he day was nearing its end. The crimson light that typically appears before twilight had engulfed Katcheri Road as I reached the Punjab University’s Old Campus bookshop.

I caught sight of an old man with a vintage typewriter perched atop a rickety desk on a footpath. He was thinly bearded and wore a plain shalwar kamees topped by a taqiyah cap. What intrigued me was his face which showed no expression.

I felt compelled to approach him. He told me his name was Waris Ali. I asked him what services he offered to his customers, and he opened up.

Ali told me that at his roadside ‘shop’ he mostly “corrects mistakes in official documents such as nikah nama.”

“Does anyone ever come to you to get an entire document typed?” I asked.

He smiled. “That happens rarely, beta. Once in a while, maybe.”

He said that he had been working as a typist for 40 years. He recalled how there was a time when he’d be overwhelmed by customers. “I wouldn’t have time to look around,” he added. “Now, days pass by, and you don’t see a customer.”

I left him, hoping to come back soon.

Going around in the city, you frequently come across such people who’ve stuck to their vocations, no matter how obsolete or outdated. Call it their dedication or their ignorance, if you will, but they profess to being completely loyal to their craft.

When I returned the following week, Ali was still there, engrossed in his thoughts, with no customer in view. I greeted him with salaam and sat beside him. I started the conversation by asking if he had received any customers over the past week. He did not turn to look at me. Then, he said, “No.”

A quiet fell between us. I found myself at a loss for words. I didn’t know how to console him. So I said goodbye and left.

On my way back, I couldn’t stop thinking about how people like Ali had become redundant as technology and times .changed; and how I didn’t know how to help any of them.

But I do know one thing for sure; — these people deserve a better life. The man, who had served the people of my city at a time when there were no computers, has no one to extend him support — moral or financial.

Going around in the city, you frequently come across such people, stuck to their vocations, no matter how obsolete or outdated. Call it their dedication or their ignorance, if you will, but they profess to being completely loyal to their craft. If only their crafts could remain relevant.

Usama Malick, an occasional contributor, has an MPhil in English.