Khalid Mahmood, knick-knack seller

n a vibrant area of the bazaar, where the echoes of commerce reverberate through narrow alleys, stands Khalid Mahmood, a knick-knack peddler, proudly proclaiming, “I have had this stall here for twenty years.” Positioned just outside an abandoned ground floor flat, Mahmood’s makeshift emporium defies its humble origins, as the eclectic trinkets beckon the passers-by.

The stall, a testament to Mahmood’s entrepreneurial spirit, is a humble structure crafted from cement blocks. Atop this foundation lies a wooden plank, adorned with weathered bed sheets that have borne witness to two decades of commerce. Strings are artfully tethered from a window grill to a nearby door, suspending an array of secondhand Urdu books and magazines like a literary cascade.

With an air of contentment, the sixty-year old Mahmood unveils the essence of his clientele, primarily catering to the economically underprivileged women and children who frequent his narrow ‘counter.’ A mosaic of fifty assorted trinkets awaits the discerning eye, each bearing the mark of affordability, ranging from a mere Rs 10 to Rs 100. Safety pins, colourful threads on reels, vanity mirrors, shoe laces, plastic combs, safety-razors, packets of dry henna, betel nut, fennel seeds, hard candies, miswaak/ dandasa and counterfeit rupee notes – all coalesce into an eclectic bazaar of modest wonders.

Though hailing from the Punjab, Mahmood has embedded himself in the vibrant tapestry of Sindh. Every morning, his pilgrimage leads him to one of the bustling wholesale markets of the city, a repository of treasures from which he replenishes his daily stock. By 11am, he transforms the footpath into his canvas, with products of affordability for the local denizens.

Undeterred by the shadows of bureaucracy, Mahmood declares, “I have never been harassed by policemen for operating from the footpath. They do not ask for a bhatta although the fruit-sellers in makeshift stalls a little further along the same road report paying Rs 500 as extortion money.” Mahmood navigates the labyrinth of legality unscathed. He keeps his stall open until 9pm. “There is enough light in the street for me to operate my shop after sunset.” At night, he meticulously packs his wares into cartons, finding refuge in a nearby shop until the dawn of a new day.

The story of Mahmood transcends the mere exchange of goods; it is a testament to perseverance and resourcefulness. Earning a modest amount per month, he sustains not only himself but also his wife and three children. While he may not have had the privilege of formal education, his children are afforded the opportunity to receive an education – an investment in the promise of a brighter tomorrow.

Husaini, duplicate key-maker

In the bustling heart of the city, just outside a Chinese dental clinic, where Husaini stores his kiosk each evening at sunset, a symphony of metal clinks. Occasional whirrs also emanate from a modest wooden kiosk perched on the footpath. Husaini is a seasoned craftsman in his mid-sixties, transforming this unassuming space into a dock for the intricate artistry of key-making.

Duplicate key-making requires skill: dexterity of the hands, a few tools and a supply of old keys and blanks. For three decades now, his nimble hands have been duplicating keys, turning the mundane into a skilful business venture.

Nestled in the confined dimensions of his tiny workshop, measuring a mere 18 by 18 inches, Husaini orchestrates his craft. The kiosk, a wooden worktop with a discreet cabinet beneath, conceals the mysteries of his trade. A frame on the cabinet’s side showcases an array of keys suspended, dangling, like a melodic composition waiting to be heard. “The keys are my signboard,” he declares. “I depend on good weather and good daylight. I cannot work when it gets dark.” His home is in a congested neighbourhood of the city.

Husaini dresses in typical Bohra community attire, doning a white kurta and pajama, accentuated by a distinctive white topi - cap – adorned with a patterned border. His journey into key-making began after completing his studies up to Class 9. Following in the footsteps of his father, who ran a modest cutlery shop, he stepped into the world of craftsmanship. After his father’s demise, he was propelled into learning the craft of making duplicate keys by apprenticing with a seasoned key-maker.

While it once took him 5 to 6 minutes per key with the deftness of his hands alone, the acquisition of a key-cutting machine a few years ago has elevated his efficiency to a key per minute. With an air of pride, he discloses his daily output, ranging from forty to sixty keys. His charges, he notes, fluctuate between Rs 50 and Rs 100 per key, dependent on the intricacy of the design. “Most keys are quite simple, but sometimes a key has a complex design, and takes longer,” he says.

Peering into the essence of his artistry, Husaini unveils the hidden life within old keys, salvaged from the hands of junk dealers or entrusted to him by patrons. “Old or discarded things are not always useless. They should not be thrown away, but given to someone who can make use of them,” he imparts wisely, encapsulating the ethos of a craftsman who breathes life into forgotten fragments.

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