Noor Mohammad, newspaper vendor

congested and busy thoroughfare of the city serves as the backdrop for the daily struggles of Noor Mohammad, a middle-aged man eking out a living on a comparatively busy side street. Here, amid the constant flow of people and vehicles, Noor Mohammad operates a modest newspaper selling business on the footpath, his means of supporting a wife and six children in the economically marginalised neighbourhood where he lives.

A soft look in his large eyes reveals a story of determination. “My name is Noor Mohammad, son of Faqir Mohammad,” he introduces himself, leaning against a column plastered with layers of posters. Despite the challenges that life has thrown at him, Noor Mohammad’s gaze reflects a quiet strength. The newspapers he peddles predominantly feature Urdu and Sindhi languages, with only a couple of English publications breaking the linguistic monotony.

Noor Mohammad’s daily routine is as arduous as the environment he operates in. From 9:00 am to 4:00 pm, he stands steadfastly outside the Courts, where patrons flock to catch up on the latest news. The newspapers are delivered to him by agents who toss bundles onto the footpath from their bicycles or motorbikes, a routine synchronised with the rhythm of the street.

To maximise his earnings, Noor Mohammad has diversified his offerings. In addition to newspapers, he keeps a tray filled with samosas and other savoury snacks. He retails them at just a rupee more than his purchase of each snack, earning a meagre profit on every item sold. “This is just to supplement my daily income. The owner of this place charges me Rs 200 daily,” he explains.

His journey as a footpath entrepreneur spans a few years, but before that, Noor Mohammad toiled for almost a quarter of a century at the Iqbal Lace Factory. The unpredictability of employment at the factory compelled him to seek alternative means of sustenance. “I left it when, for long periods, there was no material, no electricity and therefore no work.”

Interestingly, Noor Mohammad, despite being surrounded by the printed word, is himself illiterate. He candidly admits this, expressing a touch of remorse for this limitation. However, his exposure to the daily newspapers has bestowed upon him a unique skill. Over time, he has learnt to recognise the mastheads of various publications. “It was quite difficult for me in the beginning, but now I can recognise the mastheads of all the papers. So if you ask for Ummat, Jasarat, Riasat or any other paper, I can pick it out for you,” he says, punctuating his statement with a sincere smile that speaks volumes about his resilience in the face of adversity.

Shaikhain, street

artist

Shaikhain, 50, a seasoned artist, weaves his livelihood amidst the bustling Zaibunnisa Street, in the heart of the city. Every day, he embarks on his trusty motorbike, navigating the roads from his distant suburb to his familiar spot, where the cacophony of life serves as his backdrop. Amidst the throngs of people, Shaikhain sets up his modest workstation, armed with his cherished tools of the trade: pencils, brushes and paints sourced from Saddar and Urdu Bazaar.

His craft is a spectacle, drawing a small crowd that gathers in quiet admiration as he deftly brings portraits to life. Over the past decade, Shaikhain has honed his skills, learning the art from none other than his elder brother, who is both his mentor and housemate. Together they navigate the ebb and flow of a meagre income, barely enough to sustain their household of eight.

Shaikhain’s artistic process is rooted in the stillness of photographs rather than the fleeting moments of real life. Despite the allure of the streets, he finds solace in the captured images, meticulously translating them onto canvas. His clientele spans the middle class, with occasional forays into the realm of the affluent who seek to immortalise their likeness through his skilled hand.

Yet, the financial tides of his profession are as unpredictable as the city’s weather. One month may yield a bountiful income of Rs 15,000, while the next brings a meagre Rs 5,000, leaving Shaikhain and his brother perpetually teetering on the edge of financial stability.

In the midst of his workday, Shaikhain finds respite in simple pleasures, indulging in hearty, albeit spicy, meals such as biryani, bun kabab or haleem procured from nearby vendors. He agrees that it’s not the best way to live, but there is little choice. “People take my work for granted,” he muses, his voice tinged with resignation. “They fail to see that I sketch and paint not for leisure but to sustain myself and my family,” he laments.

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