The Third Eye by Mahtab Narsimhan Page B

Tara. “We’ll meet you later at the bangle shop.”
    Her father nodded, not even looking in their direction. Tara felt a stab of hurt, which passed quickly.
    Tara pulled Suraj in the direction of the cobbler.
    â€œWe both need a pair of waterproof shoes,” said Tara.
    She set off at a quick trot to the village cobbler on the far side of the market square, Suraj in tow. The cobbler’s shop was a small, dingy hovel. There were mounds of shoes and chappals covering every inch of the floor except for the path that led from the door to the raised platform where he sat, like an impoverished king amidst his subjects. Footwear hung from hooks on the wall in every shade of brown andblack, stitched with coloured embroidery. Other shoes sat patiently on shelves, covered with dust. A strong smell of uncured leather and glue hung about the room.
    Occasionally a black furry ball moved in the depths of the shadows in the corners. The first time Tara had seen a movement she had screamed. Then she had realized what it was: big black rats that had made their home in the shop.
    The cobbler sat in his workplace in one of the corners, thin and bent over, a posture acquired through years of hunching over the anvil. A grimy lantern hung from a cobweb-encrusted rope over the platform and threw feeble light on the shoe that he was repairing.
    A woman balanced on one foot, her bare foot resting on the shoe-clad one, waiting for the shoe to be repaired. Tara decided to let her leave before approaching the cobbler. While they waited, she examined the mojdis and other types of shoes on display that were suited for all weather conditions in the mountains.
    â€œLook here, Suraj, these shoes look sturdy. This one would fit me and that one looks just about right for you.”
    â€œThey’re too big,” he said with a giggle.
    â€œDon’t worry; you can wear two pairs of socks. They’ll be snug. We don’t have time to get them made to order.”
    Fidgeting impatiently, Tara and Suraj anxiously peered out to check if Kali or Layla had seen them enter the shop. They were safe. There was no sign of their family. Finally, the woman departed. Tara stepped up to the cobbler before anyone else walked in.
    â€œBaba,” said Tara, addressing the older man with respect, “we would like to buy these shoes.” She held out two sturdy pairs. They were made of dark brown leather with a pointed tip.
    The cobbler looked up from his work and peered short-sightedly through glasses as thick as Tara’s little finger. He stood up on the little platform and came toward them. Tara noted his shabby kurta and pyjama, which were patched up neatly with different bits of cloth and leather, like a colourful patchwork quilt. On his feet were a new pair of mojris. Tara smiled. He may not have been able to afford good clothes but his shoes were brand new.
    â€œTara! How are you and Suraj today? I have not seen you for ages. Not since your mother ...”
    Seeing their expressions, he became silent
    Tara swallowed the lump that suddenly formed in her throat.
    â€œOur shoes are wearing out and Father told us to buy a new pair.”
    She hoped he would not see her flushed face as she uttered the lie.
    â€œVery good choice, Tara,” he said, looking at the shoes she had selected. “These are made from the hide of the Murrah buffalo. I have treated them with my special cream to make them waterproof.”
    He stroked the rich leather lovingly.
    â€œBaba, these shoes are too big for my feet. Can you do something to make them smaller?” asked Suraj.
    â€œNot to worry, my children, not to worry. Let me take your measurements and I’ll make a pair that fits perfectly. You can have them in a week. Special rush job for you,” he said, winking.
    Tara got a whiff of onion and garlic on his breath as he leaned close.
    â€œ NO, ” said Tara, a bit louder than she had intended.
    The cobbler leaned back in