Working class people treasure even worn-out sandals. The sandals of cargo loaders bear dents and concave inner soles, while woodcutters' chappals are riddled with thorns. My own slippers I've often patched up with safety pins to keep them intact.
Throughout my travels across India, I've consistently captured images of footwear, and I have begun seeking these narratives in my photographs. Through the tales of such footwear, my own journey also unfolds.
During a recent work trip to Jajpur, Odisha, I had the chance to visit schools in Barabanki and Puranamantira villages. When we would arrive, I was always intrigued by the meticulously arranged footwear, placed outside the room where people from Adivasi communities had gathered.
Initially, I did not pay much attention but after
three days into the journey I began to notice the worn-out sandals, some even
with holes in them.
My own relationship with footwear is etched in my memory. Back in my village, everyone purchased V-strap slippers. When I was around 12 years old, in Madurai, these cost only about 20 rupees, yet our families toiled hard to afford them as footwear held a vital role in our lives.
Whenever a new sandal model hit the market, one of the boys from our village would acquire it, and the rest of us would borrow it from him, wearing them on festivals, special occasions or trips out of town.
After my trip to Jajpur I have become more observant of footwear around me. Certain pairs of sandals have become associated with incidents from my past. I recall instances when my classmates and I were reprimanded by our physical education teacher for not wearing shoes.
Footwear even influenced my photography, marking an important change. Oppressed communities were denied access to footwear for a long time. Reflecting on this fueled my re-evaluation of its significance. The thought seeded my work, encouraging my goal of representing the struggle of working-class people and their footwear that continues to toil day and night.
