<p class="bodytext">Growing up in the 1960s and 1970s was different from childhood today, especially for those of us in middle-class families who lived a hand-to-mouth existence. Unlike children now, with their dizzying array of footwear – school shoes, formal shoes and sneakers – our world was far simpler. We had just one kind: school shoes – a single pair of black leather and another of white canvas, then called ‘PT shoes’. At home, the ubiquitous footwear was the rubber chappals, colloquially called <span class="italic">kenchi</span>, a stark contrast to the variety of slippers and flip-flops children wear today.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Our universe revolved around Bata. Year after year, we wore the same iconic design—black lace-ups for boys and buckled shoes for girls. The size changed, but through all our school years, the design remained constant, like the North Star. Slipping into a brand-new pair of shiny shoes, we felt on top of the world – though the sheen lasted barely a day.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Old or new, shoes had to shine. The daily polishing ritual—much disliked—had to be strictly adhered to. There were, of course, days when we skipped it or settled for a hurried swipe. That invited a reprimand. Morning assembly was the moment of reckoning. As teachers marched down the lines for inspection, many of us would sheepishly attempt the last-ditch ‘spit-shine’ – a quick dab of saliva and a vigorous rub against the back of a calf muscle to restore some semblance of shine.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Beyond the black leather were the PT shoes – white, unisex canvas pairs worn on Saturdays. They were a logistical nightmare, absolute magnets for grime. One lap around the dusty playground and they looked as if they had been through a coal mine. Cleaning and polishing these canvas shoes was messy, requiring liquid polish that took an eternity to dry. Early on, we learnt <span class="italic">jugaad </span>– a resourceful, flexible approach to problem-solving. When the PT shoes were not polished, we resorted to a quick fix: rubbing chalk over them. The whiteness didn’t last, as chalk would wear off quickly and the shoes would soon look dirty again, but if the ‘chalk trick’ helped us sail through the dreaded assembly inspection, it counted as a victory.</p>.<p class="bodytext">A smile still appears as I recall those small joys of good old school days – the tricks we tried, the hacks we perfected, and the shared experiences that bound us together. This walk down memory lane, in my old school shoes, is a comforting reminder of simpler times. We didn’t have much, but we had the ingenuity to turn chalk into a cleaning kit and a bit of spit into a shine. The shoes were humble, but the memories—and the camaraderie of our shared ‘crimes’—remain polished to perfection.</p>
<p class="bodytext">Growing up in the 1960s and 1970s was different from childhood today, especially for those of us in middle-class families who lived a hand-to-mouth existence. Unlike children now, with their dizzying array of footwear – school shoes, formal shoes and sneakers – our world was far simpler. We had just one kind: school shoes – a single pair of black leather and another of white canvas, then called ‘PT shoes’. At home, the ubiquitous footwear was the rubber chappals, colloquially called <span class="italic">kenchi</span>, a stark contrast to the variety of slippers and flip-flops children wear today.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Our universe revolved around Bata. Year after year, we wore the same iconic design—black lace-ups for boys and buckled shoes for girls. The size changed, but through all our school years, the design remained constant, like the North Star. Slipping into a brand-new pair of shiny shoes, we felt on top of the world – though the sheen lasted barely a day.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Old or new, shoes had to shine. The daily polishing ritual—much disliked—had to be strictly adhered to. There were, of course, days when we skipped it or settled for a hurried swipe. That invited a reprimand. Morning assembly was the moment of reckoning. As teachers marched down the lines for inspection, many of us would sheepishly attempt the last-ditch ‘spit-shine’ – a quick dab of saliva and a vigorous rub against the back of a calf muscle to restore some semblance of shine.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Beyond the black leather were the PT shoes – white, unisex canvas pairs worn on Saturdays. They were a logistical nightmare, absolute magnets for grime. One lap around the dusty playground and they looked as if they had been through a coal mine. Cleaning and polishing these canvas shoes was messy, requiring liquid polish that took an eternity to dry. Early on, we learnt <span class="italic">jugaad </span>– a resourceful, flexible approach to problem-solving. When the PT shoes were not polished, we resorted to a quick fix: rubbing chalk over them. The whiteness didn’t last, as chalk would wear off quickly and the shoes would soon look dirty again, but if the ‘chalk trick’ helped us sail through the dreaded assembly inspection, it counted as a victory.</p>.<p class="bodytext">A smile still appears as I recall those small joys of good old school days – the tricks we tried, the hacks we perfected, and the shared experiences that bound us together. This walk down memory lane, in my old school shoes, is a comforting reminder of simpler times. We didn’t have much, but we had the ingenuity to turn chalk into a cleaning kit and a bit of spit into a shine. The shoes were humble, but the memories—and the camaraderie of our shared ‘crimes’—remain polished to perfection.</p>