Here I was, back to the old cobbler. We have been meeting on a regular basis over the last year. In fact, if we had met any more frequently, the folks would’ve thought that we were about to announce our engagement or something, well, you know the funny ways of the world.
The reason I’ve been meeting this old man over the months was a new shoe I seemed to have acquired. We’ll get to the part about how I got that shoe in a bit. But for now, I just gotta tell you that this shoe was just like one of those old patients you see at the Doctor’s. You know the type, those that get their medicines prescribed on a Monday, buy them on Tuesday, only to be back on Thursday to the Doctor’s, on account of having developed “serious side effects”. That was the case with my shoe too.
The present problem showed up yesterday, while I was trying to desperately complete the 400m full circle run. A tight stitch on the inner part of the left shoe had probably been bothering the shoe’s tender heart for so long that it simply wasn’t up for the cardio challenge. It opened its mouth in one prolonged sigh, sucked in all the air it could and…unpredictably stayed open. My shoe, after this mishap, resembled a fish that just got out of water to dry itself, but forgot to bring its life equipment along.
So what do you know? I was back at the cobbler’s. As usual, this guy was pretty busy. What is it that makes cobblers busier than people from ostensibly busier professions, like barbers, for instance? Is it because that while bald men don’t visit barbers, most people wear some kind of footwear which needs fixing? He had this long queue waiting and I joined the tail lengthening it a bit further.
He sat there, like a king waiting to redress the grievances of his subjects. And one by one we went to him, taking our concerns with us. As I waited at the end of the line, there was a rumble and before I knew it, a huge motorbike with a huger guy driving it appeared on the scene. The cobbler seemed to know this guy; there was a hint of recognition in his eyes. The fellow probably had a shoe as problematic as mine. Despite this, the man did not stop his work. He went on mending the shoe in his hands as though he were an angel of Zeus who was sewing the sky up after the latest lightning bolt attack. Our biker was perturbed by his indifference. He was probably a descendant of a local prince and was carrying on the tradition of going on patrols around the city.
The cobbler’s persistent indifference troubled the guy and his anger seemed to radiate from his bike’s engine, which spewed gallons of smoke, reminding me of those angry smileys you get on a chat messenger. He removed his shoes, called the cobbler, and flung the shoes at his face along with a green slip of paper with Gandhi smiling out of it. I think it was the Gandhi that did the job. The cobbler, with his strong arms and even sharper eyes could’ve melted the guy down to jelly on the roadside and his folks would’ve most probably brought a teacup instead of a hearse to take him home. But that was not what happened. The man patiently took the shoes and added them to the pile of shoes waiting for his expert attention already. But the show wasn’t over yet. This bearish looking biker wanted an assurance that his job would be the first one to be done, royal privilege I presume. Facing grunts and animosity to his queued customers, the cobbler could do nothing but accept the order. Nobody seemed to complain overtly though some of them wanted to dismount the biker and shoot his shoes up his rear. The poor cobbler looked at us in a pitiful manner that reminded me of the moose trophy begging for the last ounce of mercy in its last possible opportunity. It turned about to be the last opportunity, not for the cobbler to beg for mercy, but for the big bully to use his “authority” over others. The moment he left the cobbler with his shoe and drove shoeless on the road, a tractor trailer, with the cobbler’s anguish and anger and desperation sitting at the wheel, ran all over him.
The part of the road had turned into a venue for Armageddon. Though I can’t say which was the victor, just right then, I knew that one of the forces were down, on the road. The cobbler had looked up momentarily from his profession-cum- ritual, to see what the source of the commotion was. He realised what had happened and came to the conclusion that the shoe he was holding was of no use to him anymore than it was to the dead man. I watched keenly as he got up from his seat of stone, moved over to the spot where the man lay on one side and his bike turned to aluminium scrap on the other. The cobbler threw the shoes on the dead man’s face and the green slip as well and walked quickly back to his altar to attend to the next subject.
