Growing up in the 1960s and 70s was different from childhood today, especially for those of us in middle-class families who lived a hand-to-mouth existence. Unlike the present-day kids who have a dizzying variety of footwear – school shoes, formal shoes and sneakers, our world of shoes was far simpler. We had just one kind: school shoes – a single pair of black leather and another of white canvas, called ‘PT shoes’ in those days. At home, the ubiquitous footwear was rubber chappals, colloquially called ‘kenchi’, a stark contrast to the array of slippers and flip-flops children wear today.
Our universe revolved around Bata. Year after year, we wore the same iconic design- black shoes with laces for boys and buckled shoes for girls. The size changed but all through our school years, the design remained constant as the North Star. Wearing a brand-new pair of shiny shoes on our feet, we felt on top of the world, though the sheen lasted barely for a day.
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 our shoes lacked sheen because we skipped the routine or settled for a hurried swipe. That invited a reprimand. Morning assembly was the moment of reckoning. As the teachers marched down the lines for inspection, many of us would sheepishly remember attempting the last ditch ‘spit-shine’– a quick dab of saliva and a vigorous rub against the back of a calf muscle to bring some semblance of shine.
Beyond the black leather were the PT shoes, white unisex pairs with laces worn on Saturdays. These white canvas shoes 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 in life we learnt jugaad, a resourceful, flexible approach to problem-solving. When the PT shoes were not polished, we resorted to a shortcut ‘quick-fix solution’: 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 morning assembly inspection, it counted as a victory.
A smile appears on my face as I recall those small joys of good old school days – the tricks we attempted, the hacks we tried, and the shared experiences that bound us together. This nostalgic 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 a piece of chalk into a cleaning kit and a bit of spit into a shine. While the shoes were humble, the memories—the camaraderie of our shared ‘crimes’—remain polished to perfection.
(Published as MIDDLE in Deccan Herald dated 27 March 2026)
