What’s your threshold?: Charles Assisi writes on shifting social norms

We all have habits that tell a story: rules for what we wear,how we behave or greet each other. As these norms evolve over time, which ones will you hold on to?

What people see as shoes outside the door, I see as an x-ray of personality.

A still from the videogame Lords of the Fallen: My cultural no-no is shoes in the home. I have no sword, sadly, but crankiness is my weapon in the battle of indoor vs outdoor.

Some families have footwear lined up beside the door in a neat row, like soldiers mid-drill. Others have shoes sprawled across the corridor, like a merry bunch that has had too much to drink. No cabinet ever seems to hold them all. Even the most respectable shoe rack stands there bashfully, tenants spilling out into the passage.

In my home, scattered shoes make me twitchy. As for visitors who walk in with footwear on, that’s enough to move me into Cranky mode. Most Indians don’t need to be asked. We shed shoes at the threshold almost instinctively, as a sign of respect for the line that separates outside and inside.

Family lore has it my cousins and I inherited this fussiness from our maternal grandfather, who in many ways was the gold standard for cranky. The lamp at the entrance of the home had to be lit before dusk. Everyone in the house had to bathe twice a day, morning and evening. Any child who lost track of these rituals risked being spanked with his cane. (I can’t let dusk fall without a second bath.)

As kids, we rolled our eyes. Now I see that he was guarding thresholds. Shoes marked what stayed out. A lamp lit what was sacred within. A second bath wasn’t about soap but about renewal. He was reminding us that transitions matter: day to night, outside to inside, chaos to order.

My mother imbibed that discipline. I hold on to fragments of it. My children, three degrees removed, think of it all as “freaky”.

But thresholds aren’t just a question of personal habits; they are a social reality.

As Piyul Mukherjee, founding partner at Quipper Research, pointed out to me, the way we mark thresholds signals community, culture. Take today’s housing societies. Here, the thresholds are rigid. Layers of security guard each level — gateway, building lobby, front door — keeping the “outside” at bay.

In the chawls, katras and bastis of our cities, life spills out onto verandahs and lanes. Doors stay open. Neighbours function like extended family. Piyul recalls growing up in campus quarters where mothers stood at the doorway chatting, for hours. If one woman invited another in for tea, though, the offer was cheerfully refused; there was too much work left to be done. The threshold was a place for bonding and conversation, but not inconvenient entry.

Some of these thresholds shift. Take the humble nightie. Even among those who wear only saris outdoors, this garment is considered suitable within the home. One can wear it within view too, say in the verandah. It used to be worn on the streets, is a woman was running a quick errand in the neighbourhood. It isn’t any more, Piyul points out. A new separation has occurred, between the outfit fit for the home and the ones fit for the outside.

Religion adds its own quirks. In most churches, footwear is fine. The sign of respect is removing one’s headgear, if any, as Piyul points out. Shoes, after all, are protection against Europe’s cold winters. The headgear has its own tale. Going further back, the removal of hats and helmets bared one’s face, and was thus seen as a sign of peace: I conceal nothing, I bear no ill will.

In a gurdwara, the opposite norms apply. Shoes are forbidden. One must in fact wash one’s feet, cover one’s head, and only then step in. At the Golden Temple, one traditionally wades through shallow channels of running water so the feet are thoroughly cleansed before entering. In hot, dusty Punjab, this makes sense.

My point is, thresholds tell a story. Whether it is shoes at the door, lamps at dusk, nighties at verandahs, or headscarves in a place of worship, each symbolic habit carries meaning. History, climate and community have left their mark here.

So yes, I fuss about shoes. I light lamps. I bathe twice a day. My grandfather would nod in approval. My kids roll their eyes. Perhaps that’s how it should be. What was necessity for one generation becomes ritual for the next, and eccentricity for the third.

The hack, then, is this: pay attention to the codes of daily life. Make deliberate choices. Because each choice is a mirror. Together, they tell the story of where we come from, what we value, and the worlds that have combined to make us who we are.

(Charles Assisi is co-founder of Founding Fuel. He can be reached on assisi@foundingfuel.com. The views expressed are personal)