Story 11

I first met him in my youthful days in the holy month of Ramazan, when my father
took me to his shop for ordering a pair of new shoes for the coming Eid. His shop
was in a small but busy street of Qisa Khawani Bazar. A monstrous size black
"Peshawari Chappal" overhung on the faint coloured wooden door of his shop.
The inside of the shop was as quiet and serene as that of a Sacred holy place. There
were some old wooden stools and in the window somepairs of shoes were visible.
A big smnooth square shaped stone, a heavy wooden mallet, gn dwl and three
legged anvil, can be observed in the right side of the shop. The rest of the shofwas
as barren as desert because he made only those pairs of shoes that were ordered.
At the far end of wall of the shop was hanging a small signboard, showing Zarin Gul and brothers.
The shoes that Zarin Gul made never failed to fit in the feet and they lasted
extraordinarily longer than usual. To make shoes - such shoes as he made -
seemed to me then and seems to me now, mysterious and wonderful. I stil
remembér my hesitant
remarks, while stretching out
to him my youthful foot. "Isn't
it awfully hard to make shoes
in such tough conditions?"
The serpentine wrinkles
wriggled on his smiling face
and he answered, "It is an
art".

Zarin Gul remarks about shoes making and their suitability to different people
were so authoritative and final that nobody dared reject them. Myfather, though
chieftain of the area, would accept his views about a particular pair of shoes with
brisk nod.
t was not possible to go to him often because there was something in his shoes
that was beyond the temporary. It would not be wrong to say that durability was
Stitched into them. I cannot forget that day on which I had to say to him, "Zarin
Gul Kaka, my last pair of shoes makes a creaking sound, you know". He looked at
me with strange looks as if expecting me to withdraw the statement and then
said, "It shouldn't have creaked'", "1t did, I am afraid," | said with quivering tone.
Atthat he lowered his eyes,s if hunting for the memory of those pair of shoes. I
really felsorry that I mentioned this petty thing, which looked to him so serious sti
and grave. "Send them back," he said, "I will look at them". "Some shoes are bad
from birth. Ifl can do nothing with them, I will give back the amount you paid for
them," a
Then I went abroad to pursue my higher studies and career and could not have
the opportunity to meet Zarin Gul, the fantastic shoe-maker for several years.
After several years I returned to Peshawar. And the first shop I went to was my
old friend, Zarin Gul's. I had left a mnan of fifty; I came back to one of sixty five,
Worn and torn like an overused pair of shoes. He shook his bony hand with me,
but the grip of his hand was as tight as it was many years ago. Atfirst, he did not
know me. But when I got myself introduced.


Then I went abroad to pursue my higher studies and career and could not have
the opportunity to meet Zarin Gul, the fantastic shoe-maker for several years.
After several years I returned to Peshawar. And the first shop I went to was my
old friend, Zarin Gul's. I had left a man of fifty; I came back to one of sixty-five,
worn and torn like an overused pair of shoes. He shook his bony hand with me,
but the grip of his hand was as tight as it was many years ago. At first, he did not
know me. But when I got myself introduced, his brooded eyes sparkled with
smile. “Do you want any shoes?" he asked. 4 can make them quickly, because I
have plenty offree time." Then he looked at my 'branded shoes' and said, "Those
are not my shoes." His tone was not one of anger, or of sorrow, not even of
contempt, but there was in it something quiet that froze my blood. He put his
hand down and Ipressed a fingern the place where my left shoes was not quíte. comfortable. "It hurts you there," he said, "Do the big shoe-making companies
oest
have no sèlfrespect?" And then he,spoke biterly against the big multi-nationd.
that have
how,
extended their tentacles to the shoe-making trade. He told me
these companies had hired the craftsman of şhoemaking trade. "These big fin
use their hands not their brain or experiehce." I asked Zarin Gul Kaka
didn't join these big irms ifhis trade wás not doing well. His reply was crisp and
blunt, "I am an artist not machine who wil biindiy follöw theirirratiohal and
stupid dictatfons." «They get it dl," he contínued, "by advertisement, not by
work." "They took it away from us and presently we have ňo wořk." Looking at
his crumpled teathered face, I saw thimgs l had not noiiced before, bitder thiag and
bitter štruggle. His fdce and voice made so deep an impressíon on me that &uring
Uthe next few minttés I ordered. many pairs. I wanted to make him advante
payment but he refused, though he badly needed money, by saying, "pay it when
he shoesarefeady to delivep
A week later, I came to where his shop had been, I was surprised to see that the
monstróus size bláck 'Peshawari Chappal' was no more hanging on the woodau
door of his shop. A big size signboard, dispiaying the name of a famous shoe
brand was hanging on his shop. I went in and said, "Zarin Gul Kaka." "No sf;
Smaftlý dresséd
young man replied, "No, but we can attehd to anything with
pleásure, we've taken the shop over." "Yes, yes," I said, "but where is Zarin Gul
Kaka?"
«pead! ButI have to receive the shoes thatI ordered last week."
"Ah!" he said, "poor old mạn starvếd himself. Slow štarvàtion, the doctor calle,
it! He never gave himself tíme to eat; hever had'a penny in the house. All went l
rent and leather." As l was coming back'withheavý hearřt, the words of Zarin Gul,
fantastic shoemaker was tinking in my mínd, «po the big shoe-maKInb
companies have no self-respect?".