Ali Nawaz, Sindhi cap-seller

Meet Ali Nawaz, a spirited sixty-year-old Sindhi cap-seller hailing from Saeedabad taluka in Matiari district. His livelihood revolves around the artistry of handmade Sindhi caps, renowned for their intricate craftsmanship. The Sindhi cap, or topi as it is called in Sindhi and Urdu languages, is a traditional skullcap primarily worn by men. Crafted from fabric and adorned with elaborate embroidery, this round, flat cap has a history spanning thousands of years, with the modern version introduced during the Kalhoro era, a couple of hundred years ago, but came into common use during the Talpur period.

Sporting a vibrant Sindhi topi made of bright purple thread, Ali Nawaz, with his half-closed kohl-lined eyes and a broad smile, proudly asks, “No Sindhi worth his name stays away from sporting a Sindhi cap; right?” His dyed hair peeks out from under his cap. It is complemented by a thick black moustache.

For several years, Ali Nawaz has been dedicatedly selling Sindhi caps. However, he notes that the Sindh Culture Day, also known as Sindhi Topi Day, observed on December 4, 5 and 6 every year since 2009, significantly boosts sales. This cultural celebration allows the people of Sindh to express their loyalty to Sindhi culture and its ancient symbols. The Topi Day, initiated by Hasan, a young resident of Balhreji district in Larkana through a campaign using cell-phone messages, has become a prominent event. Alongside the Sindhi ajrak, worn by both men and women, Sindhi caps are a symbol embraced by men of all ages.

On a slow day, Ali Nawaz may sell only four caps, each meticulously embroidered and sewn by women from his village who dedicate about a fortnight to a piece. The circular Sindhi cap, uniquely designed with a front cut-out exposing the forehead, is a source of pride for Ali Nawaz. He says he carries an array of hundred caps, with designs featuring geometric and floral patterns, often adorned with small mirror pieces that “shimmer in sunlight all day. In moonlight, they are like the stars that dance all night,” the poetic Ali Nawaz says smilingly.

Ali Nawaz’s wife and children, five daughters and one son, reside in the village while he roams from town to town. When in Karachi, he lodges at the servants’ quarter section at the house of Sain Amjad Husain. Ali Nawaz is his mureed or religious disciple. From 8:00 am to 8:00 pm, he roams the town, offering his Sindhi caps. His routine consists of starting the day after breakfast, with lunch at a nearby restaurant, opting for an “affordable meal of daal (lentils) or sabzi (vegetables),” he smiles again.

Ali Nawaz’s journey as a Sindhi cap-seller is not merely a means of income but also a cultural odyssey, weaving together tradition, craftsmanship and personal connections. As he traverses the towns, his vibrant caps become not just accessories but also embodiments of Sindhi identity and heritage.

Surayya, cleaning-cloth-seller

Surayya, originally from Quetta, Balochistan, made a life-altering move to Karachi alongside her husband and two young children many years ago. For over two decades, she has been a familiar face near traffic signals and petrol stations, navigating through cars and buses, peddling cleaning cloths to drivers and pedestrians.

Her story takes a poignant turn when Surayya recounts the loss of her husband, a driver who succumbed to a stroke a few years ago. “We were never affluent, but a much harder struggle began after my husband’s demise,” she reflects sombrely. Left to fend for her six daughters and a son, Surayya now resides with her five children in a modest two-room dwelling, paying a monthly rent that has been on the rise.

The responsibility of managing the household falls on Surayya’s daughters, of whom two are now married. They engage in daily chores, occasionally taking up small sewing jobs. Meanwhile, her son follows in her footsteps, selling cleaning cloths in another part of the area. The family’s circumstances took a downturn when Surayya suffered a fall from a moving bus, resulting in the loss of some of her front teeth. Despite the adversity, she maintains a resilient spirit, even humorously expressing a wish for her replacement teeth to be gold, not brass.

Commutes on crowded buses constitute a daily struggle for Surayya, but she has grown accustomed to these inconveniences. She finds solace in the kindness of people, especially those at the places where she peddles her cleaning cloths. The workers at petrol stations, in particular, share their lunch with her, exemplifying the camaraderie that sometimes emerges in unexpected places.

Surayya’s daily earnings range between Rs 500 and Rs 800, derived from selling cleaning cloths of various patterns, sizes and colours. She is aware of the humble origins of her merchandise, stating that they are likely crafted from old tee-shirts, flannel shirts and nightgowns procured from second-hand markets. A particular shop is her source of supplies. The cost varies, contingent on the quality and size of the cloth. “People use these for cleaning their cars or window panes, and for dusting, or mopping up spills,” she explains.

In a quest for diversity, Surayya occasionally expands her inventory to include safety, pins, hair combs, spools of coloured thread or waistbands. These items are presented with a similar entrepreneurial zeal at the traffic lights, where she appeals to potential customers. Through her tenacity and resourcefulness, Surayya navigates challenges by zigzagging between vehicles on the road that is her life.

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