I dig into my purse and pull out some money. The loose change has spilled out of the broken purse. One day a pickpocket had put his hand right into my bag in a crowded bus. I had what was left of my salary in it. I hurriedly peeped into the bag; the purse was intact. I gave him a hard, cool stare and he calmly withdrew his hand. An expensive watch flashed on his wrist, his sarong was a finely chequered silk. What a precarious existence. I would have had to starve if that money went. Yet, I always feel sorry for pickpockets when they are caught: the terrible humiliation, the hot chase, the bloodied heads. Pity …. No one pities teachers. I have seen them sitting in little tea rooms and eating one bun each and drinking cups of tea; and buying cut-pieces, not whole sarees but cut-pieces. No one can see where the deception begins and where it ends. And why are they cut, these identical pieces? Shariff says that they are smuggled, or that people have to pay less duty on cut-pieces. They are much cheaper than whole sarees—one third the price and no one knows the difference.

Out on the pavement I suddenly miss the old man who used to sell his kitul pani, kitul piti, kitul jaggery, papaws, vanilla beans, aanamalu plantains. Where is he? There is no longer any room for him here. A brand new Santa Claus stands in his place. At the next shop there is a fresh pine-scented Christmas tree covered with bulbs, baubles and streamers. Where is the second-hand bookseller and the man who would sit scrubbing spurious gold in his basin of frothy water. It is difficult to walk on the narrow pavements … I really must get my shoes mended. I can’t walk as swiftly as I used to either. There are many cobblers in the little alleys, at streetcorners and under the billboards of films, men who sit for hours mending shoes, stitching pieces of leather, sitting there with their scraps of leather, re-stitching, resoling, re-stitching. My father always had his shoes made by old Peterson, the cobbler. He never bought shoes in shops. His shoes were made of good strong leather or elkhide. Every Christmas old Peterson would come with a new pair of shoes for my father which he had made after carefully measuring his feet. He would be given his Christmas drink and a gift for his family—so many mouths to feed had Peterson, yet how cheerful he was.

‘Sir, I have brought your shoes.’

‘Have you done a good job, Peterson?’

‘Yes sir, look at the sole. It will never give way, see how strong the stitches are …. all handstitched, sir. Fine leather, sir. Fit on, sir, fit on … good fit, sir, it fits your foot well ….’

‘A little tight at the toes, Peterson, pinches a bit.’

‘No sir, it will stretch. Look at the fine polish I have given it.’