The Old Woman with Torn Shoes Walked Past Me Restored My Faith in Humanity

It was a winter morning and cold. There was a sharpness to the air, the sky was heavy with gray clouds that threatened more rain. Human beings were rushing through the streets with their overcoats hugging them close and their eyes riveted on cell phones as their minds were already in their office or in school. I was close to a little bakery and had a paper cup of hot coffee in my hand trying to warm my hands as much as my body. That was the time I saw her.

It was a small old woman, with a stooped back, and a shuffle of a walk. Hair was white and thin, and covered by a worn scarf. Her coat was shabby, the stuff of which had long since lost its power of resistance. I was however impressed by her shoes. They were shredded, holes on the sides and the soles coming off. Her socks had been wet with puddles and every time she took a step, she was almost cold to the bone. She was walking so peaceably and yet so dignified, not begging, not halting, not even turning to seek sympathy. She seemed to have got accustomed to not being seen in a hectic world.

When she went by I saw how no one cared. People elbowed her out of the way as though she were an inanimate object, a lamp post or a shadow. She had a little cloth bag in her hand, and, the manner in which she held on to it, I knew it contained all she possessed. No one was walking along with her; no one was waiting on the corner; no family, no friend.

Her loneliness seemed to me more than her disheveled shoes. It was the sort of loneliness that is not only the result of being alone, but of being forgotten. And at that moment I could not simply turn away. I was aware that I would be sorry to pass her by. My heart prompted me to do something no matter how little.

I reached her and whispered, Ma’am, you are all right? Are you in trouble?” She was startled a moment. She had not heard anyone speak kindly to her in a long time, seemingly. Then she smiled sweetly, but her eyes were glittering with some suppressed grief, and she said, I am all right, dear. This is normal to me.”

Her voice was a little tremulous, but warm. We sat together in a bench nearby and she declined the coffee I brought but was happy, it seemed, to have someone to talk to. She presented herself as Margaret. She was eighty two years.

Margaret was formerly a school-teacher. She informed me about how she enjoyed teaching children poems, songs and stories. She lightened up when she started talking about her students as they were the happiest days of her life. But then her voice led to whisper as she talked of her losses.

More than twenty years previously her husband had died. Her only daughter lived on the other end of the country and did not come to her much. She has another life, her family. I do not wish to disturb her, Margaret said, and she clutched her bag nearer to her breast.

The old lady had a small pension that was hardly sufficient to take care of her rent and medicines. She missed meals in most months so that she could clear her bills. She had sold nearly all she had possessed. The pair of shoes that she wore were six years old. She had sewed them, and resewed them, but the stitches had finally lost the will to live.

I had a lump in my throat listening to her. Here was a woman who had dedicated her life to others- to her students, her family, her community and here she was in her latter years and she had so little left to call her own.

I glimpsed down at her shredded shoes and felt an infusion of strength. I did not hesitate to invite her to a local shoe store. She shook her head at first in refusal. I would not take charity, she answered. But I took her hand soothingly and said, This is not charity. That is respect. You are better than this.”

Her eyes filled with tears, and slowness, she nodded.

When we were inside the store, magic occurred. Margaret beamed, and glanced about in almost a childish way, as though she were seeing marvels with her eyes. She selected a plain rough pair of warm shoes. No glitz, no glamour, no money. But when she put them on, the prettiest thing that ever I saw came out when she smiled. She was a little taller, a little firmer in her walk, as though those shoes had restored a little dignity as well as comfort to her.

The storekeeper, who had spent the time watching, leaned over to me and said, slowly, in a low voice, brushing his moustache, “You did a fine thing today.”

Then we went to the bakery after the shoes. I had her some hot bread and tea. She was eating slowly enjoying each morsel as something she had not eaten in a long time. In between bites she said more about her life to me–about her garden which she once had loved, about evenings when she read books aloud to her daughter, about the laughter which had filled her small home.

But all that was past. Only silence, long empty hours and the beat of her own footsteps in her little apartment remained. And yet, in spite of it all she smiled as she spoke. I was wrecked by that smile. It was the smile of a person who had lived through a great deal of pain but managed to retain grace.

I understood that Margaret did not only require the shoes or food. The biggest thing she needed was to feel seen, heard, that she was remembered.

I posted Margaret story that night hoping that someone will get encouraged. I did not have many expectations. However, much to my surprise, the people were immensely kind. Others were willing to send shoes, others warm clothes and many wrote letters addressed to Margaret only.

A week later when I came to visit her, her small apartment was full of these letters and gifts. She was shaking them up in her agitated hands, tears rolling down her face. She murmured, without knowing it, the words, I did not know that there were so many people that cared. The lady was lonely, as she had always been in the past years, but now she felt the love of strangers turned into her extended family.

Margaret taught me one lesson that I will never forget. There are times when a simple gesture of kindness such as shoes, a hot meal, or a listening ear can turn around the life of a person. However, it is not only that; she also helped me realize that in old age, dreams are never over and that the biggest appetite is not an appetite of food, but an appetite of love, respect and dignity.

When I was bidding her good-bye that day, and she embraced me, she said, You have not only given me shoes, dear. You restored my honor.”

It is months since that day but I still remember Margaret. There are times when I pass benches and I look at her. And when I do, and there she is, all seated in her new shoes, smiling at strange people, I feel hope rise in my breast.

As Margaret is an example that there is still such thing as kindness. That the world could be a busy cold place, but not the loss of mankind. It only needs one to stop, to see, to care and that simple gesture is able to renew the faith of not only one old woman but of all those who are listening to her story.

It is not only a tale of a worn-out woman in tattered shoes. This is about how simple it is for society to forget about those people who once gave society everything. It is a story of silent pride of the old and how love can shine again in a life that has been plunged into darkness by isolation.

And so whenever you come across a Margaret, that is, an old woman going slowly, with more memories than possessions and wearing shoes that are falling to pieces, stop. Speak. Listen. Give a hand. Since it has been known to happen that even the tiniest bit of kindness can help redefine someone faith in life.. and your faith in humanity.