Relatively low temperature of the small room, filled with cheap tobacco smell, creates a sensory illusion of the place being cool on a hot a summer day in the bowels of the walled city of Lahore, where Allah Bachaya squats, kneeling on a stone slab and chiseling a rough piece of cow leather to give it the pointed, curved shape resembling a scorpion’s fang, the most noticeable part of Khussa – the traditional wedding footwear for groom.

The middle-aged artisan, like many of his colleagues working at a shoemakers workshop, belongs to south Punjab. Growing up in his native Daewali Marri village in Muzaffargarh district, it was natural for Allah Bachaya to join his family’s profession in his early teens as he never went to school. “As my family already had enough hands to make jutti – the simple heel-less shoe – for the locals who usually purchased footwear on Chhoti Eid [Eidul Fitr] or on weddings, I decided to move to Lahore, where a cousin had already migrated and was doing well,” says Bachaya for whom “doing well” meant earning enough to be able to send a few hundred rupees back home once or twice a month, some 20 years ago.

Being skilled, Bachaya got immediately employed at one of the sweatshops that had started cropping up mostly in the bethaks of Shahi Mohallah, once famous [or for many notorious] for its nautch girls, who under Gen Zia’s Islamisation had been forced to move to new localities of the city. Bachaya, now a ‘sole man’ -- a term locally used for the worker who works on shoe soles – earns enough to support his four children and wife living in his native village. “None of my children took up the family profession as they go to school,” says Bachaya with a proud smile.

His employer, Anwar, who himself started as a ‘karigar’ after migrating to Lahore from Pakpattan district in central Punjab, specialises in making Khussa. “Khussa used to be favourite with the feudal class for its pompous shape and shiny and delicate tilla [fine golden and silver thread] embroidery and light weight. Expert cobblers would take up to six months to finish a fine Khussa which you could fold and put in your pocket and the tilla work never loses its luster. As tilla got costlier and makers gone scarce, the original Khussa went out of common buyers reach. Now they make do with products like these,” he said, pointing to a Khussa embellished with fake pearls and diamond-shaped plastic pieces, that is sold in the market for around Rs2,000-Rs2,500.

Like many others running such small units in the area which is said to be the largest shoe manufacturing hub of the country, Anwar too laments declining sales in the recent years, partially because of Covid pandemic.

The dancers were not the only ones who left their houses in the old city, making room for the small shoe-making units there. The Riyals and Dinars pumped by those who got employed in the Middle East in early 80s also enabled many others to move to the city’s posh areas, vacating houses for these businesses. Some others like Tanzeel Malik were pushed by economic hardship to rent out portions to the shoe-making units, later himself joining the business.

“My father ran a small factory making plastic toys for children and earned well. Later, the market was taken over by more attractive Chinese products that had features like music and lights and were also cheaper, leaving him out of business. We rented out a portion of our house to a shoe-making unit, where I would spend my vacant hours and developed insight into its dynamics. Finally, I partnered with a friend and set up my own unit employing a couple of workers,” says Tanzeel, who now supplies women’s footwear to known brands in the local market.

A keen observer of the market dynamics, he is happy with the present government’s policies which he finds encouraging for local shoe-making units. “The duty on the import of raw materials has been slashed, which has benefited us as we import soles, buckles and glue from China. Because of the volatile situation in Afghanistan, we lost our major buyers. Our Afghan clients say they are waiting for the situation to become normal so that they could place new orders for the local manufacturers. Similarly, India too can be a good market for the men’s footwear made here. Kohati and Peshawari chappals [sandals] are much liked by Indian tourists, especially Sikh pilgrims, allowed to visit Lahore,” he says.

Iqbal, who has been working for Tanzeel for over two decades, is old school and not happy with the introduction of machines in the trade.

“After years of apprenticeship, I had developed expertise in hand-fitting [the traditional technique of sizing the shoe manually]. But later it was replaced by ‘firma fitting’ for which you need little expertise. Though this has expedited the production, the comfort of the shoe has been compromised,” he says.

“For women, especially those doing office jobs or teachers and students, variety is a priority. They want low-priced shoes that go well with their lawn prints, so comfort takes back seat for most of them. Their colour choices have also changed a lot. The traditional black, white, brown and skin have been replaced by bright yellow, neon pink and green,” he says.

Published in Dawn, August 19th, 2021