It seemed like an eternity, but it was finally 6.30 pm. Any second now… and finally, the doorbell rang! I hurriedly tailed mummy as she went to open the door. And there he was! Papa was home. He smiled at me as he handed the bags and groceries to mum, and I ran to hug his towering frame, only managing to reach up to his knees. It was our routine evening ritual.

A page from a dairy, when I was a child and I’d stand barefoot on dad’s feet…and we played a little game.

– The Indian Trumpet’s Shoe Special Edition

He would come home, tired but glad and would sit on his favourite chair. And before he took off his shoes, we would play our little game, where I would, barefoot, step on his shoes and he would hold me firmly by the elbows suddenly leaning back and propping his legs high, taking me by surprise and making me give out excited little yelps. I don’t know what was more fun – the actual moment when he lifted his legs up or those tense moments of looking at his deadpan expression, before he would push me up again.

Now, years later, I can still remember: the combination of the smooth touch of leather and the coarse shoelaces, the few specks of dust on the brown (and black), glistening shoes only accentuating their cleanliness, Papa’s firm grip on my elbows and those moments where I was propelled suddenly off the ground, supported firmly by his shoes, looking at each other and never wanting the moment to end.

Keep blowing the Trumpet! This & many more stories await in the pages!