Feet

When the sun sets during the winter months in the Kalahari, everybody comes out to watch. It's a ritual they have been following for the last 2,000 years, a time for the entire tribe to sit together, quietly, take a moment off from the hectic pace of desert life and just bask in the glow of the beauty that God has instilled into the world. The little children cling to their mothers and the older ones try to run away from the elders, to hold their own private soirees. It is a magical time, one that every member of the tribe cherises in their own way.

Mibosi scratches her legs. She sits on her favorite spot, a small mound of mud she made when she was just two, and for five years guarded against all the children with the ferocity of a pit viper. She hopes someday she will be buried here. The sun keeps sinking slowly. Mibosi's bored. She doesn't understand why the tribe considers this moment such a big deal. Why not the sun rise ? Or the full moon ? She looks around her, at the people. Her favorite hobby. She decides to spend her time fruitfully.

She looks at Tiga's feet; strong, wide and scarred, a true hunter's foot. Yet she notices a nail missing on the second toe, a nail missing for the last 2 weeks, that should have come back by now. She looks at Tiga's toes. They don't look as healthy as they should. His heels are cracked and there are small sores on them, like the sores made by running after game and stopping suddenly and kicking away sand in anger. Or as a punishment for committing the mythical Forbidden Thing in monkeys, starting below and rises slowly till it covers the body and enters the brain. Mibosi coudln't understand how children fall for this nonsense. They're small, but they don't have to be stupid.

These sores are different, though. They are higher and more dark than the reddish wounds Tiga normally has. Something's not right. She looks up at the young hunter's face. His lips are pale and his face does not shine as it used to. He's sick, she thinks. And his feet are tense, almost anxious. They are swaying, very very gently, so subtly no one would pick out without years of experience watching feet. Mibosi had noticed this last week, too. And he has been late to see the sun every day for nearly a fortnight. She wonders why.

She moves her eyes away, scanning through the many toes and heels and arches for other interesting specimens. Aha, Dubolo. Dubolo is a sweetheart, one of her favorite people. He is big and fat and cuddly like a great bear. Always has a funny story to tell, and somewhat like a little child himself, smiling and laughing the day away. He spends all day roaming around the jungle with animals. But unlike most of the adults, even kids her age, he treats Mibosi with respect. And she loves him from the bottom of her heart for it.

Dubolo has shockingly little feet for such a big man. He must be the largest man in the tribe, Mibosi thinks, and yet his feet are no bigger than a newly matured boy of 14. His feet had an exquisite quality though, a fineness that defied the hard life of the desert. Made sense: he barely does anything. Just lazes about all day. But even the elders didn't say much. Everybody loved Dubolo.

The light has faded considerably now, and Mibosi can barely make out the contours of her subjects' feet. The tribe begins to disperse slowly. No matter, she thinks. I'll finish tomorrow.

The mound is a little hotter today, Mibosi notes. Summer can't be far away. Some of the smaller rodents have begun to hunt again. They don't usually do that if they have food stored up. Mibosi sighs quietly. Winters in the Kalahari are a pleasant time. It's sad when they begin to leave. It is almost like seeing visiting relatives go home.

Dubolo's feet look very fresh today. He's been sleeping all day, the mighty leech. His fingers and toes look scrubbed, his nails are cut and the skin looks thick and healthy and even fair, like someone applied a healthy dose of powders to it. Dubolo's been keeping himself real well since his sister moved out. Not much to look at. But here's an opportunity: Mazra and his wife Cabila are sitting together. Mibosi knows this has to be done delicately.

She looks cautiously forward, then at Mazra's face. He's looking far away into the distance, oblivious to the world. It's a good opportunity. Mazra is the tribe leader, a stern man of around her father's age. He has eyes that Mibosi feels can look into the heart of a stone and make it speak. She once stole a small scarf from sister Yunya, and was taken to Mazra. When she locked her eyes with him, she had felt for the first time in her childhood an emotion almost alien to her. And it was not like the fear of a snake or of a sound in the darkness. It is the fear of an intelligent dangerous creature looking into its own reflection, and realising there is another who can see what she sees. Mazra had been gone for almost two weeks on a trip to see other tribe leaders. I can find out something about the meeting.

She begins to study his feet, but plants her awareness on Mazra. She always gets the feeling he has eyes that can see everything around him. The skin is broken and old beyond its years. He has been a hunter before, and a warrior from the look of his sole, which reflects long periods standing on tip toe, a result of training meant for balance in yearly warriordom. But the most interesting thing about them is the calm. They are not arched or held flat: they are totally relaxed and firm upon the ground, almost floating on the surface of the sand. The meetings went pretty well. There are old marks of wounds here and there, but all near the level of the sand. And all old. Tribe leaders don't have much reason to injure themselves, Mibosi thinks with a smile. Her sight falls suddenly on Cabila's naked footsores, and she does a double take.

Her foot's uncovered!

A woman's feet uncovered is a special occasion, one that demands attention. There are no laws about women covering their feet, unlike every other part of their body. Without knowing though, every woman keeps her feet dressed by the multicolored strings of rootweed that compose the fashionable outdoor shoes of the desert. Cabila must be upto something. Oh, she says to herself with a sharp intake of breath. It must be for Mazra's sake. After all, he has just returned. She shakes her eyes off, wanting to make use of the few minutes of light.

But something is amiss. Something is wrong. She looks again at Cabila's feet. They are tense, yes, but it could be her husband's return or the beauty of the sun. And they do look unusually light, as if she has not spent much time on them, but then again, she's the tribeleader's wife. It's not that surprising. Her big toe seems to be twitching, doing a dance of its own, flexing and relaxing. Mibosi is confused. She has never seen this behaviour before-

Her eyes relax their deep focus. She finally understands. The uncovered foot. The movement of the big toe. The strange tensions in her muscles.

Cabila is trying to signal something.

Who could it be ? She knows instantly though. It's written on his face. Tiga. He's looking right at her foot. At the sores on her foot. Just like the sores on his.

They can't be running sores, they are too high. And they are too uniform to be injury sores. It must transmit from one to the other. Maybe it is magic. Mibosi tries to remember. Tiga has been late quite a lot for the sunsetting, and so has Cabila now and then. Were they doing the Forbidden thing ? Mibosi heard that there was a curse upon people who did the Forbidden Thing with animals. Could it be in people too ? Could Tiga and Cabila have done it ? While Mazra was away ?

The light is fading again. Mibosi has to tell someone quick. She looks around. Mazra is walking away with some elders. Her father will never listen. She turned and looked beyond-

Dubolo is staring at Cabila's feet. His face in the twilight is covered with sores.