Any dying man would be a doctor’s special concern. But this one was very special for my uncle. He sat close to the gasping man and whispered, “I am the one you sent for.”

He had just taken out the two bullets the police had used to take the man down and knew the damage was extensive and irreparable. All he could do now was to help reduce his pain and find out why he had specifically asked for him.

He knew the man as Ram, but almost certainly that wasn’t his real name. Three years ago some farmers had found Ram at the edge of their field, dying of bullet wounds, and had carried him to uncle’s country clinic. He was 65, a country doctor who had become a legend in his lifetime and drew patients from over twenty villages in eastern India. A large man, with silver hair and a walrus moustache, he was the calmest of listeners and gentlest of healers. He treated many of his poor patients free and I marveled to see his eyes mist when women or children spoke of their pain.

Ram had said that he had been robbed and then shot by hoodlums. He teetered on the verge of death for weeks before he recovered. Because he now walked with a limp and could not return to his work as a day laborer, my uncle hired him as a domestic. The children liked him, and he became a part of the family.

One day he disappeared, about as suddenly as he had originally appeared. My uncle missed him, but when others commented on Ram’s ingratitude in leaving without a word, he said, “We don’t know why he left so suddenly. We shouldn’t guess, and we shouldn’t judge until we know.”

A shattering blow came in less than a month.

Ram, it turned out, was no day laborer. He led a notorious gang of outlaws who had been shot not by hoodlums, but by police in the course of a violent encounter. Worse, when he had left, he had stolen my uncle’s hunting rifle, using his position as a trusted domestic. Since rejoining his gang, Ram had shot and killed two policemen with the gun. Now my uncle was implicated, because the police presumed that he had allowed the misuse of his gun or at least been negligent in its safekeeping.

After grilling him for three days in the district court, the authorities let my uncle go but cancelled his gun license. The public humiliation was his worst punishment.

Now, after more than two years, a police car had fetched him to the bedside of a dying man who did not want any doctor but my uncle. 

Ram said, “Doctor, you saved my life once. In return, I stole from you.” He paused, and added, “Please forgive me if you can.” 

Those were his last words.

​When promoted to executive status, my style needed an upgrade, my boss decided. He introduced me to his shoemaker, Jin Cheung. I had survived on off-the-shelf shoes all my life and had no idea of custom-made shoes. Jin was to change all of that.
 
Jin’s grandfather had moved from the depressed Fujian province of China to Rangoon, capital city of Burma, now Myanmar. He was a master shoemaker, whose handiwork adorned the feet of the Burmese elite. When the Japanese 15th Army invaded Burma in January 1941 after taking China and the Philippines, he advised his son, who had just completed his apprenticeship in the trade, to move to the bustling Chinatown in Kolkata, India. It was an easy move, since Burma was a part of British India, and the son established and grew in time a successful shoe repair business in Calcutta.
 
Jin, the grandson had a different idea. He cared little for his father’s lucrative repair business, and focused on the small number of clients who wanted handcrafted customized shoes. He was determined to put to use the extraordinary skills he had learned from his grandfather as a hobby, and pressed his father to teach him the subtleties of fine shoe making that business imperatives had led the old man to put aside. Among the nouveaux riches in post-war India, the extraordinary quality of Cheung upscale footwear became the talk of cognoscenti.
 
When I met Jin, he was 47, a small, humble, modestly dressed man, who gave no clue to his encyclopedic knowledge of shoes. He asked, in his limited vocabulary, if I “liked” shoes. Confused, I told him that I did not have any strong feelings, but could see that some shoes were designed beautifully while others weren’t. He seemed to approve of my sense of discrimination and went on to ask if I knew much about leather. When I confessed I didn’t, he gently reassured me that he could correct the situation shortly. He spread out on my desk a large number of samples, and proceeded to describe their origin, features, processing and characteristics. Next was the design. He just focused on dress shoes, and showed me a bewildering variety of styles from four catalogs. As with the leather, he expertly narrowed the display to my preferences, but steered me gently with succinct explanation of the merits and disadvantages of a choice. It was an extraordinary guided tour with a mild-mannered master who seemed intent on helping me make the most knowledgeable decision. I felt so educated and entertained at the same time that, when it came time to place an order, I unhesitatingly ordered two pairs and did not even ask his price.