Bullet and Poppet were walking by the river. The summer holidays had just begun and they were at their great-aunt’s place, in a village not too far from Chennai, where they lived. They loved Suju pati’s tumble-down cottage and her overgrown, untidy garden, ideal for playing hide-and-seek. Unfortunately this time, things were different. Their playmates had gone off to Kodai for a fortnight. There were no books in the house they could read, and the telly was out of order. Even picnics were no fun with just the two of them.
“The river is dry, so we can’t even paddle,” grumbled Poppet.
“I am thirsty,” said Bullet. “I wish we had brought a bottle of water.”
“Perhaps, we’ll come across a cottage. Then, we could ask for a drink. Most of the old houses have wells,” said Poppet.
Let’s explore
“A cottage in the forest! You must be crazy,” said Bullet. “Let’s get back.”
“But there’s nothing to do at home,” said Poppet. “We might as well walk on.”
Poppet had been right. They soon caught a glimpse of a cottage among the trees.
“What did l tell you?” cried Poppet triumphantly. The door of the cottage stood open. An old man with snow-white hair and beard sat under a tree on a wooden seat, fanning himself with a palm-leaf.
“Please, may we have some water?”asked Poppet.
The old man looked up and smiled. “Come and sit down,” he told them, pointing to a string-woven cot. “I’ll fetch some water right away.”
The children looked around curiously. The room was small but spotlessly clean.
“You must be Suju akka’s grandchildren from town.”
“You know her?” asked Bullet surprised.
“Of course. It’s a small place. Everyone knows everybody else. I knew your father from when he was a boy like you.”
Poppet was gulping water from a brass tumbler. “What is your name? Suju- pati will ask us, you know.”
“Everyone calls me Chinnababu, the shoe-maker.”
“But are you?” asked Bullet. “I don’t see any shoes!”
“Not any more. But I used to be one, long ago.”
“Why did you stop?” asked Poppet curiously.
“Well, people don’t get their shoes made any more. They buy them from shops.”
“So they do. I’ve never heard of shoemakers!” said Bullet.
Back in time
Chinnababu sighed. “My father used to be the village shoemaker 60 years ago. I helped him. Then, he died and I carried on. But I had to give it up quite soon and work in the fields for a living. But the name stuck.”
“Why are there so many nails on the walls?” asked Bullet.
“I hung the shoes there after making them, “ replied Chinnababu.
Poppet noticed two small nails close together. “Did you make these for a baby?”
“That’s clever of you,” said Chinnababu. “Yes. I did. It’s quite a story.”
“Do tell us,” pleaded Poppet.
“There was a little girl called Padma, just like you.” said Chinnababu, looking at Poppet, “One day, she came into my shop and asked me to make her a pair of shoes. I told her to send her father to tell me what kind he wanted. Padma went home, but her father did not come. A few days later, she came again asking for shoes and again her father did not turn up.
Finally I made her a pair and she went home dancing. Almost immediately, her father arrived looking very angry.”
“What did he say?” Asked Bullet.
“He said, ‘why did you give her shoes? I am not going to pay for them.’ I told him that I did not want payment. He went off grumbling. I continued to make shoes for Padma ever since.”
“You must have been fond of her,” said Poppet.
“She was like my daughter,” said Chinnababu. “Years flew by. One day, a stranger saw Padma waiting for her new shoes. He asked me who she was. The next year Padma was married to him. I made shoes for their baby son and hung them on those nails.”
“Do all the nails have a story?” Asked Poppet.
“Yes,” said Chinnababu smiling.
“We’ll come back and listen to the rest,” said Bullet.
“Something new each day!” said Poppet. “We’ll enjoy the holidays now.”
