Chapter 10
Street No. 3 never made any sense to me, and nor did the ones attached to it. I don't know if it was the Hindu architecture or something else. Some of the streets were very cramped and were only 5 feet wide. Others were a bit wider than that. There was no theme to them. It was as if wherever a house was built, the passage put itself around it. These streets were cramped with houses old and new. They were built with red bricks and painted yellow, green, blue, pink, and whatever color you could think of. They all had an ornate wooden door and windows. Most of these windows were protected by bars of steel. Some houses were really old and there residents could not afford to renovate them. Those who had the money demolished the old ones and made new. The new houses had their fronts covered with marble.
Our house was one of those marble faced ones.
Back in the day, they did not think of underground sewers. In fact, most of the houses didn't have a toilet. Many old houses had a place designated as the toilet on the roof--like the one on Shareef family's house. Every morning, the residents of that three storied building came one by one to use that toilet on the roof top. Then you needed someone to take care of that mess. For that, there was Fatima Choori.
Fatima was a nimble old lady. She was a janitor--a choori. Her husband was a choora too. She would go to the roof of every such house every day, with her basket on her head, and a spade in her hands. She would collect people's dirt and dispose it. She was also the garbage collector from the houses that did have the toilets. She got her salary from the city council. But she also used to get a stipend from the residents of the houses she served.
Since Street No. 3 did not have an underground sewer, it had a duct on each side. We called them Naalis. These naalis carried the wastage water from each house to a bigger duct somewhere out there, which in turn carried it to the big Nala Lai. Usualy these naalis would flow fine. Sometimes, they would get stuck and overflow. Fatima Choori always helped us out.
Sometimes the boys would play cricket in the street. Their balls would fall into a naali each time. Somebody would pick it up with their hand and jerk the water off. Then they would keep playing with the same ball. Ashfaaq Agha hated that. Whenever he saw boys playing in the street, he would come out of his house and chide them.
These streets were always busy. With the first call for the prayer at dawn, they would start getting visitors. The first one would be a beggar. He would sing his song of tragedy every day. He would knock on each door and ask for something. Some gave him money, some gave him food, and some gave him nothing.
Right after the beggar, you would see the milkman. Then you'd hear the cry of the vegetable cart guy. Then there would be the scrap buyer. Then there would be the Papar seller. These were the regulars. You'd also see and hear the ones that came once in a while. The knive sharpner, the corn seller, the sugar-candy guy, the snake charmer, the balloon seller, the chaat maker, pathans with rugs and Qurans, and the shot gun and balloons guy were among those.
Our house was one of those marble faced ones.
Back in the day, they did not think of underground sewers. In fact, most of the houses didn't have a toilet. Many old houses had a place designated as the toilet on the roof--like the one on Shareef family's house. Every morning, the residents of that three storied building came one by one to use that toilet on the roof top. Then you needed someone to take care of that mess. For that, there was Fatima Choori.
Fatima was a nimble old lady. She was a janitor--a choori. Her husband was a choora too. She would go to the roof of every such house every day, with her basket on her head, and a spade in her hands. She would collect people's dirt and dispose it. She was also the garbage collector from the houses that did have the toilets. She got her salary from the city council. But she also used to get a stipend from the residents of the houses she served.
Since Street No. 3 did not have an underground sewer, it had a duct on each side. We called them Naalis. These naalis carried the wastage water from each house to a bigger duct somewhere out there, which in turn carried it to the big Nala Lai. Usualy these naalis would flow fine. Sometimes, they would get stuck and overflow. Fatima Choori always helped us out.
Sometimes the boys would play cricket in the street. Their balls would fall into a naali each time. Somebody would pick it up with their hand and jerk the water off. Then they would keep playing with the same ball. Ashfaaq Agha hated that. Whenever he saw boys playing in the street, he would come out of his house and chide them.
These streets were always busy. With the first call for the prayer at dawn, they would start getting visitors. The first one would be a beggar. He would sing his song of tragedy every day. He would knock on each door and ask for something. Some gave him money, some gave him food, and some gave him nothing.
Right after the beggar, you would see the milkman. Then you'd hear the cry of the vegetable cart guy. Then there would be the scrap buyer. Then there would be the Papar seller. These were the regulars. You'd also see and hear the ones that came once in a while. The knive sharpner, the corn seller, the sugar-candy guy, the snake charmer, the balloon seller, the chaat maker, pathans with rugs and Qurans, and the shot gun and balloons guy were among those.
1 Comments:
Wow , such simple words, very nostalgic for pindiwals.
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