Loving the Quiet Light: The Cobbler’s Exchange. Dr Sarita Chauhan

Loving the Quiet Light: The Cobbler’s Exchange

Dr.Sarita Chauhan 

My name is Gopal. I turned sixty-five in the month of Shravan, when the sky weeps a silver sheet over the city. For forty years, I’ve sat at this exact spot—a low, three-sided tin khohka anchored under the immense, spreading roots of an old peepal tree, where the market spills into the bypass. The air here is a mix of exhaust, jasmine, and the comforting, sharp scent of leather adhesive. I sit on my low stool, my box of tools beside me, each awl and curved needle a familiar, precious weight. My work, the art of the mochi, is an old-world precision that is rapidly vanishing. Modern shoes are made to be discarded, and my skills—the deep knowledge of soles and the perfect lock-stitch—are simply not valued by the young generation. My sons, doing well in their city jobs, see my stubbornness, not my solace. They only see the low payment and the diminishing material world. It pains me that this skill will retire when my hands do, but that is the way of things. My deeper passion is not for the leather; it is for the relationships the work facilitates. I get by with my meager earnings and a small fixed income; it is enough.

One scorching Tuesday, a young corporate courier, Deepak, staggered into my shade. Drenched in sweat, his sharp loafer had catastrophically split. He apologized frantically, trembling with the fear of professional failure, and offered a large currency note I couldn’t break. I gently pushed the money away. As he gulped down the cool water from my clay pot, my mind traveled back forty years to this very corner. I remembered when I was young, desperate, and my wife, Asha, was gravely ill in the village, waiting for money for medicine. My whole future hinged on one critical repair, but my most expensive needle snapped, and I had no money for a replacement tool. The market vendor simply shrugged, and because I failed to finish the job, I lost the commission. The delay in sending money home... that wound has never truly closed. Seeing Deepak’s terror—the fear of failing at his one chance—was like looking into my own past. I realized my own failure wasn't just about a broken needle; it was about no one seeing me. So, I worked the nylon thread, giving him a perfect, invisible fix. When I handed back the shoe, I chuckled, "The payment is in the lesson: Sometimes, a quick stop to fix the small things saves the big things. Now go, walk with dignity.” I did it to finally mend that old, cold part of my own history.

Deepak wrote about the incident on a local forum, and the kindness returned to me, not in wealth, but in human warmth. When the first heavy rain hit, people didn't rush past; they sought refuge. My khohka became a tiny, vibrant salon as college girls huddled under the tin roof, genuinely interested in the complexity of my stitch. Then came others, like Professor Rao, the retired history scholar. He stops every afternoon, sharing his thermos of cardamom tea and his massive national newspaper. He never asks for a repair. Instead, he treats my practical knowledge with the same respect as a peer’s academic paper. "Gopal," he'll declare, "you are a microcosm of the supply chain! Tell me what this new tax really means when you buy thread." My workshop becomes his informal seminar room; his intellectual exchange meets my street-level reality. The flower vendor leaves a perfect rose on my tool chest every morning, a silent thank you.

This is the true exchange. My sons worry about my low earnings and my dignity being compromised by sitting on the road, wanting me in a big, cold, air-conditioned office. But here, on my corner, people pause their frantic lives, share their worries, and offer a genuine greeting. They see me, Gopal, not just as a service provider, but as a landmark, a listener, a piece of living history. This is what keeps my hands steady and my spirit warm. I know the day will come when my fingers stiffen and the complex stitch retires. But when that happens, I won’t go home. I will still come to this corner and sit on my stool under the peepal tree. Because you don’t need money to give hope, and you don’t need a function to have a purpose. You just need a simple seat and the willingness to look at someone caught in the rain—and say, without words: “I’ve been there. Take shelter. You are welcome here.” That’s how this world gets better. Not in big, clean, modern spaces, but in quiet, messy corners—between people who choose to build moments together.

I am 

Dr.Sarita chauhan 

Therefore I am,

a quiet hum in the heart of a city,

a low thrum that pulses with a strength no one sees.

My body is a garden, a wild and tangled place.

Sometimes it feels like a soft field after rain,

other times a tough patch of weeds that just won't quit.

My strength isn't loud like a hammer;

it's the quiet push of a root through stone.

Therefore I am,

the girl who learned to smile when her mind was miles away,

the one who found her footing on a floor that constantly shifted.

I am the small, secret joys of a shared glance

and the soft strength found in a room full of other women,

each a whole universe on her own.

I am the legacy of grandmothers who stitched stories into quilts

and mothers who held their families together

with a quiet grace I am only beginning to understand.

Therefore I am,

a collection of mistakes and beautiful imperfections.

My scars are not a sign of failure but a map of where I've been.

They tell the story of every time I got back up,

every wrong turn that led me to a new truth.

The moments I've stumbled or said the wrong thing

are just as much a part of me as the moments of brilliance.

They remind me that I am always learning, always growing.

Therefore I am,

not a half-finished story or a supporting character,

but the whole book.

My worth isn't found in a mirror or in the eyes of others,

but in the feeling of my own two feet on the ground.

It’s in the quiet hum I carry, a melody that's all my own.

It is the simple, honest beauty of being.

I am, in all my complicated, messy, brilliant glory,

a complete and beautiful creation.

I am, simply, enough.