Like every other morning Rumswaran trudged through the smelly bazaar humming with industrious Marwari housewives and brown meditating cows throwing the noisy traffic into disarray. He passed the party-office. The office was open - elections were near. Through the open windows of the single-storey box-like structure with the red and green flags fluttering aimlessly above the door, he again saw their faces.
He didn’t know them. But every time he walked past the office of this political party his gaze, for that fleeting moment, brushed their eyes. He knew they belonged to the inner circle.
Rumswaran moved on, his advancing age and polio-affected feet slowing his pace till he settled down in his garage corner. Customers were waiting. He gripped a shoe between his legs with practiced ease and as his awl danced around leather, his thoughts floated.
`Why the Big Man never gets his shoes mended?’ he thought.
He drew out a piece of leather from his soiled tool bag and began cutting it with a chisel. He offered the leather scraps to two street dogs watching him expectantly. A car drove recklessly past cladding Rumswaran and his canine companions in brown Calcutta dust.
`Those three, how could they make it to the inner circle?’ Rumswaran wondered with envious sarcasm. He had always wanted to be in their place, close to the party boss - the Big Man.
The dogs glowered at Rumswaran, while he dreamt standing someday at that door with the other three. Below the flags. People would look at him with awe and ask for favours. He will be close to the Big Man. Comfortable and powerful in his warm shadow.
Rumswaran believed he could make it happen. And then he will ride a car and won’t need to trudge on tired legs. He knew how. If the Big Man never comes to his shop he will carry them to him - the magic brogues!
For fourteen generations, the secret of the magic brogues had trickled through their line. He knew where to get the leather made from the rhino’s scrotum that is soft as the evening breeze but stronger than steel. He had learnt how to fashion the heels in the shape of the Bengal tiger’s paws so that when the Big Man stamps, the neighbourhood would tremble. In those magic shoes his confidence would soar, he would lead the people better; the Big Man would get bigger. Rumswaran would be invited to the inner circle that day…
As the June sun scrolled up higher against a papery sky there was a loud commotion outside. A big car screeched to a halt near the garage. Suddenly, hoarse screams rent the air.
Out jumped the Big Man from the car, panting and puffing. Rumswaran was lost for words. `At last!’ He rose to welcome him. But the Big Man, his face grotesque with terror, brushed past and hid behind a parked van. The blood-chilling yells followed. Rumswaran slowly emerged from his garage shop to investigate. The dogs ran away and watched from a distance.
His brain exploded, its white softness spraying the bonnet of the van. Rumswaran froze in his steps. He began to crumble, glassy-eyed among his cans of boot-polish. A second burst and a third. Return fire came from the back of the van. People watched, trembling behind drawn curtains. As the old cobbler lay among his leather waste and the singing city dust, the blood from his heart dripped and dripped slowly, making a circle of fire around the dead man. Like vermilion paste it smeared the battered footpath, getting thicker, darker and ever wider.
He didn’t know them. But every time he walked past the office of this political party his gaze, for that fleeting moment, brushed their eyes. He knew they belonged to the inner circle.
Rumswaran moved on, his advancing age and polio-affected feet slowing his pace till he settled down in his garage corner. Customers were waiting. He gripped a shoe between his legs with practiced ease and as his awl danced around leather, his thoughts floated.
`Why the Big Man never gets his shoes mended?’ he thought.
He drew out a piece of leather from his soiled tool bag and began cutting it with a chisel. He offered the leather scraps to two street dogs watching him expectantly. A car drove recklessly past cladding Rumswaran and his canine companions in brown Calcutta dust.
`Those three, how could they make it to the inner circle?’ Rumswaran wondered with envious sarcasm. He had always wanted to be in their place, close to the party boss - the Big Man.
The dogs glowered at Rumswaran, while he dreamt standing someday at that door with the other three. Below the flags. People would look at him with awe and ask for favours. He will be close to the Big Man. Comfortable and powerful in his warm shadow.
Rumswaran believed he could make it happen. And then he will ride a car and won’t need to trudge on tired legs. He knew how. If the Big Man never comes to his shop he will carry them to him - the magic brogues!
For fourteen generations, the secret of the magic brogues had trickled through their line. He knew where to get the leather made from the rhino’s scrotum that is soft as the evening breeze but stronger than steel. He had learnt how to fashion the heels in the shape of the Bengal tiger’s paws so that when the Big Man stamps, the neighbourhood would tremble. In those magic shoes his confidence would soar, he would lead the people better; the Big Man would get bigger. Rumswaran would be invited to the inner circle that day…
As the June sun scrolled up higher against a papery sky there was a loud commotion outside. A big car screeched to a halt near the garage. Suddenly, hoarse screams rent the air.
Out jumped the Big Man from the car, panting and puffing. Rumswaran was lost for words. `At last!’ He rose to welcome him. But the Big Man, his face grotesque with terror, brushed past and hid behind a parked van. The blood-chilling yells followed. Rumswaran slowly emerged from his garage shop to investigate. The dogs ran away and watched from a distance.
His brain exploded, its white softness spraying the bonnet of the van. Rumswaran froze in his steps. He began to crumble, glassy-eyed among his cans of boot-polish. A second burst and a third. Return fire came from the back of the van. People watched, trembling behind drawn curtains. As the old cobbler lay among his leather waste and the singing city dust, the blood from his heart dripped and dripped slowly, making a circle of fire around the dead man. Like vermilion paste it smeared the battered footpath, getting thicker, darker and ever wider.
(Published work. Copyright reserved by author)
0 comments:
Post a Comment
Dear Reader, Tell me what you think about this post. Join the Chutney Post discussion: