The Weight of 8 cm

Circa 2002.

After parking his car in a distant field, a 33-year-old man stands at the gate of Rajkumari Amrit Kaur OPD, scanning the road. 
 
He waits for his wife and daughter, who soon arrive on a packed DTC bus, sweat clinging to their foreheads from the relentless heat.
 
Without a word, the three hold hands and make their way through the crammed hospital corridor, stepping past patients sitting or lying on the floor, waiting for their turn. The air smells of antiseptic. Moving past the weary crowd, they go through the never-ending corridors of All India Institute of Medical Sciences (AIIMS), the country’s largest hospital.
 
Hours pass in the suffocating waiting area before their number is finally called. They step into a small examination room—just a table, a chair, and a stack of papers scattered on the desk.

The doctor enters, readjusting his coat. "Sorry, I was stuck in surgery," he says, in a neutral tone. Another case of scoliosis—perhaps that’s all it is to him.

He smiles at the patient before asking, “So, how’s school?”

The girl, barely ten, straightens up. “I came second in my final exams across sections. Now I’m in third class,” she says proudly. A flicker of pride crosses her parents' faces.
 
The doctor nods, then gestures to his assistant, who brings over a stack of small, white slabs—each no more than 1-2 cm thick and about 15 cm in length and breadth. Without much explanation, he instructs the girl to place her left foot on one. Then another. And another.
 
With each added slab, her parents exchange silent glances, watching their daughter rise ever so slightly, step by step. The doctor finally halts the process, retrieves a scale, and measures the total height of the stacked slabs beneath her foot.
 
"Eight centimetres," he utters, scribbling it down.
"Her left leg is eight centimetres shorter than her right. For such cases, you get special shoes made."
 
"Oh, from where?" the father asked.

The doctor jot down something on a piece of paper. "There are a couple of prosthetic workshops in Delhi. Here, take this address—this one’s in Paharganj."
 
A month later, the girl received her first pair of special shoes—custom-made just for her. Sounds special, right? It was. At least, at first.
 
But on Wednesdays, when every child in school wore white canvas shoes with their crisp white uniforms, her black leather shoes stood out. She noticed but didn’t dwell on it. She was too young to understand how fashion could be alienating.
 
Circa 2008.

Sitting in her room, she adjusted her hair for the hundredth time, wearing a knee-length black dress she had picked out for her cousin’s 13th birthday party. The netted fabric shimmered under the light, making her feel beautiful.

But as she reached for her shoes, it hit her for the first time—I don’t want to wear these leather shoes with such a pretty dress.

"Why can’t I wear bellies?" she asked, her voice cracking.

Her mother looked at her, eyes welling up. She had always known this moment would come—the moment her daughter would truly realize that she was different.

Luckily, her grandmother was in the room, offering quiet reassurance to both.

The girl threw a tantrum, and sobbed a little, but deep down, she knew—she had no choice. 

And that night, as she slipped on her black shoes once again, something inside her shifted.

From birthdays to weddings, school farewells to college events, from mini dresses to sarees, from shorts to lehengas—every single day of her life, she wore the same pair of black shoes.
 
Circa 2024

Draped in their pretty lehengas, they lounged in the backseat of her best friend’s Beamer, heading home from Shruti’s wedding reception. Between tired laughs, they airdropped the 100 pictures they had clicked that night, gossiping about outfits, jewellery, and everything in between.
 
Casually, Sukrit said, "I’m flying back to Bombay in four days. You guys should come visit sometime—I’ll take you to the best eateries."
 
Then, as if remembering something, she added, "Oh, did you notice my heels today? Got them custom-made from a designer brand in Bombay. You know how I always need six-inch heels."
 
The petite girl club members in the car laughed, bonding over their shared height struggles.
"But these guys are amazing," she continued. "They even cushioned the sole from the inside—thank god for them!"
 
Then, almost as an afterthought, she said, "Oh, by the way, I saw their Instagram page, and I think they customize shoes for cases like yours too!"
 
Aashima’s sleep vanished at the mere thought of these words being a reality.
 
Sukrit pulled out her phone, typed "Tiesta Shoes," and pointed to a specific story highlight named LLD—Leg Length Discrepancy.
 
For a moment, her heart skipped a beat. But life had long taught her not to hold on to hope—not when doctors, and the world itself, had repeatedly made it clear that there was none. Not medically, and certainly not socially.
 
Still, she forced a smile. "I’ll definitely reach out to them tomorrow."

"ya you must wait let me send you Helly's number - she is a sweetheart."

Aashima spoke to Helly, the brand’s founder, after a couple of days, and for the first time, the idea of wearing shoes that weren’t black felt real.  She scrolled through their website like a kid in a Hamleys store—wide-eyed, overwhelmed, and wishing she could have it all. A marshmallow collection, bridal sneakers, colours she had never even dared to consider. But in her heart, she knew exactly what she wanted.
 
After months of back and forth—the usual: convincing her parents it wasn’t a scam, whispering doubts about the underconfident salesgirl, wondering, "Can they actually pull this off?"—she finally felt a flicker of reassurance when the founder sweetly suggested buying directly from their website instead of that fancy multi-designer store in Delhi.
 
Then came the digital logistics: How should she send her exact measurements? How could they pay the full amount in advance, and what if they got it wrong? Endless discussions followed, leaving her utterly exhausted. Every bit as tiring as it sounds. But if it worked, it would all be worth it.
 
21st June 2024
 
She woke up to a message from the courier company: "Your order will be delivered today."
 
Never had a notification brought her so much joy. But she kept quiet all day—she'd learned not to celebrate too soon.

After her yoga class, she was lounging with her mom when her phone rang—an unknown number.

“Ma’am, main aapke ghar ke bahar khada hoon.”

Wrapped in a plain white packet was a moment 13-year-old Aashima had been waiting for. Her heart fluttered the instant she held it in her hands.
 
As she began unwrapping it, her eyes welled up. They might not fit. They might not be perfect. But in that moment, it didn’t matter—because inside that black shoebox was more than just a pair of shoes; it was hope.
 
The moment she laid eyes on the white beauty, she couldn’t believe it was real. She began putting them on as quickly as a two-year-old rushes to wear his shoes when he wants to go out.
 
Perfect. Just perfect.
 
White had always been her favourite colour, but to see it on her feet was her Cinderella moment.

 
Except this was better than Cinderella—this time, she had rescued herself and her inner child. Something in her healed.
 
She had options now. She could wear a pastel dress without worrying about her style game being off?
 
That white pair of shoes will always be her 8 cm of possibility.

Even today, when Aashima crosses the flyover overlooking AIIMS, a quiet, familiar unease stirs in her stomach. Spending a third of her life visiting that hospital week after week was anything but easy. 

Now, at 30, a new realization dawns: How did her parents carry the weight of it all while ensuring she never felt it?

Every memory now carries two layers—what she experienced then and what she imagines her parents felt all along.

If wearing those black leather shoes was, and remains, a trauma for her, what must it have been for them—who had long imagined their daughter in dainty shoes rather than ones that marked her as different?

So these white shoes aren’t just special to her; she’s sure her parents sighed in relief too.