Shah Mohammad, water-carrier

hah Mohammad is a weathered figure, a bhishti or water-carrier – a term drawn from the Persian word behesht, meaning paradise, heavenly abundance or the otherworldly. This nomenclature aptly signifies the noble vocation embedded in the fabric of the South Asian community to which Shah Mohammad belongs – that of providing precious water to the needy. It is said that the name was first given to the community for providing water to quench the thirst of Muslim soldiers on the battlefront.

The water-carrier is also known as mashki, drawing its origin from the Persian term mashk, denoting a skin bag. This peculiar name finds its relevance in the strapped goatskin bag in which the mashki transports the life-sustaining liquid. A further historical alias for these water-carriers is saqqa, echoing a time when their service was integral to battlefield survival.

Shah Mohammad, a living embodiment of this ancient tradition, presents himself with dishevelled appearance, a hint of gray gracing his beard. His once pristine white attire has succumbed to the wear and tear of his labour, fading into a dull gray. His shalwar is folded up to avoid any inadvertent splashes. Commencing his daily routine, he diligently fills his mashk from the government-provided tap on the street, transferring the water into a robust steel tank mounted atop a handcart. Navigating through the thoroughfares, Shah Mohammad undertakes the arduous task of delivering water to the denizens of the surrounding apartment buildings. At each designated point of sale, he replenishes his mashk from the tank, ascending staircases to discharge the precious cargo into the awaiting storage units within people’s homes. This laborious process continues tirelessly throughout the day. Earning a modest daily income ranging from Rs 600 to Rs 1,500, he seldom allows himself the luxury of a day off.

Shah Mohammad’s journey into the realm of the bhishti was not a conventional one. Formerly a tyre-puncture repairer at a car mechanic’s workshop, he made the pragmatic shift to water-carrying a few years ago due to inadequacy of his former wages.

“Everyone needs water. I like going into people’s homes and delivering water to them,” he declares with a sense of pride. Residing in an impoverished neighbourhood with his wife and three children, Shah Mohammad’s goatskin, his indispensable companion, bears the scars of time, much like a worn-out tyre. A goatskin lasts only a few months of service, necessitating a replacement that comes at the cost of Rs 2,000 or more.

Abdul Karim, slipper-seller

The burly Abdul Karim is a man with strong convictions, and an even stronger aversion to cameras. Spot one aimed in his direction and the slipper seller vanishes faster than you can say “cheese.” It’s not shyness, though; it’s his steadfast belief that being photographed isn’t in line with his faith. But don’t let his retreat fool you, as his stall, a carnival of gaudy, glittering slippers, ensures he’s anything but low-key.

Karim’s collection is a riot of reds and golds, decked out with rhinestones, beads and sequins that could put a Bollywood set to shame. “Subtle” is not in his vocabulary. The man himself, a fifty-something alumnus of Kharadar’s Government School for Boys (Matric pass, thank you very much), has been running this chappal stall for 35 years - almost as long as some of his slippers have been sparkling.

His family hails from Kodinaal in Kutch, Gujarat - a region known for its exquisite crafts, from embroidered textiles to dazzling jewelry. It’s easy to see how Karim’s blinged-out slippers channel a bit of that Kutchi flair, even if their sequins are more “local charm” than “museum piece.”

“My slippers range from Rs 100 to Rs 500,” Karim announces proudly. His clientele? A mix as eclectic as his wares - villagers from Thatta, Badin, and Balochistan, as well as a steady stream of Lyari locals. Clearly, there’s no accounting for taste.

Despite the glamour of his goods, Karim’s operation is decidedly no-frills. His stall is a masterpiece of street-level ingenuity: wooden planks balanced on stacks of cardboard boxes, all overflowing with slippers. Rent? None. Security? That’s a team effort. The stall owners pitch in Rs 100 a day for a communal chowkidar, who guards the treasures under the Karachi night sky.

Karim’s supply chain is equally humble. He stocks up from wholesale hubs in Korangi, Lalukhet, Chuna Bhatti and Ranchore Line on his rare day off. The rest of his week? It’s all hustle, from 8.00 am to 7.00 pm, selling enough to scrape by for his family.

The slipper maestro is frugal where it counts, bringing a packed lunch from home. But he indulges in other luxuries - namely, endless cups of tea, paan and gutka, keeping him fueled as he hawks his bedazzled goods. Abdul Karim may lead a modest life, but his slippers, and his dedication, shine brighter than any rhinestone.

The writer is an author, illustrator and educator. She may be reached at husain.rumana@gmail.com