Illustration by Meghan Sim

I am happy that there was no internet that evening to distract me so I could pay attention to this tale that Moza the Left Foot Sock and Jorab the Right Foot Sock, the Sock Twins told me. They narrated this to me in unison, or so you should believe, ‘cause it’s always been difficult for me to differentiate between them …

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We’re older now. There are holes in our toes, and our threads are thinning. We’ve even  been sewn up twice. We have known for some time that our time is running out. But we  don’t regret a single step. We’ve been to places most socks only dream of. We’ve felt the ground of countless lands, from some mountains to sandy beaches to city streets.

But here’s the thing no one tells you about being a traveler’s socks. It’s not all  excitement. It’s mud, rain, sweat, and sand clinging to your every fiber. Some days,  we’d be crammed into a pair of shoes that seemed to grow tighter by the minute and  the heat? Unbearable. Still, we endured. After all, we were part of his journey because …

Once upon a time, in the darkest corner of a hosiery shop, there hung a pair of  socks like no other — yours truly, us … One fateful sale day, Ghummakkad, the traveller with no sense of rest, came into the shop. He needed sturdy socks, he said, ones that could carry him through endless journeys without complaint — he  stretched out elastic and then felt our thickness at the ankle and stretched us, examining every which way if we could hold up to his adventures. COUGH. COUGH. COUGH.

but we won’t bore you by beginning this story at the very beginning, don’t worry … HE HE HE!

They had laughed before continuing their tale …

Now then, for weeks altogether, Ghummakkad pushed forward. “Onward!” he’d shout.  “One more mile! One more town!”

But all his things were growing more bitter with his every step. Backpack groaned under the weight of unwashed clothes and useless souvenirs. Boots, who were proud of their sturdy build, now cracked due to their thinning souls-soles HE HE HE. Water Bottle was dented, he sloshed every time he was sipped, as if protesting the endless refills from questionable streams. The Stick was sick. Every time she hit the ground, she let out a hollow THUNK. Electric Torch sadistically flickered at the darkest moments, like he had seen too many miles — because he had. Meanwhile, the map had more crease lines than geographical and political ones and said, “I don’t even know where we are anymore and honestly, I don’t care!” So, when Ghummakkad prepared for yet another trek at dawn, everything swore to each other, “We cannot take another step. We must find a way to make him stop.”

But Backpack chickened out, saying if he were to intervene, he would have to tear up  and Ghummakkad would find it difficult to stitch him. Everyone from Raincoat to Water Bottle to Map and Compass agreed with their boss. Stick said she couldn’t break because she was expensive. Boots said they were under contract with Shoemaker to live purposeful lives, even if it meant early death!

So, everyone turned to us, Zorab-Moza, Moza-Zorab — the Socks Brothers. Like always the responsibility of the revolution was relegated to the downtrodden HE HE HE …

But, when dawn broke, as Ghummakkad pulled us up, we stayed quiet. No tightness,  no twisting, no nothing. In fact, we must have felt almost normal to him. Too normal.  And he set off on his long trek, humming some off-key tune.

In the afternoon, we kick-started the First Phase. “Ah… ouch… ahh,” Ghummakad  muttered to himself. “I must have tied my boots too tight.” But as he continued, no  matter how he loosened his laces, his feet felt heavier with each step. We had slipped  down inside Boots — clumsy and uneven. One minute we were hugging his ankles, the next we were crumpled up under his arches into uncomfortable lumps.  Ghummakkad grew tired sooner than usual. His feet began to drag, and with each step,  he felt the weight of exhaustion and pain.

But we knew he was stubborn and might push on through this. So, we decided to play  on. An hour later, as Ghummakkad started to climb the hill, we put Phase Two: The  Twist, into action. Without warning, we twisted ourselves around his toes in a deranged  knot, squeezing his feet. “What in the —” Ghummakkad stumbled, nearly face-planting into the dirt. He yanked off Boots and stared at us. We were tangled, worn, and frayed, but we weren’t done.

With the sun beating down we began, Phase Three: The Smell. We released every foul  odor we had saved up from our urban, rural, and jungle tours. Public toilet? Check.  Fish market? Check. Marsh water? Check. And finally, sweaty feet? Check. Check.  Check. So, when our magic finally hit Ghummakkad, he gagged. “Something’s dead!”  he cried, trying to hide from the smell. The more he tried to turn himself away from us, the stronger he smelled us and — BLARGH. BLARGHH. BLARGHHH. He puked. Thankfully not on us!

And that’s how he finally stopped. He lay back in the grass, panting. “Fine. You win.  I’ll take a break,” he muttered. When he’d settled down, there was that glorious  moment of freedom. He took us off, gave us a proper wash, and laid us carefully by the small fire he had built. We were relieved and soaked in its warmth. Ghummakkad, too, found peace in the stillness. ‘Cause we remember him scribbling in his pocket diary: “Rest, too, is part of my great adventure?”

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This is one of the stories the Sock Brothers told me, when their traveler-sailor-skyman,  Ghummakkad, who they had spent all their lives with, had left them with me. I will tell you  later why Ghummakkad left them with me. Okay? Okay. Bye.

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