30/11/2025
This customer was strange — perhaps even mad.
He walked into his shop holding a pair of shoes,
then bowed down to the shoes.
They were black leather shoes, made in Thailand, inexpensive, worn to the bone.
The lining was almost completely torn away.
Judging by their condition, they must have been used for twenty years or more.
Perhaps the owner believed the leather was still good — who could say?
The customer really did seem like he might be crazy.
He brought the shoes on a ceremonial tray, offering them up for repair.
He wanted to say,
“Just buy a new pair.”
But the man’s eyes, his expression — they said only one thing:
These shoes must be repaired.
“The owner loves them dearly. They’re his favorite pair,”
the customer said.
He wondered silently,
Who on earth keeps such old, worn-out shoes like this?
As if reading his mind, the customer explained,
“They are His Majesty’s favorite pair of shoes.
He wore them when he played music.”
He froze.
The word “royal shoes” was not something ordinary people used.
And the word “His Majesty” was certainly not.
“These are the shoes of His Majesty the King.”
A chill ran through him.
For a long moment, he couldn’t speak.
The royal attendant who had brought in the shoes asked quietly,
“So… can you repair them?”
“Yes, yes, I can,” he stammered.
“But it will take some time.”
In truth, he could finish the repairs in an hour.
But an hour felt far too short
for royal shoes to remain in his humble shop.
………………..
He had come from the countryside,
worked his way up as a hired hand in someone else’s shoe shop,
gaining skill through years of effort —
until finally he could open a shop of his own.
He repaired those royal shoes with every ounce of care he possessed.
When he finished, he placed them on a tray lined with a yellow cloth,
set high on the most honored spot in his shop.
He kept every scrap of what remained from the shoes —
every thread, even the dust —
as sacred things,
as blessings for his life.
The shoes of a man who travelled endlessly,
to the mountains, villages, rice fields,
to help the poor and suffering —
such shoes were worthy of reverence.
He framed the soles of the royal shoes.
And each time he looked at them,
he remembered the privilege he had been given —
a privilege no other shoemaker would ever have.
The age, the tears, the worn leather
became a living embodiment
of the philosophy of Sufficiency Economy
that their owner had taught the nation.
Not long after, the same royal attendant returned
with another pair — this one bearing marks of a dog bite.
“Courtesy of… Thong Daeng,” he said.
More shoes followed, pair after pair.
One day, he crafted a brand-new pair,
measuring everything from the repaired shoes he had been given.
He made them with his whole heart,
as an offering.
For shoes that would trek through forests,
cross fields,
reach remote places
just to help those in need —
he poured all of himself into them.
Those shoes disappeared for nearly three months.
Then one day, like waves returning to shore,
the attendant brought them back.
Alarmed, he asked,
“Did His Majesty not like them?”
“No.
His Majesty asked that they be returned…
to have anti-slip soles added.”
His eyes filled with tears.
His Majesty truly used them.
In the ten-plus years that followed,
he crafted more than ten pairs of royal shoes.
He intended to complete nineteen pairs
by the fifth of December that year.
But His Majesty…
no longer needed shoes.
—Sornkrai Naennseenin
The shoemaker who repaired His Majesty’s shoes
A humble citizen of King Rama IX
⸻
Translated by Leela W. Pagejourneypixels
