There
was no cobbler near the tools; I looked about holding my broken sandal in my
hand. A small boy, probably aged ten, came and sat in front of the tools. “Will
your father be long?” I asked him, thinking he must be the cobbler’s son. “I am
the cobbler.” He said, indignantly. “Can you sew this?” I asked him handing the
sandal over to him. “Of course, I can sew everything.” He said, taking the
sandal from my hand, turning it around in his hand and inspecting it with his
‘professional’ eyes. He chose a needle for his purpose and then began mending
my sandal efficiently; but it was, nevertheless, a struggle. My sandal was made
of a hard material which required a lot of strength to sew it together. The
little boy, diligently, continued his struggle. Screwing his forehead in deep
concentration; his little tongue peeping in and out of his mouth, helping him
to concentrate. After a few final struggles the job was done. Taking pity on
the boy I handed him a ten rupee note, more than what he asked for and refused to
take the change. It upset him, “I am no beggar. I do an honest job and ask for
an honest amount.” Hesitantly, I took the change thinking 8 rupee wouldn’t have
helped him much.
“Don’t
you go to school?”
“I used
to but my father died and I had to leave school. One day I’ll become as good a
cobbler as he was.” With those words circling in my thoughts, I left the little
cobbler.
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