It dripped from the edges of the tin roof like tears too shy to fall all at once. Meera stood at the window, watching the lanes flood one muddy puddle at a time. It was a school day. And Ayaan’s shoes were broken.
She’d noticed it two days ago—when he left them by the door, soggy and bent at the sole like they were bowing under the same weight she carried in her spine. He hadn’t said anything, of course. He never did. But she’d heard it in the way he dragged his feet. In the way he chose to walk slower, hoping no one else would see the hole near the toe.
She had promised herself she’d fix it yesterday.
But yesterday, the factory had cut her shift short.
“Low demand,” her supervisor had said without looking up.
Just two words. No explanation. No compensation.
That meant no overtime. No bonus.
No shoes.
Now, she was down to 280 rupees in her purse, and she had to choose:
Bus fare for the week... or shoes for her son.
She stood over his bed that morning as he slept, the same way she always did—like a sentinel, guarding the remnants of his childhood. His legs had grown longer. His voice deeper. His warmth more distant. But still, he was hers.
And he needed shoes.
The old cobbler at the corner stall gave her a small smile when she walked up, clutching the ripped pair in a plastic bag.
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“Madam, these have no soul left,” he said gently, turning the shoe in his wrinkled hands.
“Can you… do something?” she asked, voice low.
“Not for long. A week, maybe. Less if the rain stays.”
“How much?”
“Thirty rupees.”
Meera nodded.
It would buy them time.
A week’s worth of dignity.
A week to stretch pennies into hope.
When she handed the shoes to Ayaan, he didn’t say much.
“You fixed them?” he asked, inspecting the crude stitching.
“They’ll last a little longer.”
“We could’ve just bought new ones.”
“Soon,” she lied, softly.
He didn’t push. But he didn’t smile either.
Later that evening, she overheard him on the phone with a classmate.
“Yeah, I’m wearing my old ones again. Don’t laugh, man… it’s whatever. Doesn’t matter.”
She sat in the next room, folding clothes with trembling hands.
The words didn’t break her.
But the resignation in his voice did.
That night, after he’d gone to sleep, Meera opened her purse. 250 rupees left now. She stared at the worn note, the folded edges soft like cloth.
She thought of all the things she could do with that money—buy rice for the week, pay a portion of the electricity bill, or keep it for an emergency she hadn’t yet named.
But instead, she folded it again, slid it into a side envelope, and labeled it:
“Tumhare naye joote.”
And for the first time in weeks, she let herself cry.
Not because of what she couldn’t afford.
But because her son had stopped asking.
And that silence hurt more than any hunger ever could.
In this chapter, it wasn’t just a shoe that needed mending. It was pride. Trust. The fragile thread between mother and son.
She asked only that her child walk without shame.
And maybe, think of someone in your own life who once gave quietly, too.
Riven Saro