R J Hembree - Writers' Village University

In his modest wooden stall Pir Gul hunched over his sewing machine, stitching
a man’s turquoise vest. Every stitch had to be perfect, an invisible part of the
whole. So intent was Pir on his small task, he didn’t notice Ismail Jan and his
grandson, Mullah, until they entered the shop, but, even then, he might not have
looked up from the tiny world in front of his bespectacled eyes, had he not heard
the uneven thump of Mullah’s gait. Zipping around easily on his four-month-old
crutches, gangly as a camel, Mullah moved as quickly as when he had two legs.
“Zaher said you still had some of the shoes from the engagement party,”
Ismail said. “Mullah needs a new shoe. There is no point in buying two.” The old
man wore faded trousers and a frayed gray turban, not quite as dark as the bags
under his eyes.
“They are in the wooden wheelbarrow behind the counter at the back,” Pir
said. He bent back to his work and concentrated on sewing the left seam in a
straight line.
Beyond a table which held rolls of colorful cloth, ribbons and braids, the
wobbly wheelbarrow held a motley collection of shoes and sandals piled in a cairnlike
heap. Pir did not like to think about the shoes, let them be brought into his
shop only because it would have been a shame to throw away perfectly good shoes.
Mullah dug around in the wheelbarrow and pulled out a brown adult sandal
with strips of leather that tied at the side.
“That shoe is too big,” Ismail said. “Here is one that will fit you better.”
“But this is Abdul’s shoe. I will grow into it, and I could not do better than to
grow up like Abdul, could I?”
“You must take a shoe that fits you. You need something sturdy that will not
fall off and trip you up when you walk with the crutches.”
“But baabaa-”
“You think because you have survived a bombing, you are a man. You must
not argue with your grandfather who takes care of you now that your mother and
father and brothers are gone. That is being a man, Mullah. Respecting your elders,
your country, your traditions.”
“I respect you, baabaa. It’s just I don’t want anyone else to have Abdul’s
shoe. Maybe I can take two. One that fits me and one to grow into. Can I not take
two?”
Pir looked over to where the two stood. Mullah held two leather shoes, one
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