Mohammad Aslam Shirazi, parrot fortune-teller

n the maze of life, where destiny and chance mingle, Mohammad Aslam Shirazi is like a mystical orchestrator seated outside a revered shrine. Among many stalls selling fragrant flowers, silken chadors, tempting sweetmeats, ceramic finger rings or the ones studded with semi-precious stones, and various other trinkets, Shirazi presides over a peculiar spectacle.

A Kashmiri man in his fifties, with an air befitting a seer, Shirazi sits as the custodian of destinies. His sanctuary is adorned with a bright green parrot named Mitthoo, whose feathers seem to shimmer with the secrets of the cosmos. Shirazi invites the seekers of future and fortune to partake in a peculiar ritual where a feathered oracle dictates the narrative of their lives.

The process unfolds with a flourish, as the parrot, perched on a stick, embarks on a journey of fate. It delicately picks an envelope from an array spread on the ground. These envelopes purportedly contain the prophecies of Mitthoo. The congregation, a motley crowd of anxious souls and sceptics, gather to witness the unfolding drama of destiny. Shirazi orchestrates this performance of anticipation and revelation. However, he is quick to clarify his role; he is not the architect of destinies but a humble conduit. Mitthoo, the sage in feathers, is the real soothsayer. Shirazi goes on to say that the parrot, a well-trained mystic acquired from the market, needs no instruction.

Twenty years of sitting on the same footpath have made Shirazi a fixture, a timeless guardian of dreams and anxieties. Mitthoo, the fourth in the lineage of fortune-telling parrots, flits and flutters through the drama of human destiny.

Beyond the mysticism lies the pragmatism of survival. Shirazi has responsibilities. He supports four grown-up daughters and a young son studying at a government school. His eldest daughter is married and has a son; so is another daughter, who is only eighteen.

Every day (except when it rains), Shirazi sits on the footpath with his parrot from 9am until 9pm. He claims his sustenance from the langar khana - the free kitchen adjacent to the shrine, which offers lunch and dinner to pilgrims and the destitute. He views it as a rightful compensation for being the shepherd of destinies in the shrine’s bustling courtyard. He believes he is providing an important service to hundreds of people for a nominal fee, ranging from Rs 50 to Rs 150, paid by those seeking solace or enlightenment. People ask about their future and fortune concerning money, career, fame, marriage, love, winning or losing a lawsuit, or finding a house.

Poonita, dried fruit-seller

Poonita, aged somewhere between fifty-five and sixty, is a fixture in front of a large market selling meat and vegetables. She sells a variety of dried fruits, together with a few other women, representing the enduring entrepreneurial spirit of her Hindu Maheshwari community.

Poonita was born in Karachi in the old Bhimpura area. Her upbringing in this historical district witnessed her mother transforming into an entrepreneur, sourcing almonds, pistachios and raisins from a Pathan wholesale dealer to later vend her wares. Poonita’s own legacy unfolds as her married daughters, Sangeeta and Paavai, join her on the pavement, continuing the family tradition. For Poonita, this isn’t rivalry; it’s an opportunity to spend entire days with her daughters, cherishing and preserving her mother’s legacy.

The array of dried fruits and nuts she offers is diverse, ranging from shelled and unshelled almonds, walnuts and pistachios, to large golden raisins and smaller brown ones. Additionally, she provides dried apricots, dates and dried coconut, the piece de resistance being the coveted but prohibitively expensive chilghozas (pine nuts).

Despite her dedication, Poonita reveals the stark economic reality. The profit margins are meagre due to the slight price difference between semi-wholesale setting of the market where she sits and the main wholesale market. Poonita, with a weather-worn face from years of exposure to the sun, battles high blood pressure, occasionally requiring rest days at her humble abode.

Her home, a one-room dwelling in her impoverished neighbourhood, is shared with her husband, a former labourer, incapacitated by age and drugs. Six children form their family, with three daughters married and another daughter and two sons residing with them. Poonita, with a maternal concern, harbours worries about their well-being.

Commencing her day early, Poonita initiates it with puja, followed by a trip to the market to purchase vegetables so that her daughter can cook their afternoon and evening meals. Lunch at home is a rarity for Poonita. Her days are spent at the market. If stock allows, she forgoes the trip to the wholesale market for fresh supplies, otherwise, she undertakes the task of replenishing inventories. Any unsold goods at the end of the day find refuge in a kind shopkeeper’s establishment so that she does not have to cart it back and forth.

Operating on the footpath entails paying a ‘road tax’ to the municipal corporation. Poonita, a seasoned presence, seldom faces police solicitation. Reflecting on her longevity in the trade, she admits to the police’s occasional request for dried fruits, adding a touch of humour to her daily challenges.

Master Ghulam Shabbir, drummer

The dhol or drum, a venerable percussion instrument intricately woven into the fabric of sub-continental music, traces its origins back to the 15th Century. Ghulam Shabbir, a distinguished dholi revered as “Master,” adorns himself in a turmeric-yellow turban, a white kamees and shalwar, and a regal dark velvet waistcoat. Draped around his neck is his dhol, a symbol of pride embellished with a woven cotton strap, and adorned with pompons and charms dangling from its double-sided, wooden barrel drum, each end intricately patterned.

Master Ghulam Shabbir’s roots extend to the Khokhar clan. He proudly hails from Jhang district of the Punjab - one of the oldest districts of the sub-continent, and a cradle of Punjabi folk dances like Jhoomar for men and Sammi for women. The district also birthed the well-known folk music form called dhola or Jhang da dhola. Shabbir, a custodian of these cultural traditions, inherited his vocation from his father, who was not only a skilled dholi but also a proficient electrician, who seamlessly blended the ancient rhythms of the dhol with the modern demands of electrical expertise. Despite making a living as a dholi, he found joy and extra income in fixing electrical appliances and water pumps for the community.

The dhol, with its resounding bass, derives its distinctive sounds from animal hide stretched over its open ends. Shabbir, with a preference for authenticity, opts for real animal hide rather than synthetic alternatives. His commitment to tradition is evident as he describes the nuanced differences in sound produced by the thicker end, offering a deep resonance, and the thinner end, creating a higher frequency note.

Shabbir’s familial legacy extends to his son, who, devoid of a turban, mirrors his father’s kamees. In a harmonious collaboration, father and son take centre stage, wielding bamboo sticks with finesse. The thicker stick, slightly curved at the end, is known as dagga in Punjabi and strikes the bass side. The flexible thinner stick, known as tihli, produces the higher notes.

Shabbir’s ensemble comprises seven members, including his son, brother and cousins. Their chosen performance venue is an island on the road near a famous shrine, where the sounds of their percussion resonate amid the traffic.

Their performances find a diverse array of platforms – from weddings to traditional sports events like kabaddi or kushti (wrestling), to the fervor of political campaign rallies during elections. They pay a weekly fee to the Municipality but enjoy a harmonious relationship with the police. Observing religious sensitivities, the dholis refrain from performing during the first twelve days of Moharram and the entire month of Ramazan.

The financial compensation for their performances varies, starting at Rs 4,000 and ascending. Beyond the monetary aspect, Shabbir encapsulates the spirit of their vocation with a beaming smile, “Ours is happy work, so we remain happy.” In these words, Master Ghulam Shabbir summarises the essence of their musical journey – a celebration of heritage, a fusion of ancient rhythms with contemporary life, and an enduring joy in the pursuit of their craft.

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