Cobblers, barbers, and pedlars selling essential commodities are an integral part of society. They cater to some of our very basic needs. We must acknowledge and appreciate their services. But lately, barbers have transformed into hairdressers, cobblers have now evolved into footwear designers, and pedlars are not as common as they used to be.
About two decades ago, cobblers, shoe-menders were ubiquitous. At every nook and corner of the street, one could see a man squatting on a ‘taat’ (a mat made of jute) or a ‘boriya’ (an old gunny or jute bag) and mending shoes. People would not discard their shoes until they were beyond repair. I, too, followed the same rule. A single pair of hawai chappals was the only footwear we owned. They were repaired and mended countless times. Whenever the strap of the chappals snapped, I would drag my feet, wearing the same torn slippers, and head to the cobbler. When the straps could no longer withstand the pressure of the cobbler’s awl, a new strap would be added, and the slippers would get a new look. After mending and replacing the straps multiple times, a day would eventually come when the soles could no longer endure the friction on the roads, and they would be discarded for good.
The cobbler I often visited for minor or major repairs of my chappals sat on the side of a street at the Ahmadiyya Chowk, Qadian. There was another cobbler just a few yards away from him. Some said they were real brothers, while others claimed they were cousins. Either way, they seemed closely related by appearance. Both were in their late sixties or early seventies. One of them was known as Gharibu. They came from a nearby village. Since they couldn’t carry their tools and other belongings back and forth daily, they would leave them in a shop close to their workplace. The permanent shopkeepers, one a radio mechanic and the other a dealer in groceries, were kind enough to allow them to use the space without charging them.
These two cobblers, dressed in traditional rural dhotis and kurtas, would arrive at seven in the morning during summer and at nine in the winter. They would take their bags from their respective patrons, clean the area with a broom, spread an old gunny bag, and then arrange their tools, which included a cobbler’s anvil or tripod, an awl, a gourd, a skewer, pliers, scissors, a knife, a hammer, a spool of thread and needle, nails, leather hole punches, etc. In their bags, they kept old and new strips of leather, as well as old shoes and chappals. Both were experts in their trade, and consequently, there existed a strong professional rivalry between them. They kept an eye on the customers to see who would visit them first. People typically went to the cobbler who wasn’t too busy to get their work done quickly. These two cobblers would treat customers coldly if they approached the other first. The rivalry sometimes led to backbiting, with each one disclosing the faults of the other to the customers, such as claiming the other used low-quality thread, didn’t sew broken or torn parts properly, or made stitches with wide gaps.
I used to get my chappals mended by Gharibu. He spoke with a nasal voice. He would examine the “patient”, aka chappal, and after thinking for a while, tell me the cost of the repair. If I agreed, he would proceed. The charges depended on the severity of the damage. Typically, a simple repair without using a leather patch would cost between 10 and 25 paise. Even then, people would bargain with him to lower the price, and sometimes he would relent, waiving off 5 paise. He also polished shoes. For that, he kept a variety of creams, polishes, and some black powder to add extra shine and gloss. Indeed, shoes polished by him shone like mirrors. He would proudly say, “Tusi apna munh vekh sakde ho, iddan di polish kitti ae main” (You can see the reflection of your face in the shoes. I’ve shined them so bright.)
As years passed, I saw less and less of these two tradesmen. Gharibu was the first to stop coming to the spot. A few months later, the other cobbler was also gone. All their toil was to oil the wheels of their life to keep them running smoothly over the bumpy road of this hard world.
Bilal Ahmad Shamim
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