There's a pair of shoes in my closet I'll probably never wear again.

 

They're handmade. Gorgeous. The embroidery—tiny mirrors that catch the light, threadwork so fine it's hard to believe human hands created it. The kind of craftsmanship that makes you pause and appreciate the hours, the skill, the generations of knowledge behind something this beautiful.

I've owned juttis for years. Most have been worn only a handful of times—weddings, festivals, moments that felt special enough. You know how it goes. Never for real life.

They're also the shoes that pinched me into starting all of this—during a much-needed "forced-reset" life handed me just before my 39th birthday.

Desi Summers

Like so many, my family's story is one deeply rooted in diaspora and colonialism — which meant partition, displacement, migrations and a whole lot of starting over. From Pakistan to India to Hong Kong, where I was born. So by the time I came along, "home" was already complicated and summers in India weren't vacations, they were homecomings ♡

Every year, the same ritual. Packing bags. Organizing gifts for everyone. The flights that seemed never ending. And then, the moment you step off the plane, the heat hits you like a wall. Not the humid heat of Hong Kong I was used to—this was different. Dry. Spicy. Familiar.

And then the chaos. The good kind.

Once a year, family would descend from all corners, and for a few weeks, everyone existed in the same place. Cousins who'd grown inches since the previous year. Grandparents' house perpetually full, the kitchen never closed, someone always making chai. Aunts would catch my face between their hands, declare me too thin or too pale, then immediately set about fixing it with plate after plate of dhoklas, jalebis, samosas. Uncles would slip us cash (a.k.a "kharchi")—when parents weren't looking.

The days blurred into one long stretch of chatter, gossip, music, meals that went on for hours, late-night drives with no destination that ended with watching the sunrise with a "cold coffee" in hand. Just the warm wind and the feeling that this—right here—was one version of home. A version I'd carry with me.

But the real magic happened when my mum would take us shopping to the bazaars.

She'd have a list. She always had a list. Chaandi (silver) drinking cups. Gold, Diamond, Polki, Kundan—jewellery just because (and I'm definitely not complaining!). Spices by the kilo. Rakhis, diyas, puja thalis, everything for festivals. Saris, salwar kameez, shawls, lehengas—fabric after fabric after fabric. Each shop spilling over with more colour, embroidery, craft and art than the last.

And the accessories. God, the accessories.

Bangles by the dozen. Jhumkas of all sorts of colours, shapes and sizes. Oxidised silver that looked vintage before vintage was cool—the kind brands later "discover" (ahem, Ralph Lauren, Prada, and countless others) and sell back to us for a hundred times the price. The same way Kolhapuri chappals end up on runways, like our dads and uncles weren't already wearing them to the corner store for decades.

But there was one accessory I was obsessed with.

The jutti. 

I'd come home with handfuls of beautiful handcrafted pairs each time. Embroidered. Beaded. Mirror work. Block print. You name it. In colours, styles, designs I'd never find back home—or anywhere else.

They were souvenirs of a feeling. A connection. A piece of home, packaged in leather and thread and stitched with stories I couldn't yet name.

The closet museum

And then they'd sit in my closet. Back in Hong Kong. Unworn.

Juttis in dust bags. Collecting dust. (The irony didn't occur to me until just now.)

And it's not like I didn't try. I did. I wore them around the house, trying to "break them in" like everyone said. I wore them to dinners, coffee runs, errands—hoping the pain would subside after a few hours. It never did. 

But the truth is: they weren't built for my actual life.

✦ Too stiff for the local commute
✦ Too delicate for the humidity
✦ Too precious for a Tuesday
✦ Too ethnic for work
✦ Too painful for long days
✦ Too long a break-in period for a life that doesn't pause while your feet adjust

And yet, I really, really wanted to wear them.

So they waited. Months turned into years. I'd open my closet, see them, feel a small pang of guilt, and shut the door again.

It never occurred to me to question why we all just accepted this. And as I grew up, life got busy, more chaotic, more full—my summer trips to India became less frequent, and the juttis soon forgotten...

Until.

The Wedding That Changed It

Years later, I was back in India visiting family and shopping for a wedding I was due to attend. Somehow, I found myself in those familiar streets again. The same bazaars. The same smells. The same chaos spilling out onto the pavement.

And I fell in love all over again.

Standing there, surrounded by racks of juttis, I felt just like that little girl once again getting lost in the artistry.

But this time, I didn't buy from the bazaar. I went to a highly recommended brand with a sleek shop in a fancy part of town. You know the type — the one everyone raves about, the one that costs ten times as much, the one you assume has finally figured out the comfort thing.

And I thought: really, how painful could it have been? Maybe I just complained too much. Everyone else wears them. It must be normal. It must be me.

I could feel myself convincing myself once again, falling into the same trap. Surely, after all these years, someone had cracked it. Better cushioning. Less pinching. Some pairs even felt good in the shop. A little stiff, sure, but that's what break-in periods are for, right? (The lies we tell ourselves.)

So I found a pair.

I tried them on. Walked around the shop.

This time, I thought. These are the ones. 

I wore them to the wedding.

The Betrayal

By the end of the first hour of the first event of my FAMILY wedding, I was already calculating my exit strategy.

It wasn't dramatic—no blood, no blisters—not yet. Just a slow, creeping awareness that it was coming, that this wasn't working.

✦ My toes pinching against the front stitching
✦ The flatness of the sole
✦ The subtle redness at the heels starting to sting                              ✦ The cold of the hotel's marble floors radiating up through the arches of my feet
✦ The growing realization that I was spending more mental energy on my feet than on my brother's wedding

I had to put on my backup flats—the ones I'd stashed in my bag. The ones that didn't complete my outfit. The ones I didn't actually want to be wearing.

And that's what got me. Not the pain. Not the disappointment. THE BETRAYAL.

I spent the rest of the celebration doing desi-girl math:

— How long until I can sit down again?
— How many steps to the bar?
— If I take them off under the table, will anyone notice?
— Is it socially acceptable to be barefoot at your own brother's wedding?

The math never worked out.

And here's the thing that stuck with me afterward: even that one hour was too much.

Even for the the fancy brand name. Even for an occasion. Even for beauty. Even for my brother's wedding. Even for culture!

I was mentally checked out, doing foot calculations, instead of being present.

The question that started everything 

That same year, on Diwali — and my 39th birthday and two months after a painful layoff  — I was getting ready for the yearly family office puja. Outfit: cute. Hair: freshly blown out. And then I looked at my shoes.

The juttis were right there. Waiting. Again.

"Let's give them another try," I thought. "It's Diwali. It's my birthday. It's an occasion. It's just a short drive away. This is what they're for."

I wore them. Regretted it by the time we hit the car.

That night, shoes back in their box, I sat with one question:

Why do we accept this?

Why do we treat discomfort like the entry fee for beauty? Why do we smile through blisters, pretend our feet aren't screaming, just because the shoes look good?

The question wouldn't let go. I started thinking about all the other pain taxes I'd paid. The beautiful shoes sitting unworn. The luxury sandals everyone swears by—that cut your feet so deep you have to bleed into them before they maybe become wearable. Brands selling us beauty with a side of suffering.

And we just... accept it.

I didn't have a good answer.

So I decided to find one and decided to build a comfortable version of something that held this version of home. Something that actually fit my real life.

How hard could it possibly be? I thought. 

I had no idea what I was about to get into.

If you missed it: Issue 01 — The Untold Story of the Jutti