Anwar Iqbal, masseur

he city is swarming with a group of individuals known as malishiyas or masseurs. These skilled practitioners carry a variety of oils neatly arranged on small metal racks, producing a distinctive clanging sound as they traverse the city roads along busy thoroughfares or railway stations.

A diverse clientele, including delinquent youths, well-groomed professionals, and businessmen dressed in either shalwar kamees or sophisticated suits, seek the services of these masseurs. The latter whisk them away to their homes. Clusters of masseurs strategically position themselves at popular hangouts, anticipating male patrons.

A footpath on the bridge also serves as a makeshift stage for these masseurs. Colourful bottles of mustard, olive, coriander, coconut and almond oils form a vibrant display along the inner edge of the footpath. The masseurs patiently await potential clients, sometimes spreading an oil-stained sheet nearby to entice men to indulge in a rejuvenating massage. Strategically placed broken concrete blocks prevent the sheet from being carried away by the breeze.

Among the myriad of masseurs is Anwar Iqbal, a forty-five-year-old man with a diminutive stature, a grey beard and a genial smile. Born in Loralai, Balochistan, he moved out from his hometown fifteen years ago, initially working as a porter at the city railway station. He lived in a small quarter close to the station. Finding the task arduous, he relocated, ending up sleeping on the footpath and learnt the art of massage from fellow practitioners. A few years ago, Anwar Iqbal moved to his current location.

Anwar’s oils include coriander, mustard and almond. The latter being most expensive, he charges Rs 500 for a massage with it. “I buy freshly extracted oils from the market,” he says. Charging between Rs 350 to Rs 500 for his services, he highlights the unpredictability of his earnings. His daily struggle for “hawai rozi” or uncertain livelihood, is evident as he recounts the variability in income. Despite the potential for lucrative nights with consecutive clients or wealthy patrons seeking extended services, there are equally challenging times when dawn breaks without a single client, leaving him wondering how he will have his next meal.

Operating from sundown to dawn, Anwar Iqbal navigates the city’s streets during daylight hours. When the scorching sun becomes unbearable, he retreats to the narrow alleys of the old city to seek shade, rolling up his bedding and spending the day sleeping it off. His family, consisting of a wife and four children back in Loralai, relies on the financial support he sends whenever possible. The children attend a government school and are cared for within a joint family. They have never visited him.

Mohammad Yasin Qureshi,

rickshaw driver

The rhythm of Mohammad Yasin Qureshi’s life is set by the hum of his rickshaw engine, starting at 8:00 in the morning and persisting until the late hours of the night, with seldom a moment to rest. A poignant sigh escapes him as he recounts the routine: “I seldom reach home earlier. My wife is up, to serve me dinner, but my daughters are usually asleep by then. What to do?” the sacrifice embedded in his words echoes the universal struggle of those who toil for the welfare of their loved ones.

Despite the harsh realities he faces, Qureshi wears a disarming smile, revealing his paan-stained teeth that hint at the moments of respite he finds in the simple joys of life. Clad in a shalwar kamees, his shirt casually open, and feet bare, he weathers the sweltering heat on his rickshaw’s driver’s seat along the vibrant road, a bustling shopping district where he patiently awaits customers.

In stark contrast to the ornately adorned rickshaws that Pakistan is renowned for, Qureshi’s vehicle stands as a testament to the wear and tear of years of service. Its peeling paint and dented body silently narrate the tales of countless journeys undertaken to earn a livelihood.

Rooted in the cultural tapestry of Delhi, he is not just a rickshaw driver; he is the linchpin of a family comprising his mother, wife, four daughters, two younger brothers and a sister. With the weight of responsibility squarely on his shoulders, Qureshi is the sole provider, steering the course of their lives with the daily grind of his labour. A substantial portion of his earnings goes toward the daily rent for the rickshaw. Additional expenses for gas, lunch, tea and occasional dinners leave him a slender margin to make ends meet. Unfazed by the financial tightrope, he indulges in betel leaves and gutka to chew on. Proudly stating his aversion to smoking, Qureshi reflects on the importance of these indulgences as a means of keeping himself occupied amidst the challenges.

Navigating the crowded streets, Qureshi also encounters the hidden tax of survival – the amount he reluctantly parts with as extortion payment to various policemen, adding an extra layer of complexity to his daily ordeal. Despite the odds, he expresses gratitude for his unscathed journey thus far.

“Thanks to Allah, I have not had a major accident; if there is a small dent, or the rickshaw breaks down, the owner gets it fixed. I don’t have to pay,” he states with a hint of contentment, finding solace in the silver lining of his tumultuous occupation.

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