The cobbler sits under the neem, mending
shoes, humming to himself, unmindful
of the day coming to a close. I watch his
elegant hands weave in and out of my tattered
shoes. The pan-shop radio splutters into sudden
life: Gorbachev has resigned. Yeltsin
assumes control of the commonwealth.

The cobbler threads the frayed ends of
worn-out joints. He restores a sense of shape
to the ruins of my journeys from the plains
of Deccan to the palm-shade of my village.
I am glad he has given my trespasses.
Through the tip of his needle, the highways
of the homeland are stitched back into a map
of return journeys, ready for use.

Now the shoes belong to the road, to the vagaries
of the weather. The clamour of crows sucks up
the last drops of daylight. As he gets up to leave
he looks into the shimmering lights of this port-city
as someone about to renounce the world. He knows
at this very hour someone is stepping into history
with the prescience of a new pair of shoes.