Raman sat on a small wooden bench in the tiny hovel while the cobbler was replacing the soles of his shoes. His footwear tended to chafe fast and this one had developed cracks, and the sides had given way to expose socks. He had used the pair for close to ten years, and it was full of stitches and leather patches. He decided it was time to give it new soles, in which case it would last another five years. This man was his favorite cobbler, sitting by the intersection of the two main roads of Belapur, and he opened early and closed late. The other cobblers in the locality were all lazy and opened at 10 a.m. and closed at 6 p.m. for their nightly drink of bewda.
On previous occasions their exchanges had revealed that he was from Uttar Pradesh, and he was a farmer too. Twice every year he would go to his village to look after his crop.
“Bhai-saab Make it majbooth, so that it will last me a life time,” Raman said to the cobbler.
“Yes I will.”
Go here to read "The Cobbler" on my Short Story Blog.
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