Mohammad Saleem, donkey-cart driver

In the gritty lanes of Kalakot, Lyari, Muhammad Saleem, a 45-year-old donkey-cart driver, defies the challenges of his profession with a cheerful disposition. Despite his paan-stained teeth and a stammer that punctuates his speech, Saleem’s spirit remains undaunted. Residing in BakraPeeri, he plies his trade in the bustling Pakistan Chowk area.

Muhammad Saleem’s connection with the donkey and the cart he manoeuvres through city streets is one of daily lease, a proof to the economic dynamics that govern his livelihood. Each morning, he diligently reports to the owner, who rents out the indispensable duo to him. As the sun sets on his laborious day, Saleem dutifully returns both the donkey and the cart to their owner, relinquishing a quarter of his hard-earned wages in the process.

Undeterred by the financial arrangements, Saleem shoulders the responsibility of sustaining his four-legged companion. Before embarking on his daily journey, he procures grass, hay and barley for the donkey from the BakraPeeri area. The cost of the donkey’s sustenance, amounting to Rs 300 daily, is borne solely by Saleem. “I make approximately Rs 40,000 per month,” he says, a testament to the resilience required to make ends meet in this demanding occupation.

Saleem’s workday unfolds from 10:30 am to 8:30 pm, a relentless cycle of loading his cart with assorted materials requested by the proprietors of shops and printing presses in the area. Tasked with ferrying goods from one location to another, he navigates through the chaotic streets, his donkey-drawn cart a familiar sight in the hustle and bustle of urban life.

Recalling the evolution of his trade, Saleem reminisces about the years spent laboriously pulling a hand cart. The physical strain prompted him to transition to a donkey cart, a decision that lightens his load, albeit symbolically. “I have put the donkey in front of the cart instead of myself!” he chuckles, underscoring the pragmatic approach that defines his profession. “I cover longer distances, and make Rs 400 per trip,” he says.

Curiously, the donkey that faithfully assists Saleem in his daily endeavours remains nameless. Reflecting on this, Saleem concedes that he never contemplated naming his steadfast companion. However, in a spontaneous moment spurred by the curiosity of passers-by who stop to hear him share his account, he acquiesces to a name - ‘Hero.’ “Yes, he is my Hero!” Saleem declares, pulling at the reins.

Muhammad Yaqoob, guard

Dressed in a pristine white ensemble, Muhammad Yaqoob emanates an air of formidability. Cloaked in a shalwarkamees and adorned with a traditional Bugti turban, he proudly represents the Baloch culture. Engaged as an armed guard at a private residence, Yaqoob dedicates himself tirelessly to the security of the household. His commanding presence is heightened by a bandolier wrapped around his waist and chest, showcasing an array of cartridges. Complementing his attire, a jet-black beard, cascading shoulder-length tresses and piercing eyes tinged with red contribute to an aura of stern vigilance.

Whether standing sentinel or perched just outside the residence gate, Yaqoob spends most of his waking hours on duty. During scorching summer days, seeking refuge from the relentless sun, he positions his chair on a narrow ‘island’ in the middle of the street, adorned with trees that offer a semblance of shade and solace. As night descends, his charpoy is spread within the confines of the gate, where he slumbers with one hand firmly gripping his 12-bore repeater gun – a weapon laden with live ammunition. The gun’s long barrel is decorated with a strip of meticulously embroidered fabric, a masterpiece crafted by his wife. The Baloch mirror-work embroidery, executed with colourful silk threads and accented with red tassels, adds a personal touch to his arsenal.

Yaqoob’s wife and their two children live with his parents, who, originally hailing from DeraBugti in Balochistan, now live in Sanghar, Sindh. Though Yaqoob’s formal education was cut short at a primary school in Nawabshah due to the family’s financial constraints, he is proficient in three languages: his mother tongue, Balochi, the medium of instruction in school, Sindhi, and the national language, Urdu.

Relocating at the age of twenty, Yaqoob joined other relatives already employed in the city, securing his initial job in a prestigious area. Despite economic hardships, Yaqoob manages to visit his family every three months. He gets fifteen days off to go and meet them in Sanghar. Altogether there are a dozen members of the family living under one roof, including his siblings.

Contrary to standard assumptions, Yaqoob clarifies that the gun is his personal possession and does not belong to his employer. His employment hinged on his possession of the firearm. Although the gun remains loaded at all times, the chamber is not engaged. He has never had to employ it during his watch.

Recalling an incident where he witnessed a street robbery, Yaqoob narrates an episode where a motorbike rider accosted a woman in a car, brandishing a revolver. Watchin the unfolding crime, Yaqoob refrained from intervening. His unwavering loyalty lies with his employer, compelling him to maintain his post and refrain from intervening in other incidents transpiring under his vigilant gaze. “I stand guard at this gate, keeping a watchful eye on domestic help in neighbouring houses and passers-by. This is my duty,” he justifies his choice.

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