The Cobbler's Hands

In the lanes of Banaras, a little away from the river, in a quarter where the smell of fresh leather mixed with the smell of cooking, there sat a cobbler named Ravidas. His shop was a low stone platform under a neem tree. His tools were few — an awl, a curved knife, a small hammer, a coil of thread soaked in beeswax. His customers came from every corner of the city, because Ravidas had the gift of making a sandal that fit the foot of the one it was made for, and only that one.

Kings sent for him. Pandits walked past his platform with their eyes on the sky. Ravidas only smiled and worked. Stitch by stitch. Loop by loop. He hummed as he worked, soft songs that nobody had taught him, songs about a river that flowed inside him and never dried.

One day a wealthy courtier came to his platform. He was angry before he even sat down. He said, Ravidas, the king has summoned you to make new sandals for him. You will need to come to the palace.

Ravidas folded his hands. He said, Honoured one, I cannot come. My hands work best in this shade, on this stone, where I can hear the river inside me. Send me the measurements. The sandals will be there in three days.

The courtier was insulted. He said, Do you know what these hands of yours are touching? Dead leather. Old hide. And then you fold them in prayer? It is not fitting.

Ravidas put down the awl. He looked at his own hands for a long quiet moment. He said, These hands stitch the king's sandal. These hands also fold in prayer. They are the same hands. The leather has been a creature. The creature has been the breath of the One. So when I stitch, I am only joining one part of His body to another. And when I pray, I am only doing it more slowly.

The courtier had nothing to say. He took the measurements and left.

Three days later, the sandals arrived at the palace. The king put them on. They fit so perfectly that he sat down on his throne and wept, because no garment in his vast wardrobe had ever known him the way these old leather sandals did. He sent gold. Ravidas returned the gold. He kept only enough to buy thread.

Your hands tonight are doing both kinds of work. Ordinary work. Sacred work. The hand that opens the door of the fridge is the hand that will, soon, cradle a small head. The hand that wipes the counter is the hand that will smooth a small fever. They are the same hands. They were always going to be. The cobbler in Banaras would have understood. Stitch by stitch. Loop by loop. The river is inside you, and it has not dried.