wA tussle with white shoes

They get brown in no time.
| Photo Credit: Getty Images

At the time of the reopening of school after the summer holidays, it was an annual ritual to purchase a new pair of white shoes as part of the school uniform. White canvas shoes were not as sturdy as the black leather ones. The wear and tear was faster and much quicker for me and my brother. We ran in the dusty playgrounds and slid on the mosaic floors of the verandah of the classrooms. By the time we returned home, the colour of the shoes will turn brown and most important, they won’t be on our feet. We would be carrying them in our hands because we did not know how to tie the shoelaces. At the morning school prayer, the school leader’s job was to observe sharply if the shoes of each student were well polished or not.

There is a lot to learn from the minds of young children for “mature” adults. The piece of chalk in the classroom comes to the rescue. Rubbing it on the shoes would give a cleaner look. The leader would see and say, “Okay, go” (I long suspected he himself must have been doing so).

Poor white shoes, the rough handling would be too much for them. The sole would go loose and make a flapping sound with each step, drawing pathetic looks from friends and scorn from teachers.

My priority next morning was to rush to the nearest cobbler. He did not work from a shop, but sat by the roadside with tools of the trade, working in full public view. It was great to watch him attending to shoes with involvement. The best part was after completing the work, he would ask us to wear the shoes and check the comfort level.

If it were okay, I need not pay him immediately. He knew my father well and would collect the fee from him. I never saw my father bargaining with him. He would give whatever amount is asked.

At the fag end of the year, the shoes would look like they had run several marathons and symbolically pleading with me, “Please leave us, we can’t plod further.”

At the beginning of the next academic year, before purchasing a new pair of shoes for my younger brother, my father would consult the friendly neighbourhood cobbler whether the pair could be mended further.

Extracting the maximum value out of anything was the culture of those days. Nothing was thrown away until it was proven to be absolutely of no utility. The shoemaker’s word was final.

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