Several things go wrong as I try to free myself from the clutches of the tiny rickshaw that has just dropped me off at Lahore's train station. While the rest of my body steps onto the pavement, my right foot seems to have decided it isn't quite ready yet to leave. Miraculously, I manage not to fall flat on my face. My foot, however, in a last-minute attempt to catch up with its companion, bounces off the kerb, leaving me with a bloody toe and a flip-flop that hangs limply around my ankle. I pick it up. It seems my shoemaking skills leave room for improvement. The safety pin that was meant to hold thong and sole together has broken in two.
I'm on my way to Wagah Checkpoint. Each day just before sunset a selection of India and Pakistan's finest perform a wonderfully pompous closing-of-the-border ceremony. Cheered on by an ecstatic crowd that watches the spectacle from purpose-built grandstands, soldiers on both sides of the border parade up and down a narrow strip in peacock-like attire, moustaches pomaded to perfection. After a good deal of huffing and puffing the flags are lowered and the gates slammed shut. Sounds like a tourist trap if ever there was one, but a tourist trap I wouldn't miss for the world.
I look around, uncertain what to do. A cobbler would come in handy. The moment that thought crosses my mind I spot one at the edge of the square. He is surrounded by piles of old shoes, nondescript tools, orange peel and various odds and ends. He smiles as I limp towards him. Without speaking he reaches for my flip-flop. I sit down next to him. With great dexterity, using his feet like an extra pair of hands, he sets to work, cutting a piece of fabric from a long black strap, sewing it onto the end of the rubber thong and then pulling it through the opening in the sole. He looks up and smiles at my amazement. Over the years, his teeth have migrated to the corners of his mouth, leaving a triangular gap in the middle.
The entire operation doesn't take more than sixty seconds. I fumble for some money and hand him all the change I can find. Fifty rupees, it's not much. Still, the cobbler seems satisfied. I half expect him to say something, but all he does is point at the sky and smile his keyhole smile.
I put the flip-flop back on my foot and marvel at the craftsmanship. Normally, I would have headed straight for the nearest shoe shop. After all, replacing is easier than repairing. But, looking at the stitched-on fabric peeping through my toes, it seems as though this piece of rubber has acquired some kind of personality of its own. It's been given a new lease of life.
I say goodbye to the old cobbler and turn around to find a ride to the border, knowing full well that no amount of stomping around in shiny uniforms will impress me as much as what I've just seen.
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| Who needs words with a smile like that? |
I look around, uncertain what to do. A cobbler would come in handy. The moment that thought crosses my mind I spot one at the edge of the square. He is surrounded by piles of old shoes, nondescript tools, orange peel and various odds and ends. He smiles as I limp towards him. Without speaking he reaches for my flip-flop. I sit down next to him. With great dexterity, using his feet like an extra pair of hands, he sets to work, cutting a piece of fabric from a long black strap, sewing it onto the end of the rubber thong and then pulling it through the opening in the sole. He looks up and smiles at my amazement. Over the years, his teeth have migrated to the corners of his mouth, leaving a triangular gap in the middle.
The entire operation doesn't take more than sixty seconds. I fumble for some money and hand him all the change I can find. Fifty rupees, it's not much. Still, the cobbler seems satisfied. I half expect him to say something, but all he does is point at the sky and smile his keyhole smile.
I put the flip-flop back on my foot and marvel at the craftsmanship. Normally, I would have headed straight for the nearest shoe shop. After all, replacing is easier than repairing. But, looking at the stitched-on fabric peeping through my toes, it seems as though this piece of rubber has acquired some kind of personality of its own. It's been given a new lease of life.
I say goodbye to the old cobbler and turn around to find a ride to the border, knowing full well that no amount of stomping around in shiny uniforms will impress me as much as what I've just seen.
Note that the craftsmanship of the narrator is on par with that of his subject, the cobbler. Powerful, dynamic brushstrokes capture a seemingly trivial occurrence to paint a true-to-life picture of Pakistan and its people.
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