MOCHI - THE SOLE REPAIRER

"The company ensures the highest possible standards along the supply chain, that starts from the raw materials via packaging, distribution to the consumer. 

The products of Nestle are checked on the product line and as a result, the customers feel safe with the product, which increases the demand." 

That was going to be his conclusion statement in front of the team tomorrow. Months of hard labour were coming to fruition as he finalised his ideas of launching his advertising campaign.

He was contemplating on the last slide for his presentation, at the next day’s board meeting. 

In his mind, he was toying with the idea of depicting the vital importance of teamwork. 

His advertisement firm was now a leader in the market. 

From social media to street art,

From graphics to paper produce,

From planning to execution,

He had seen and done it all.

Having climbed up the scaffolding from the grass roots to the penthouse, overlooking the sea-face, his fingers could perceive each pulse of tremor on the various rungs of that ladder.

Like a spider, he sat quietly in the nucleus of that universe. 

Yet his reach went far out from the center,

As his sharp intelligent tentacles would pick up the faintest of tremors out in the remote.

They say animals have a sixth sense.

He probably had ten.

The ipad pro felt warm on his thigh. He liked to sit cross legged with the mobile device on his left thigh.

He must have been in that stance for a while, as his legs stiffened up.

He got up and stretched his legs out, getting rid of the lactate that had built up in his calf muscles from inactivity. 

Locking his fingers together, he raised his hands, palms facing the ceiling and arched his back to rid of the tired feeling and improve the circulation.

He filtered a cup of Kopi Luwak into his mug. A luxury he permitted himself, when he had achieved the highest set of standards he had set upon himself. It amused him that the richness of these coffee beans was enhanced, after they were processed and partially digested in the bowels of a tree dwelling cat like creature in South East Asia.

Carrying his coffee mug in his right hand, he wandered towards the French windows, as his eyes took the splendid view of the glittering Arabian sea waves, as they rose and fell against the bright  backdrop of the Phalgun Poornima moonlight.

The waves, unknown to everyone, were merely playing out the laws of universe, as they interplayed with their attraction towards the earth's natural satellite and the ageing lone star of the solar system.

As he turned, his gaze fell on his beloved Mumbai nagri as it slept silently on that night of spring equinox. His eyes followed the curved north south stretch of the neon lights as they gave a testimony that even at that hour, not all was asleep.

Polluted, Populated, criminalised, smelly, dirty, yet there was nowhere else on earth he would rather be.

In the calm of that night, he marvelled at how smoothly the city functioned inspite of the chaos by its 14 odd million inhabitants.

He had travelled wide, over across all continents and seen the glitter of Newyork, the fashion of Paris, the snob of London, the vibrance of Sydney and the opulence of Tokyo. 

Mumbai for him, though, was in a league well and above..

Many and Any....

He believed in preparing, anticipating and planning. 

His next morning’s attire was ready. The white shirt, navy blue pinstriped trousers and suit was hanging on a rail of his walkin wardrobe.

The pale yellow tie, the dark red kerchief, the soft leather belt, the cuff links, the socks were neatly laid out on the dressing table.

He took out the pair of dark brown Brunello shoes he had bought from a boutique in Verona 8 years ago, to check their shine.

To his disdain, he found that the heel of the left shoe has separated slightly from its sole.

Since the wedding of his nephew he hadn't worn them for over eighth months. He made a quick mental note of sending Nirmal, the watchman, to the mochi to get it repaired. 

"I am alone saabji today, the night watchman has left. I can't leave my duty downstairs", Nirmal was standing outside his flat door, reminding him of his duties. 

As his family was spending time at his 

in-laws, celebrating Holi, he was left with little choice, but to take that footwear for repairing himself.

He felt no shame or loss in pride in doing so.

It was inconvenient, that's all.

He still had plenty of time to get his day back on track.

He remembered seeing a cobbler as he roamed those streets when he had started his career in early 1990s. He had vague memories of a man hunched under a tree across Shitladevi temple

He walked briskly on LJ Marg, went past City light cinema and turned into a bylane opposite Shitladevi temple. The early morning commuters were jostling past him towards Matunga railway station.

There, on the corner of an overcrowded development, just past the taxi stand, he could see the brown tarpaulin stretched on 2 wooden poles across the pavement. The other end of the cloth was held together by strings around the bark of a coconut tree, which along with its palms and nuts, angled across the street and rose 40 feet above the ground.

The mochi sat underneath it.

As he neared his destination, he realised that there would be a wait.

A school taking mum was already impatiently standing with her school going daughter.

The man at the centre of attention had his head bent down, a hammer in hand punching a nail through the straps which would support the ankle down to the flat insole.

The hurrying mum hurried away handing a ten rupee note.

He took out his shoe from the box. Not willing to let go of his prized possession, he showed the man on the pavement, the defect in the shoe.

" Can you manage?", he inquired mater of factly. 

The man took one look at the shoe and to his surprise, replied," Come back at after 1".

He couldn't supress his anger or anguish and was ready to leave in disgust, when the man at ground level said, "I will get a special colour coded gel, Saheb, to hold the separated sole together. You wear a different pair today. Leave this here.

Maalik Aapke saath" 

Saying this, he joined his palms together, touching them to his forehead into a namaskar.

A little hesitant to leave his prized, albeit damaged, possession, he decided to wear his usual Bata leathers. The mochi noticed his hesitation, smiled and whispered,

 “जो उग्या सो अन्तबै, फूल्या सो कुमलाहीं। 

जो चिनिया सो ढही पड़े, जो आया सो जाहीं।

He left fuming, not quiet understanding or paying attention to what the man had said.

As he opened the door of his home, his cell phone vibrated.

A message from Nestlé head office.

The meeting was postponed by a week.

He felt a little relieved and decided to take the day off.

Later that afternoon, he retraced his steps from his earlier trek.

The old man was roaming his hand over his work area floor.

When he got nearer he realised that he held a small magnet in hand and was collecting the nails. 

Without looking up, the mochi pointed him towards a small bench, “The gel will arrive in a few minutes. Here, sit down for a few moments”

So he sat on it and watched the artisan at work. 

When he had first seen him about 25 years ago, the stubble on his chin and the hair on his chest had already turned white. Today, his eye brows and eyelashes too had taken the same colour. 

In essence, it was absence of melanin in the hair follicles which robbed them of their natural colour, another sign that the body was making its relentless journey towards the other end.

Like an over ripe mango past its prime, both his cheeks were wrinkled and a little hollowed from years of undernutrition. Yet, in all of this dilapidated state of body, 2 features stood out: 

The flawless movement of his hands, as the hardened muscles, tendons and sinew, carried out their business that fed that malnourished body

and 

A gentle, soft spoken voice which was now laden with a very fine tremor that pierced right through you.

From his bench, he felt a little closer to the cobbler, who looked more ancient now.

The mochi had sat down with one leg bent under his bum and the other at right angles to mother earth. His spine was arched over, as he bent down to inspect the damage. 

His dhoti came upto his knees as his lower legs and feet lay exposed and covered by Mumbai’s dust. His feet were dusky white from that exposure, with darkened soil hiding under the long curved nails of his toes. 

The white garment, the sadraa, that was supposed to cover his upper body, was lose and hung low exposing his upper chest.

Soon, a little girl, about 8-9 years of age, came from the behind the coconut tree which hid his home. He was carrying out his business, on the pavement in front of his home. 

She carried two round boxes, a shiny small plastic one in one hand and a battered steel one in the other. 

He quickly realised, one was his gel and the other the mochi’s lunch. 

Even before the girl left, he asked the mochi to eat his lunch before repairing his shoe. 

The mochi twisted the steel box open to reveal its contents, 3 rotis and 3 half sliced baingans with half an onion. 

The fried, small hemispherical  aubergines halves were criss- crossed with grooves on their flat surface, which were filled with fried methi seeds and garnished with turmeric, cumin and masala powder. 

Without saying anything, the mochi placed a roti with one baingan half and a slice of onion, on the lid of the box and handed it to him. 

Again, like in the morning, he hesitated.

A soft, melodious voice form the man on the floor, rung through his heart,

साईं इतना दीजिए, जा में कुटम समाय, मै भी भूखा न रहूं, साधू न भूख जाय

Between embarrassment and hunger, hunger usually wins, so he took the roti and finished the methi baingan in 3 swift mouthfuls. Wiping his hands on his kerchief, he waited for mochi to finish his lunch. 

Mochi took a swig of water from a plastic bottle that was hidden behind him; swirled and rinsed his mouth for a few seconds, and to his amazement, swallowed that water. Then he proceeded to fill the empty steel box with water, cleaned it with his fingers and drank the same water. 

In so he ensured that not a single grain of that meal was going to go waste, 

Either from the edges of the box or lodged in the corners of his mouth between his teeth....

Having finished his lunch, he opened the plastic jar of brown gel with a spoon. He dipped the flat end of the spoon into the gel, which he then plastered to bind the sole and the heel. His fingers carefully caressed the shoe from inside to press the insole and outsole together.

A little excess gel squeezed through the sides of the cracks, which he wiped with his dhoti. 

The colour was a perfect match and soon the shoe looked unblemished. 

He paid the mochi his dues, but, felt a little uneasy. 

A feeling, that he had not settled his dues, and that he had received a lot more than a repaired shoe. 

Urdu is a much refined language. “Ehsaas” would probably better describe the uneasiness in his mind than just “Feelings”.

His gaze wandered past the coconut tree at the mochi’s hutment. On either side of the front entrance, he could see footwear displayed on the walls. He felt that if he purchased a slipper or a chappal that would lessen his obligation towards mochi. 

Without paying much attention, he picked up a pair of sandals from the wall, knowing very well that he was never going to wear them. He turned around to look at the other wall. 

To his surprise, on display were only a single footwear of many pairs. 

Either left or right 

Shoe,  sandal or chappal... 

Some old, some very old, some broken and some on their last legs! Interestingly, they were all placed the wrong side up, with their soles facing outside. 

Mochi was still hunched down, punching a hole through a strap of a ladies silver sandal. 

“Those are my souvenirs,” he replied to his unasked question. “The legacies left behind by the feet that they adorned”.

He pointed to a black leather shoe, “That is Rao Sir’s shoes. He was a teacher where my Simi studies. You can see how well-worn they are,” his fingers were pointing to the worn out soles of that shoe. 

“This is Abduls’s chappal, he was a municipality cleaner. He would clean this street every morning”, the great toe holder of that chappal had snapped and lay lose on its side. 

“This is Bhanumati Tai’s,” in his hand he held a grey sandal with bands which crossed around the ankle, “She had a limp and ran to the doctor when my Simi fainted”, one side of that sole was more thinned out due to overuse from the limp.

“So have you got any celebrity footwear?” he mocked the mochi.

Mochi, though, sang in his low set tones,

“बड़ा हुआ तो क्या हुआ जैसे पेड़ खजूर

पंछी को छाया नहीं फल लागे अति दूर”

“Once we take our shoes off, we realise that our height is not as high as we think….

It doesn't matter how great your shoes are, if you don't accomplish anything in them, 

they are worthless.”

Each piece of footwear had a small piece of paper attached with the name of a person. He stood there breathing in the connoisseur’s collection. 

“But why are you keeping them facing the other way?  I have never seen shoes displayed with their soles facing forward!” he gently enquired.

“We all see the glitter of the front. But we fail to see the endurance and the yaatnaa that these feet go through. A shoe may be polished on the surface, yet turn it upside down and one notices the hardships that those feet have endured.

A single shoe of the pair is to remind us that when our feet touch earth, we are connected to this world, but when we don’t have our body anymore, where do we go? 

Our other foot should be always disconnected from this world.” 

He stared at Mochi. “I am sorry, I thought that I could buy my obligation by buying these sandals from you, to sooth my conscience”, he said rather sheepishly. 

He had now perceived the illness of his thoughts.

For the first time, he saw Mochi getting up and hum,

 “बुरा जो देखन मैं चला, बुरा न मिलिया कोय,

जो दिल खोजा आपना, मुझसे बुरा न कोय।“

Mochi was no longer a Mochi. He was now an incarnation of Sant Kabir Das.

He decided to become a shoe collector, just like the mochi.

 Who else would be  better to start his art collection with, than mochi himself? 

He was going to ask Mochi to part with his footwear.

Except, as he saw Mochi disappear into his home, he noticed that his feet were bare….

He took one of his Brunello’s and hung it beneath Bhanumati Tai’s sandals.

Mochi had not only repaired their sole,

But had also mended his soul.....