The Cambridge Cinderella

Once upon a time (not quite long ago) there used to live a (not quite little) girl called Cinderella in a (not quite sleepy) village called Cambridge. A Ph.D. scholar at the University with a habit of adding 'not quite' at end of almost every sentence she (m)uttered, she led a solemn bookish life which, according to her two younger sassy sisters, was --- at best ---- pretty uncool and --- at worst --- plain shit. Every evening when her two sisters would go down to the local pubs to drink with the chic lads who would descend in droves from the nearby Highlands, she would sit down at her dusty corner and Stoically pore over her books in the candle light. ('There are higher forms of intoxication, you know?' is what she would tell her sisters.)

One day, she came to know that another Ph.D. scholar had invited her two sisters to an Annual Ball at Trinity's famous green gardens where Newton had narrowly escaped the disaster of another gravitating apple falling on his already over-burdened head. Rather than read the latest article in The International Journal of Trans-Galactic Eschatology, she decided to stroll down to the gardens and find out what the fuss was about. There she spotted her two sisters ambling under a tree, sipping glasses of wine with Swiss cheese and demurely staring at the boats sailing down the Cam.

Cinderella was rather thrilled by the surroundings. Instead of pondering the metaphysics of trans-galactic existence she had, for a change (of almost cosmic proportions), been brought down to earth by the carnivalesque atmosphere around her. And then the Ph.D. scholar who had invited everyone to the Ball rose up to the wooden platform at the other end of the garden. The scholar spluttered briefly and then began to speak : 'Ladies and (their?) Gentlemen, I request you to take the pleasure of walking on the exquisite grass of Trinity's lawns. Grass, as you know, is the most expensive commodity in Cambridge. Could you all please take off your shoes and boots and things of that sort? If we can't smoke the grass, we shall weed it out.'

And that is what they all did. All but Cinderella. After a while, the scholar who was examining the shoes of the guests at the Ball came to Cinderella and saw her brown shoes still on her feet. Determined to find out what was afoot, the scholar asked her why she had not removed her shoes.

'Well, there is definitely something fishy about this thing.'

'Like what?'

'Wait, wait, wait. Don't give me that 'like what?' please, ty.'

'Ty?'

'Yes, Ty. Thank you.'

'But of course. So why won't you take off your shoes?'

'Hmm, don't really know. Hang on, are you Indian by any chance?'

'So what if I am?'

'Well, it would fit my theory.'

'So now you have a theory?'

'Yes, why not? That's what we are here for? To spew out theories at the world out there?'

'Ok, then, so what's the theory?'

'Indians have this thing about women's feet.'

'Like what? ... Oh no... sorry.'

'Like this. Like in the Ramayana where Sita's feet are compared to the petals of a lotus flower. Ouuuchhh. Now that sucks. Really.'

'Hmmm.'

'I know.'

'No, you don't. This is really bizarre. I wonder how you guessed.'

'Oh no, don't tell me ...'

'Yes, you got it right. Beats me. Like totally freaks me out.'

'You mean that is the topic of your Ph.D.? Representations of women's feet in classical Sanskrit literature?'

'I am not saying anything now.'

'But hang on. Just a reality check, ok?'

'Ok?'

'Is this conversation for real? Or are we just putting this thing up?'

'I guess someone will have to write about us to make it real. Nobody is going to believe this thing otherwise.'

'Do you think there is someone out there as crazy as us writing about us right now as we speak?'

'Well, you know the story about the monkey, a typewriter and infinite time to waste. Given these three, even a monkey can become an ironist some day, sooner or latter.'

'The sooner, the better.'

At that moment, the proverbial English rains began to pour down from the heavens, and everyone rushed into the austere shelter of Neville's Court.

'But hang on. One last question before I go on to examine the other shoes.'

'Shoot.'

'The ancient Indians praised women's feet with poetry, the ancient (and not quite ancient) Chinese bound them with rope. Which is the better deal for them?'

'Hey, hey, hold on. So now we get to make deals over our feet, huh? Heard of a company called Footloose?'

'Sigh, whatever. I don't know what to say anymore. Anyways, this is getting just too bizarre. Shall we call it a day then?'

'A day to what?'

'Nothing. I am walking out on you now.'

'You do that. I think you have lost your footing and can't admit it. Looosah!'