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Khadijabai, papad seller
Hadijabai, 70, lost her husband, a laborer, 18 years ago. Since then, she has been living with her youngest son, his wife and their three children while working as a domestic worker in middle-class homes, cleaning rooms and washing dishes. Three years ago her life took another tragic turn when her son died unexpectedly. Determined to survive, Khadija started selling pappadum (or papadum) on the streets of Khada Market in the Defense area of Karachi.
“I am from the Memon community. We are known for making good papads,” she says with a slight smile. Khadija travels daily from her home in North Karachi to the Godhra camp and Nala bus stop near – a A journey that takes an hour and a half, sometimes two hours. Despite the long journey and a cataract in her right eye, she continues to work. “What else can I do?” she says The tone was tinged with resignation It happened, when she was sitting on the pavement outside a shop selling candies, expensive chocolates and imported dry fruits.
A variety of papadoms made from rice, chickpea, black gram or lentil flour is spread out for sale in front of him. His daughter-in-law prepares rice flour at home. The rest are obtained from a Memon family near Meena Bazar in Karimabad. She carefully packs them into clear plastic bags of five, six or ten pieces, ready for buyers.
Khadija’s three eldest sons and three daughters are all married and living independently. “My daughter-in-law is very hardworking,” she says, her voice softening. “She works as a domestic worker in Karimabad and earns Rs 10,000 a month. Before going to work, she cooks for children who are old enough to heat their own meals when they return from school. By the time his mother comes home, it’s already 4 pm.
Khadija’s routine starts at 10.00 am when she leaves for the Khada market, returning home by 6 pm. “There’s no point in going first,” she explains. “The shops don’t open until around 11.30. And that’s when the shoppers arrive.” His workday involves walking through busy streets and dodging traffic, standing most of the time. When exhaustion overcomes him, he finds a shady place to rest.
Despite the difficulties, Khadija is proud of her independence. “I earn at least Rs 400 a day,” she says, a hint of satisfaction in her voice – a meager but vital income that keeps her dignified.
Abdul Habib Khan, food deliverer
In the whirlwind of modern life, where time is precious and lifestyles are ever-evolving, the quest for convenience has revolutionized the food industry. Restaurants and fast food eateries, recognizing the need for quick solutions, have taken up the challenge of bringing culinary delights to the doorsteps of their patrons. Whether it’s a desire to avoid the kitchen or a reluctance to venture out, customers now enjoy the convenience of placing orders through phone calls, online platforms, or the elegant interface of smartphone apps.
The change is not limited to mealtime convenience. A dynamic army of delivery boys decked out in their eye-catching uniforms, mounted on specially designed box-equipped motorcycles, deftly navigate the bustling city streets at all hours of the day and night. The famous Tiffin Carrier or Dabbawala of yesteryear has made way for these food delivery heroes in a grand manner.
Among them is Abdul Habib Khan, a food delivery enthusiast who is employed at a prominent food shop. With a decade of experience under his belt, Khan reveals the intricacies of his daily routine, a twelve-hour shift that starts at 11.00 am and ends at 11 pm. His domain covers two high-class neighborhoods in the city, where he makes an average of twenty to thirty deliveries a day.
In a maze of residential flats and sprawling villas, Abdul executes his mission with precision. A routine bell rings, meeting the owner or a member of the household staff. Transactions are fast – delivery against the amount detailed on the bill, no credit facility. Beyond the confines of residences, Abdul extended his food courier service to offices and shops, a testament to the growing footprint of the food delivery revolution.
Amid the sizzling curries and fragrant aromas, Abdul is not just a delivery man – he is a pioneer of happiness, connecting the flavors of the kitchen to the taste buds of those who await the delights at his doorstep. However, as he reflects on his decades of journeying through traffic as a deliveryman, he is unable to recall an unusual or unpleasant incident. This is a routine for him. A smooth flow of transmission that is part of his life.
“Apart from my monthly salary, I get a commission on every order. If I’m lucky, I also collect a tip. It’s good. I’m happy,” he says before leaving Ascot. Loading hot biryani, hearty haleem, and sweet kheer and other delicious packages into the lunch box on his bike, armed with a list of names and addresses for the next leg of his adventure.
The author is a writer, illustrator and educator. He can be contacted at husain.rumana@gmail.com.
