n the bygone era of kasa (bronze), peetal (brass) and taamba (copper) utensils, the tinsmith or qalaiwala’s calls echoed through bustling streets. Picture a time when kitchens were adorned with these metallic vessels, their inner (and often also the outer) sides veiled in a lustrous sheen of silvery tin, known locally as qalai. The practice was born out of necessity, for brass, an alloy of copper and zinc, was deemed unfit for cooking. The qalai, a protective coat, shielded the utensils, rendering them safe for cooking or for storing cooked food. Yet, this protective shield required periodic coating, as it tarnished and faded within a few months.

The qalaiwala, a nomad capable of gleaming transformations, would traverse the city’s labyrinthine streets, his resonant call beckoning households to partake in the alchemy of restoration. Upon his arrival, he would fashion a temporary workshop on the ground, carving into the earth to create a pit. A leather dhonkani (or bellows), nestled within, was covered with soil. A satchel of coal that he carried with him awaited its fiery destiny to heat the utensils to a glowing warmth. The burning coal was kept alive by pumping air through the dhonkani. Enter the qalai, a tiny piece of pure tin, melting like liquid silver upon contact with the heated surface. With a masterful stroke, he would spread the molten tin, transforming the once mundane vessel into a resplendent piece. Next, he would immerse the rejuvenated utensil into a bucket of cold water, sealing the radiant coating in a shimmering embrace.

The march of time ushered in the era of stainless steel, aluminium and plastic, accompanied by sophisticated culinary contraptions. Wood, kerosene and coal stoves bowed out. New cooking appliances such as the pressure cookers, gas, electric and microwave ovens found their way into people’s kitchens. The need for qalai waned and the qalaiwala faded from the urban scene.

Meet Ahmad Bakhsh, a weathered artisan in his late sixties, hailing from Yusuf Goth near the Hub Chowki on the outskirts of Karachi. A custodian of tradition, he inherited the delicate craft from his father when he was only eight years old. His grandfather owned a restaurant in Landhi. Despite his mastery, Ahmad chose not to pass the torch to his progeny, four sons and three daughters, a decision tinged with the bitter reality of poverty that shackled his family. “What’s the point?” he asks. None of his children could go to school as he could not afford to buy them textbooks, although tuition was free in government schools. “My children do various low-wage jobs, and are trapped in the web of poverty,” he says despondently.

Ahmad Bakhsh now sits in repose in an sold area of the city, a living relic of a bygone era. No longer does this qalaiwala traverse the city’s arteries, his clientele having dwindled to a trickle. Once a virtuoso who could revive a hundred vessels in a day, he now considers himself fortunate to work on one or two. “The qalai (tin) was once imported from Singapore, Malaya and Ceylon. It now it comes from China,” he says. He believes that some people now use sikka (lead) which comes as a bluish rod and is cheaper than qalai. (Lead is toxic and continued exposure to it a health hazard).

Ahmad Bakhsh charges a modest fee of Rs 50 per average vessel. Occasionally summoned by clubs, hotels or caterers with grand kitchens, he labours on, to polish their big degs or iron karahis. It is rather sad that he is one of the few guardians of a dwindling tradition, his hands crafting beauty out of the ordinary.

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