In childhood, ever tried slipping your puffy, stout feet into your father’s shoes?
Well, yes — I did.
I can recall dozens of such occasions when my father would return home in the evening, exhausted after a long, hard day’s work, and remove his shoes near the ‘Verandah’ of our house. Home — it used to be then. Not just a place, but a feeling.
I would keep track of his arrival time, hiding behind that unpolished yet surprisingly strong wooden fence, peeping through the narrow gaps between the planks. The creak of the main gate, the tuk-tuk of his footsteps, the sole marks on the dusty floor from his shiny black leather shoes — all signalled the world’s most comforting arrival: the arrival of Baba.
The moment he would step inside, I would quietly and carefully, like a cat, walk towards those shoes which were large, rough, and carrying the aroma of dust, dreams, desire, and effort. Then I would slide my tiny feet inside, trying to walk like him, feel like him and be like him. I would wobble awkwardly, stumble and fall, rise again, and fall once more — again and again.
Today, years later, as I’ve grown up and begun a family life of my own — with a daughter and a little son of four years — the same scene played itself in the courtyard of my house.
I was tired and worn out after a long day of toil at work. As I returned home in the evening and went straight to my room, my eyes fell through the windowpanes upon my little boy. He was walking slowly yet carefully to the extent of killing even the slightest sound of his footsteps.
And then, what I saw set my chest on fire and sent my eyes on a tour to the past. It was like a page from my own past unfolding before me. My little son had slipped his tiny feet into my shoes very secretly, softly, cautiously, and occasionally glancing up toward my room to check if I was coming down.
For a moment, my heart skipped a beat, and time stood still. I was in a state of alexithymia. I was stuck in the state of speechless awe. I was wordless and overwhelmed. In speechless awe, I was seeing myself in him— the same innocence, the same curiosity, the same unspoken wish to grow into the shoes of his father.
I realized then that life had come full circle. The shoes that once told my father’s story… now tell mine.
Seeing my son inherit my old habit of slipping his feet into his father’s shoes, I began to contemplate something profound. I realized that wearing a father’s shoes and truly walking in them was not easy then, nor is it easy now. There are infinite prerequisites to fulfil. From killing your sleep to killing your ego, from accepting defeat to enduring another’s arrogance, from swallowing bitter words to digesting hard truths, from letting go of endless desires to embracing endless sacrifices. All these are needed — not to walk comfortably with ease, but merely to avoid stumbling.
I learnt that father’s shoes don’t only carry a physical meaning but a figurative one as well. And the figurative meaning is far deeper, far more stirring and far more emotional.
Figuratively, those shoes carried the weight of endless days. They stood as silent witnesses to unending struggles and untold sacrifices. Every dust particle clung to them told unspoken tales of the rough and weary paths he has walked upon to see his children happy. Those shoes walked miles and miles long before the children even learned to stand.
The laces that tie them together seem to knot the very family bond itself — binding hearts, sealing love, and holding together what we call home.
Those shoes were more than leather and lace. They were lessons. The lessons of silence, struggle, and sacrifice. Every scratch was a story of endurance and every mark a milestone of love.
Honestly, at times, I am amazed at how our fathers in the past managed to financially balance their meagre incomes and yet sustain large families. How could one support so many dependents, provide every possible comfort and still remain free of debt trap? How they would build houses brick by brick, year after year and yet, a banking loan was never sought.
Truly, they were great souls.
Their strength lay not in wealth, but in wisdom in patient planning, in quiet endurance, in knowing how to stretch a single note without letting it tear their dignity apart. They knew how to cut their coat according to their size and how to smile even when pockets were empty.
They were honest in their dealings, faithful in their duties, and selfless in their love.
Behind every modest meal, every humble wall, stood years of silent sacrifice and a steadfast heart that never gave up on family, no matter how hard the season or how heavy the day.
May God count every step they took for their families as Sadaqah in their favour. May Allah bless the shoes that once walked before ours and give us strength to walk in ours with honesty, humility and patience.
Bashir Ahmad Dar is a Teacher from Anantnag and can be reached at darbashir1234321@gmail.com
