in a dilemma.

A second girl was slumped unceremoniously on a roundish wooden table, snoring gently on a large colourful book. She was oblivious to her surroundings and didn't notice he librarian that was glaring silently at her from across the room.

"Goonjan!"

It was only a hiss, but it startled Goonjan into jerking up and sending the books sprawling across the floor. Quickly gathering her wits, she crouched down to retrieve it, shooting an apologetic look to the librarian. She looked suitably peeved.

I was torn. Completely, completely torn.

"Which book should I get?"

Omelet

WARNING: ignore all spelling and grammatical mistakes...didn't get time to read it over...true story by the way...moderately twisted...

Seven. The age of innocence. The age when barbie dolls and cartoons rule your life. The age in which your biggest challenge is buying the best looking pencil box. The age of sleepovers.
Seven.
Speaking of sleepovers, I was having one with my best friend, Goonjan.
Now you've got to understand what Goonjan is like. She wasn't merely content with the sleeping part. Sleepovers with Goonjan meant fun. She never just sat and talked. She did stuff. Whether it was nail painting or playing board games. She liked doing things.
And that is how I found myself in the kitchen. Making and omelet for mummy.
I stared wearily at the counter, which reached the top of my head. I jumped up and down so that my pigtails bounced around, catching random glimpses of the objects clattered here and there. I stopped when my head started to hurt.
There was a carton of eggs placed neatly on the dining table. Goonjan gently picked up one egg and carried it carefully to the counter. We looked at each other strangely.
"Ready?"
"I guess..."
We were women on a mission.
We were making an omelet.
My oh my.
My mother was in the bathroom, just so you know.
Goonjan crouched on the floor and started tugging open the lower drawer. It revealed an assortment of pans. She sat cross legged on the floor, sorting through them all. I entertained myself by staring wide eyed at the red hot gas stove. I slowly reached over and suspended a palm above the stove. yes, definitely hot. I made a mental note of it, just in case. I brought my hand closer to it, only to snatch it back with a whimper. This was fun.
"Which pan do you normally use?"
I turned distractedly towards the girl sitting at my feet. In both hands she was holding black pans. I glimpsed at both of them.
"Definitely the larger one," I chirped.
"Are you sure?" she asked slowly. I nodded at the same slow pace.
With an energetic leap, she jumped to her feet, pushing the drawer close with her leg. Then she placed the pan neatly on the stove and let it get hot. Goonjan promptly turned around, hands poised elegantly at her hips.
"Should we put onions and stuff?"
I nodded my head like an eager puppy. Whatever she says, I thought.
"Well? Where do you keep the vegetables."
I looked cautiously around the kitchen. Then I jerked my heads upwards. Goonjan's eyes followed my finger and her face fell.
"Oh..."
The fridge was, say, six feet tall? And on top of that, stacked on a bunch of whatnot, were the onions. We wouldn't be able to reach it even with a chair.
I tilted my head. If you looked at a certain angle, the onions looked like people heads. Purple people of course. Bald, ugly, purple people. Cannibals, I decided. Certainly not something I'd like on my eggs.
"We'll make a plain omelet?" I suggested lamely. Goonjan shrugged and skipped up to the pan, standing on her tiptoes to peer at it. I glanced longingly at the T.V. Why couldn't we have a normal sleepover?
Then she declared importantly that the pan was hot enough.
There we were, both of us standing on cushioned chairs, crowing over a tiny steel dish. We were poised and ready; Goonjan with an egg in one hand and spatula in the other and me with a large spoon.
"Ready?"
I nodded. Goonjan raised the spatula like a sword. It was a funny sight; two girls crowding around a silver dish sporting over sized aprons and brandishing dangerous kitchen utensils.
With a loud echoing crack, the egg shell split in two. The contents of it dropped into the steel dish. Instantly, Goonjan snatched the spoon from my hands and expertly beat it. The eggs I mean. Then she turned to the hot pan and poured in her mixture.
I watched as the yellow spot spread over the pan. Grabbing the oil bottle, I let a trickle of golden oil leak into the pan, sizzling and encircling the yellow half formed-omelet. It looked rather...pretty. Like a huge golden lake. I leaned forward and a blast of heat hit my face. That felt good.
After sometime, Goonjan handed me the spatula and made her way to the bathroom.
I stared at the spatula. Boy did it look weird. Like a hand. Maybe a frog's hand. A black frog's hand. I swatted it against my palm and chuckled. It felt like a frog. All slimy and slippery. I squinted and brought it closer. There was a speck of yellow on it. I blew at the speck. It detached itself and drifted to the floor. I watched its progress.
Presently I turned my attention to the omelet. It had turned a nice deep yellow. The smell was certainly good. I slid the spatula down the side of the pan, trying to insert it under the omelet.
CRRRRR
I frowned and tried again.
CrrRRr CRRrR
Uh oh.
I peeped at the omelet and my brows furrowed. What...?
I shoved the spatula under the omelet and lifted it like a flap. Like I was looking into a trapdoor. And I definitely did not like what I saw.
The floor of the pan was covered with what looked like a thin layer of sponge. I groped for a spoon with my other hand and then tried to scrape it off. It wouldn't come off.
Now, I started to panic.
"Erm...Goonjan?"
Goonjan flounced into the kitchen. "What?"
"Erm...take a look at this will you...?"
Goonjan frowned and leaned over the pan. She tried removing the layer of spongish thing. It didn't work. The omelet was stuck on the pan.
Her frown deepened.
"What type of pan is this?"
I just stared at her. What type of pan...?
"Erm...normal?"
"I mean is it non-stick?" Goonjan snapped irritably.
I stared at the pan. "Apparently not."

After a lot of shoving, arguing and whimpering (from my side) Goonjan managed to convince me to call my mother. I shuffled down the hall, white in the face and shaking. Suddenly, the door at the end of the hall seemed to mover further away, as if the hall was stretching. Or else I was shrinking. Either way, I found myself standing in front of a ten foot tall door. I gulped.
With a shaking hand, I knocked on the door.
The loud roaring of the water stopped abruptly. "What?"
I swallowed the lump in my throat. It didn't budge. "Erm...could you come outside? Please?"
My voice sounded rather squeaky.
"Why?" my mother asked suspiciously.
"Erm...we were making omelet in the kitchen..."
The large door burst open and sent me flying spectacularly across the hall. As my vision started to clear, I could vaguely make out my mother's silhouette against the doorway. She had a towel wrapped like a turban around her head and was wearing her pyjamas.
I made a sound that sounded like half a gurgle.
My mother strode down the hall in long, powerful steps. As she passed by, she grabbed my by the collar and I obliged with nothing more than a squawk. She was moving so fast that the calendar on the wall fluttered.
She turned and walked into the kitchen, only to trip over a small figure at her feet.
A girl was sitting on the tiled floor, her legs sprawled in odd angles. She had a large pan on her lap and with a spoon, she was scraping vigorously at it. Shreds and crumbs of yellow-black omelet were sprinkled around her. Her hair was tussled and the odd smell of burning eggs reached our noses.
"Hi." Goonjan said sheepishly.
My mother closed her gaping mouth and it formed into a thin, stern line.

I stared at the plate in front of me. There was a pile of yellow blubbery pieces on it. Omelet pieces. The remains of our masterpiece. It looked pretty, all stacked up. But not very tasty. Kind of like a yellow dung heap. I squinted at it. A really rugged dung heap. A volcanic one, by the looks of the red sauce dribbling down it. I poked it and jumped slightly when it started to wriggle violently. A very unstably, rugged, volcanic dung heap.
I sighed dejectedly. I could hear my mother scrubbing and muttering under her breath in the kitchen. The water tap was on full blast. Goonjan stared balefully in my direction, her own plate loaded in front of her.
I sighed again.
Oh well, might as well start eating it.