Zarin Gul, the Shoemaker

Zarin Gul, the Shoemaker

In the heart of Pakistan’s Swat Valley, where the mountains whisper secrets to the wind and time seems to walk slower, lived a man named Zarin Gul. He wasn’t a landlord, a trader, or a government official. He was a shoemaker — perhaps the last of his kind.

Zarin Gul’s shop was a small, sun-bleached wooden hut with a creaky green door. A hand-painted sign above it read, "Jooti Mahal – Zarin Gul Mochi". Inside, the scent of leather mixed with the fragrance of cardamom tea, and tools of the trade — needles, awls, thread, and scraps of hide — hung like proud medals of a forgotten craft.

He was not a man of many words. His hands, calloused and brown from years of honest work, spoke louder than his tongue ever could. Each stitch he made was careful, steady, and full of purpose. People came from villages far and wide, not just for shoes — but for his shoes. Shoes that fit like memory. Shoes that lasted seasons, monsoons, weddings, and even funerals.

“Zarin Baba, my son is getting married,” a man would say.
Zarin Gul would smile gently, wipe his hands on a rag, and ask only two questions: “What color is his shalwar kameez? And how proud is he walking?”

No one knew exactly how old he was. Some said seventy. Others said eighty. All agreed on one thing: Zarin Gul was a legend in leather.

But legends grow older, and so did he.

One winter, when snow dusted the village like powdered sugar, Zarin Gul’s hands began to tremble. Not much, just enough that his stitching lost its perfect rhythm. He said nothing, but the lines on his forehead deepened, and the stitches in his shoes became uneven. Customers still praised his work, out of respect — but they noticed.

It was then that a young boy named Haris appeared at the shop’s doorway.

Haris was no older than twelve, a skinny, curious-eyed orphan who had been living with a distant uncle. He’d heard stories of the master shoemaker and wandered into the shop one morning, wide-eyed and barefoot.

“Can I watch you work, Baba?” he asked, eyes fixed on the needle in Zarin Gul’s hand.

Zarin looked at him, then at the boy’s cracked heels.
“You don’t have shoes?”
“I had some. But they broke.”
“Then sit. Watching is free.”

From that day forward, Haris came every morning and stayed until the last stitch was tied. He fetched tea, swept the floor, and slowly learned the names of each tool. Most importantly, he watched. He watched how Zarin Gul bent over his work, how he chose leather by feel, and how he stitched not just for size — but for story.

One evening, Zarin Gul handed Haris a piece of leather. “Try,” he said.
The boy’s hands were clumsy at first, but the old man didn’t laugh. He only nodded and guided him — not with words, but by showing.

Seasons passed, and Haris grew taller, stronger, and faster with the needle. Zarin Gul grew slower, quieter. But the shop buzzed with new life.

Then one morning, the green door didn’t open. Haris knocked. No reply. The villagers knew before anyone said it out loud: Zarin Gul had passed away in his sleep, with a shoe still unfinished by his bedside.

The entire village came to his funeral. Men wore the shoes he had made. Women cried softly. Children stood in silence. The Imam, before the final prayer, said, “Zarin Gul didn’t just repair soles. He uplifted souls.”

The shop closed for seven days.

Then, on the eighth day, the green door creaked open again. Inside, Haris sat at the same wooden stool, now slightly too small for his growing legs. He lit the small stove, picked up Zarin Gul’s awl, and began stitching.

Outside, the hand-painted sign had a new addition:
"Jooti Mahal – Zarin Gul Mochi & Haris Ustad"

Zarin Gul was gone, yes. But his craft — his quiet legacy of humility, precision, and pride — lived on in the hands of a boy who once had no shoes.