Profiles: The Man With The Shoe Lace

Peeche Market.

That’s what the name of the market behind our colony had invariably become. Peeche Market. I absolutely hated it, it was a good ten minutes walk away, and once there, it was a dirty, stinky, and crowded vegetable and everything-else-you-can-imagine type of market. Basically, your typical Indian market.

For me the market trip usually meant me holding onto my mum or sis’s hand and being dragged around the area, as they went about haggling with the vendors or selecting garbage disposal bags. The benefits of being a kid! This also meant I was free to let my eyes roam around and notice all the tiny creeks and corners of the market…the people…the vegetable seller’s secret money stash…the little boy in the dhaba washing plates in the gutter water…the servant girl who always stared out from the balcony which seemed to separate her from the rest of the world…

…And the man with the shoe lace.

A crinkled boney man, sitting timidly on the pavement, looking through extremely thick glasses with a toothless smile, a white cloth laid out in front of him. And on the cloth, were an assortment of around ten shoe laces.

Black, white, red and yellow, smooth, patterned, short and long. The options were random and assorted. But always the same. Ranging from Rs. 2 to Rs 5.

That’s all I remember of him, for years of dragging along after my Mum. The same spot. The same white cloth. The same arrangement of shoe laces.

Black, white, red and yellow, smooth, patterned, short and long.

Rs 2 to Rs 5.

Now as I think about it, I realize how different my views were when I was a kid. I wasn’t curious about him. I didn’t find the old man odd, trying to make a living out of selling shoe laces, Rs.2 to Rs. 5.

Black, white, red and yellow, smooth, patterned, short and long.

For me he was normal. Someone I saw every time I went to the market. No different from the crumbling houses, the vegetable seller’s secret money stash, the dhaba boy’s dirty water, or the servant’s longing look on the balcony. He was the scenery painted in my head, the memory of every creek and corner, the blend rather than the bold.

It wasn’t until years later, that I told a visiting cousin of mine about him. His curiosity invoked guilt like I had never felt before. I don’t know how or why, but I couldn’t remember when I’d last seen the man. When the background and the memory changed in my head, I have no idea.

For the first time, I voluntarily headed to the market along with my cousin. I knew the spot, the image clearly etched in my brain. But the spot was empty. No white cloth. No arrangement of shoe laces.

Black, white, red and yellow, smooth, patterned, short and long.

My cousin asked a nearby vendor about him. He had no idea. I didn’t have a name. Just a memory.

My cousin was persistent. I was sad.

He asked around more. And finally we found someone, an old shop keeper, who had been around as long as I could remember.

“Chandan kaka ki baat kar rahe ho aap?”

(You’re talking about Chandan uncle?)

I looked at him. Blank. My cousin prodded him on.

He fit the description. The old man, who had spent his life selling shoe lace. He had a son. A son he put through school. Selling shoe lace. A son who went on to IIT with a scholarship, supported by shoe lace. A son who then earned a lot, had a flat nearby and cared for his father, who sold shoe lace.

And he sold shoe lace, till his last days, out of habit, the love of his life.

Rs 2 to Rs. 5.

Black, white, red and yellow, smooth, patterned, short and long.

The crinkled bony man.

The scenery.