NOTES FROM THE OVERGROUND: PADMAVATI: A STORM IN A TEACUP
The first time I heard of Rani Padmavati was in the back of a minivan, travelling at breakneck speed through the congested lanes of Udaipur, the city of palaces.
Our guide Vikram, with magnificent eyebrows and glittery ear studs, told the car-load of enraptured Pakistani tourists about the courageous Rajput Rani who chose “jauhar” over being captured by Alauddin Khilji, who had laid siege to the fort of Chittor which was ruled by King Ratan Singh. Khilji defeated the Maharaja, but he could not win over his wife Padmavati.
“She was too beautiful,” claimed Vikram.
Those asking for a ban on the movie may not know that it is based on mythology
“But what’s jauhar?” I asked munching on onion puris.
Vikram flashed a smile. “That’s group sati.”
“You mean jumping in the fire when your husband dies?”
“Jauhar is when all the women of that area throw themselves into the fire.”
While we were digesting this story, Vikram turned to another one extolling the valour of the Rajput princesses. There was a princess whose husband found it difficult to concentrate on important battles. The princess tried her best to send him to war but the lovelorn king refused. At her wit’s end, the Rani said she would give him a present. Going inside her room, she cleaved her head off with his sword and instructed the servant to present it to her husband. When the servant took her head on a tray to him, the grief-stricken Maharaja wore her head around his neck. It is said, whispered Vikram, that henceforth he won every battle.
“EEEwww!” screamed the women.
“I presume she gave the instructions to the servant before she chopped her head off? Unless it was a talking head?” I asked.
“Oh stop it!” My sister glared at me. “That’s so gross, Vikram. Why are you telling us this?”
“Because it’s true, madam. Our Rajput princess, so brave.”
A girl at the back piped up. “Well, that’s really dumb. Why kill yourself if your husband is a coward?”
Vikram’s eyebrows went up so I said. “Ok Vikram, I’ve lost my appetite for the puris. All I can think of are Rajput princesses launching themselves into fires or cutting off their heads. Let’s explore the city.”
A couple of years later, Sanjay Leela Bhansali, who brings art to eye-popping life, announced that he was making a film on Rani Padmavati. His last film Bajirao Mastani was a big hit in Pakistan. Two ladies sitting next to me at the cinema for a show of Bajirao Mastani could not contain their excitement.
“Wasn’t the acting and cinematography fabulous?”
“Acting? Oh we are here just for Deepika’s clothes. Did you see her stunning jewellery? Haii, this is the second time we are watching it!” they clutched their pearl necklaces.
But such fans of Bhansali’s magnum opus have to wait since Padmavati has been set adrift in the murky waters of bigotry. Some hard-line groups claiming to represent Rajputs are up in arms over a romantic link between the queen and Alauddin Khilji.
But such fans of Bhansali’s magnum opus have to wait since Padmavati has been set adrift in the murky waters of bigotry. Some hard-line groups claiming to represent Rajputs are up in arms over a romantic link between the queen and Alauddin Khilji. While Bhansali and Deepika Padukone, who plays the title role, have been crying themselves hoarse that there is not a single such objectionable scene, there are frenzied calls to earn millions by burning Deepika or beheading her.
What Vikram omitted to tell us is that Rani Padmavati may not have existed at all. The only mention of her existence comes two centuries after the siege of Chittor. The 16th century Sufi poet Malik Muhammad Jayasi extols her virtues in his epic poem Padmavati and it is this poem that Bhansali’s film is based on. But since then, mythology has interfered with history and the queen has become an important mythological figure for Rajputs hankering for their past glory. Not content with the raging beast that passes for Alauddin Khilji in Padmavati, they are demanding that the film should not be screened.
Perhaps the most interesting snippet of this brouhaha is that no one has seen the film yet. So how can you know there is a romance between the beauteous Padmavati and poor Khilji? But since there is a direct correlation between the size of your neurons and how self-righteous and insecure you are, the film’s detractors insist there is definitely distortion of history.
The increasing tendency in India to view history through the prism of the Hindu-Muslim divide does not portend well for the future of artistic expression. And the icing on the cake is that Padmavati’s release is now clashing with the Gujarat polls.
What is more important: artistic expression or conservative vote banks?
One does not usually come across ceramic artworks exhibited in art galleries. It is, perhaps, due to the lack of diversity in design and limited possibilities worth exploring that hold artists and students back from taking up this art or the shifting art trends that have made space for newer, more attractive mediums. However, the latest collection of earthenware by Nabahat Lotia, fired in the rare Obvara technique, challenges such notions, reintroducing us to pottery and its vast potential as an art form.
Obvara is an ancient firing technique used in ceramics which is a slight variant of Raku firing. The sombre shades of black and beige patterns are achieved by dipping freshly fired red-hot pieces into a mixture of flour, yeast and water, which burns the flour on the pot till it darkens into dynamic streaks. Lotia uses this technique to create exciting visuals that seem to imitate nature in abstract ways, the spontaneous process creating illusions of a deliberated charcoal drawing or a monochrome painting.
The artist says she always liked collecting small clay pots and trinkets, but it wasn’t until she moved back to Lahore for a few years when she discovered ceramics while searching for pots to keep in her home. She could only find basic flowering pots and decided to give the potters her own designs to make for her. Pretty soon, she was so involved that she started making her own pieces. What followed was 30 years of honing her skills, travelling, producing and showing her work in between raising a family. Yet, in hindsight she appreciates her journey, maintaining that, “If all this sequence wasn’t happening maybe I wouldn’t have achieved what I have achieved now.”
Nabahat Lotia’s latest exhibition of ceramics imitates nature through the ancient firing technique of Obvara
The pieces included in this show are unique and have an ethereal beauty to them. Lotia learnt the technique through YouTube videos coupled with trial and error, finding her way through experience. What is truly intriguing is the ways in which the texture settles on to the surface of the fired clay, mimicking familiar scenes and elements from nature. They remind you of a mountainous landscape or constellations in deep space, or even cracked desert floors, forests and rivers.
The sheer volume of work on display and the diversity of shapes, sizes and textures is a testament to the artist’s determination to explore the limits of her craft, presenting it in an exciting new shape with every piece. The process itself allows for little control over texture as it forges its own path across the piece. But the artist can make decisions about which areas she treats and how dark or light they turn out.
For example, a series of clay tablets burnt dark brown presented cracks reminiscent of lightning on a night sky (which the artist created by firing the piece at high temperature so it would break) and then treated each piece separately to achieve varied effects. Circular plates and disks feature a burnt line in the centre slowly fading to white, almost like a horizon line viewed through a camera lens.
Another point of interest is a series of pieces with sections of white crackled glaze which gives these plates a jewelled effect resembling the controlled pointalism of aboriginal art turned into a miniature abstract mosaic. Lotia says this is achieved by stopping the firing process right before the glaze melts into a uniform layer, which is considered a defect. The idea was taken from a visit to a Sri Lankan factory where discarded pieces featuring this ‘defect’ caught her imagination. Sometimes the correct way to do things can become boring and bending the rules can give you a pleasant surprise.
The artist’s passion for her work has led her to new trajectories for each show that she has done and she has found Obvara to be the most captivating in its simplicity. The extensive body of works is an intriguing and unexpected twist in the realm of ceramics, casting it in a completely new light.
“Oh! Obvara” was on display at the Koel Gallery from November 14 till November 25, 2017
Eos on December 3 carried an article on the journey of some people along the Silk Road. Some parts of this series were printed earlier and I admit I did not read any. In fact, I do not read anything written on the Silk Road by the average Pakistani. The simple fact is we have no clue about the geography and history of the classic Silk Road.
One of the accompanying images in the mentioned article has a man and a woman standing in front of a sign saying ‘Old Silk Road’. The location of this sign is somewhere between Gilgit and Hunza. That the classic Silk Road ever entered what is now Pakistan by way of Hunza is patent rubbish. But if people repeat the same falsehood a few times, let alone over decades, it becomes established truth.
The great East-West trade route originating at ancient Chang’an (modern Xian) to connect China with the Levant and further was first called ‘Silk Road’ by the 19th century German geographer and scientist Ferdinand von Richthofen. At Anxi, west of Chang’an, this road split into two. One carried on due West through Turfan and Khokand to Samarkand. The other went to Dunhuang where it again split into two. One of these reached Kashgar via Aksu while the southern branch looped through Khotan to Kashgar.
Clearing the myths and romanticisation around the Silk Route
While Kashgar and Khokand were also connected, another connection swung slightly south from Kashgar to make Bactra that we today know as Balkh in Afghanistan. Throughout the long and creative passage of time, we do not find any evidence of a major or even minor trade road swinging south from Kashgar to cross the Hindu Kush Mountains to enter Hunza.
We do know of one Indian connection from the Silk Road. This route led from Srinagar, through Kargil and Leh (the chief town of Ladakh) to climb the 5,655-metre high Karakoram Pass to descend on the Turkestan side for a very long and tedious journey to Kashgar on the Silk Road via Karghalik and Yarkand.
In her masterful work The Silk Road, Frances Wood tells us of a Kashmiri Buddhist monk travelling this way to the famous monastery of Chang’an. There he assisted his Chinese counterparts in translating Buddhist texts from Indian to Central Asiatic languages. The year of the Kashmiri master’s travel, as recorded by Wood, is 284 CE. That a common traveller was going this way can only mean that the Karakoram Pass route was well-frequented at that early age.
Another book, the delightful Himalayan Letters of Gypsy Davy and Lady Ba, records the adventures of an upper-class and very erudite husband and wife. In the 1920s, this couple — together with a friend or two — spent several lazy years simply travelling around in Baltistan, across Deosai and into Ladakh. The book comprises the letters this endearing and educated company sent home.
While they were encamped one winter on a hill outside Leh, one of their companions, a young man called Roger, crossed the Khardung Pass lying north of Leh en route to Karakoram Pass. On the far side of Khardung Pass in Khardung village, Roger saw in a warehouse felts, hashish and hundreds of bolts of silk destined for the marts of India.
The point is that Chinese silk and other goods were coming down to the subcontinent by way of the Karakoram Pass east of Gilgit-Baltistan.
A truck travelling on the Karakoram Highway
On the other hand, we have accounts of Gilgit and Hunza from the mid-19th century. Yet not one of them tells us of storehouses anywhere along the road coming down from Hunza stored with silk. We hear of absolutely no trade of silk in Gilgit. Had the famous Silk Road extended down into this region, Gilgit, which is situated at a strategic spot to become a trading centre, would have been a hotbed of the silk trade.
Yet we never hear of silk being traded either in Gilgit or Hunza. Nor, too, do we hear of it coming any further down by the Indus Gorge. And we do not hear from any 19th-century explorer that the road connecting Gilgit to the northern passes was known as the Silk Road.
When work on the Karakoram Highway (KKH) began in 1959 it was just that: Karakoram Highway. And it remained the Karakoram Highway through the long years it was under construction and even after completion in 1979. That year, the road was opened only for official use.
Throughout the long and creative passage of time, we do not find any evidence of a major or even minor trade road swinging south from Kashgar to cross the Hindu Kush Mountains to enter Hunza.
Tourist traffic was first permitted on the KKH in the early 1980s. With that a lot of tour operators came into full play to exploit the potential of what was billed as the Eighth Wonder of the World — a high-altitude road built under extreme conditions ranging from the arctic in winter to a sizzling 50 degrees Celsius in summer. But we, as a nation, have been nurtured on all sorts of lies from our very inception and it now seems impossible for us to exploit a truth.
Tour operators in tandem with the bureaucracy of Pakistan Tourism Development Corporation simply ignored the fact that KKH was a feat of heroic accomplishment. Its construction had cost us a significant amount of human life, both Chinese and Pakistani. This is even today confirmed by the several cemeteries sprinkled along its length. And then there was the huge financial cost of the undertaking. These were the aspects that KKH should have been celebrated for.
The old trade route dubbed the ‘Silk Road’ by 19th century German geographer Ferdinand von Richthofen
Instead, our ignorant tour operators resorted to plain white lies. For them the greater glamour of the Silk Road was too attractive. They mendaciously labelled KKH the Silk Road. Once you broadcast an attractive lie, especially to an ignorant nation, it becomes gospel. Instead of celebrating the road for its true glory, it was given the supposititious status of the Silk Road.
Delve into newspaper archives to dig out the title Silk Road prior to 1983 and you draw a complete and total blank. Neither in government records nor in local histories do you hear of the Silk Road in our Gilgit-Baltistan region before the 1980s. The attractive falsehood, found good currency very quickly, however, and soon there were Silk Road Hotels and Silk Road bus companies.
The original pony track between Gilgit and Hunza — which became a jeep road back in the 1950s and whose remnants one can still see strung out on the right bank of the Hunza River as one heads north of Gilgit — became the old Silk Road. After the recent upgrading of the KKH, the National Highways Authority (NHA) has put up a sign (the very one featured in the article I refer to at the outset) pointing to the old pony track as the Silk Road.
It is well known that Pakistani officialdom has never been famous for sensibility and it was only expected from the NHA to grab the available falsehood. But the sad thing is that even the Aga Khan Foundation fell to this great lie and they also have a sign along KKH calling it the Silk Road.
That having been said, it needs be conceded that a place like Hunza could not have existed in a vacuum. It was only natural for it to connect southward to Gilgit and northward to Kashgar. But there was no major trade this way, least of all of silk.
Postscript: Tell the truth in Pakistan and you are hated. This article is certain to win the ire of the people of Gilgit-Baltistan. This is very like being hated by the Kalasha people of Chitral for writing that they have zero Greek blood — as now proved by DNA analysis. And like making Pakhtuns go ballistic when I write that ‘Afghanistan: the Graveyard of Empires’ is a myth created by the Brits after that utterly humiliating defeat in the First Afghan War.
The writer is a fellow of the Royal Geographical Society.
Blue waters of the Arabian Sea breaking on the sun-kissed sands of Seaview beach in Clifton, Karachi, paint a range of colours that fall across the beach like a rainbow river. Accentuated by man-made structures, the display is mesmerising and ever-changing.
If one loves colours, (s)he will definitely find inspiration from the colours of nature — and the sea will never disappoint in offering that. Looking at the water one can spot every colour from inky blue-black to misty lavender-greys and pelagic teal greens.
The colours and sounds of the sea inspired me to capture some epic moments. I’ve collected images of Seaview beach, its elements, objects and the sea itself in its many semblances with live subjects that resonate each image. From the dress of the elegant woman on the beach, the rose-blush of a seashell, jewellery-bedecked camels, the lights of a dune buggy to the blue and pink hues bursting out of nearby structure, there are countless tones and moods to be found in the environment. The variation is so evident that one can draw — or perhaps dream of — replicating projects based on the themes of favourite tones.
A photographer draws out the hues of Seaview Beach in Karachi
The beach is bustling with activity for most of the day till late hours of night. Camel men, horsemen, buggy drivers, vendors and joggers live by the currents, plan by the tides and follow the sun. It’s a paradise for vendors, horse and camel and dune buggy (beach buggy) owners, and unfolds the stories of uncountable people who seek nature’s refuge to ensure their survival in the city of Karachi.
At the bustling beach people walk, jog and ride beach buggies
Camel tours are one of the significant pleasure-riding activities here. These camels are professionally decorated with indigenous accessories. Colourful swag, tassel and mirror ornaments display a kaleidoscopic conflict with the orange-gold sunlight that shines through silvery clouds.
From the dress of the elegant woman on the beach, the rose-blush of a seashell, jewellery-bedecked camels, the lights of a dune buggy to the blue and pink hues bursting out of nearby structure, there are countless tones and moods to be found in the environment.
As night falls, the busy beach with scant lighting arrangement wears an enigmatic ensemble of colours borrowed from the surrounding structures (eateries) and pale streetlights.
Washed up seashells and green weeds on the sand make for a spectacular scene
The beach strip has a number of coffee and snack kiosks to entertain the visitors who are also being wooed by horse and camel owners and drivers of the brightly-lit buggies for a ride.
Shades of fuschia picked out against the blue evening sky and golden sands of the beach
Artists and poets may portray the moods of the sea in their poems and paintings or by singing about the magnificence and splendour of the ocean. But photographs can never capture what you actually experience, I believe.
Two women, hailing from Quetta, have a picnic on a deserted part of Seaview beach; their male family members came to the city in search of work opportunities
Love is in the air in Karachi’s underprivileged Baldia Town locality. Meet 34-year-old Murtaza* and his water tanker, Mir — partners in crime, literally, for the past two years. Murtaza is a slim, bearded Pakhtun man while Mir is a Rocket 1974. When they first met, Mir was on his deathbed. Murtaza then had a new engine transplanted. Mir is now part Hino too. And thus began their tale of romance.
Dusk is about to set in and Murtaza is busy giving a wash to his tanker. “Chalti ka naam gaari [Whatever moves is a vehicle],” he says, alluding to the great care he gives Mir lest he stop plying long distances like Murtaza wants him to. Doing the washing with him is Bashir* — a companion who makes the trip to a hydrant in Balochistan as well as to clients’ homes.
“Jaldi jaldi kar [Hurry up],” Murtaza tells Bashir. The duo are about to make their fourth round to fill water from a hydrant and deliver it to their clients’ homes. A group of tankers is already moving towards its destination and Murtaza doesn’t want to fall behind from the caravan.
“Let’s move,” says Murtaza to his companion. “Put all the pipes on top of the tank and get in, we need to reach there before dusk.”
Most of Karachi’s water needs are being met through water tankers instead of piped water. How does this work and who is profiting?
Murtaza and Bashir have been in the trade for the past 12 years. Our destination is Saakran, a few kilometres away from Hub City proper, where a number of illegal hydrants are set up for business.
Many years ago, vendors such as Murtaza would not have made this trip since Karachi was dotted with the illegal hydrant business that fulfilled the water needs of the megalopolis. Over the years and through successive law enforcement operations, many of the larger illegal hydrants were shut down. This meant that vendors such as Murtaza were forced to look elsewhere for supply.
En route, they complain about the state of the business of water today. Murtaza claims that it is about to come to an end because of multiple operations by the Sindh Rangers and Police.
“The Rangers have jailed many of our friends and it has become a grave concern to us tanker drivers,” he says.
Why were these men arrested?
“Because the water we acquire and sell to our clients is all illegal,” replies Murtaza.
Surprised at his frank admission, I ask him about the good times of yore.
“There was a time when most tanker drivers had no access to Hub Dam,” he says. “We were not allowed to cross the first toll plaza in Balochistan unless we had a proper permit and a licence issued by the Rangers or the government of Sindh. But as time passed, we found many different ways to get water.”
We have just crossed Luck Point or Lucky, about two kilometres before Hub City and some nine kilometres away from Baldia Town, the starting point of our journey.
Murtaza is hurtling at 90 kilometres per hour and gradually increasing speed.
A couple of minutes later, we enter Hub City and two police officers in civilian clothing wave at Murtaza. He nods back. As Murtaza explains later, for these officials the sight of a water tanker means more money in bribes.
“How much more do we have to travel?” I ask.
“It will take us another 25 minutes to reach Saakran,” says Bashir.
Giants in this business have bigger networks and connections. They supply water all over Karachi, and run even bigger tankers that carry more than 12,000 gallons of water.”
By now, we have left the highway and are now travelling on dirt roads. In stark contrast to the sights and sounds of civilisation that we had been witnessing for the past 40 minutes or so, the scene is markedly one of poverty and deprivation. We are now in an arid region which is dotted by electricity poles and a few hills in the distance. And like Murtaza’s Mir, there are dozens more on the same dirt track travelling to Saakran to fill water.
A panoramic view of three pits in Sakraan that serve as reservoirs of potable water | Photos by Abdul Qayoom
“How much does a water tanker cost were someone to buy one?”
“Depends on the condition of the vehicle,” explains Bashir. “The one you are sitting in is the smallest sized tankers. We bought it two years ago on instalment and it cost us around 650,000 rupees.”
“This tanker can hold 1,800 gallons of water,” chimes in Murtaza. “The tank is separated into two portions. Each portion can hold 900 gallons of water.”
Although Murtaza owns only one tanker, there are other vendors who own numerous water tankers for the purpose.
“My friend Fareed owns three tankers, bigger than mine,” narrates Murtaza. “His tankers all have three portions and each portion carries over 500 gallons.”
When asked about their income, Murtaza says: “We normally don’t reveal our income to anybody, however, we earn enough to live a comfortable life. We sell one ‘single’ [one portion of the tank] for 1,700 rupees and two ‘singles’ for 3,400 in one round. About seven litres of diesel is consumed in the commute to and from Baldia Town, which costs 504 rupees, plus another 300 rupees for a one-time replenishment of water. I usually make four rounds from Baldia to Saakran.”
Bashir claims that the total profit they get every day is 10,600 rupees. “If we multiply our daily income into 30 days, it would become 318,000 rupees. But it is not the exact amount we get. Sometimes, our hydrant owners demand 1,000 rupees due to unpleasantaries with law enforcement.”
A day earlier, I had an opportunity to come across Anwer*, a tanker driver based in Orangi Town, who makes the claim that he goes to Super Highway to fill his tanker from a hydrant.
“I travel 19.3 kilometres every day from Orangi Town to Super Highway to fill the tanker from the hydrant,” says Anwer. “For this I need to have 15 litres of diesel in my vehicle. I pay 1,200 rupees to fill my entire tanker which is divided into three portions. Each portion is equivalent to a normal water tank at home. I sell a ‘single’ for 1,800 rupees and three ‘singles’ for 5,400 rupees. In my opinion, 1,800 rupees for a single is reasonable but the clients always bargain for even lesser rates.”
Meanwhile, back with Murtaza and Bashir, there is a discussion on what qualifies as pure water and what as impure. Hydrants’ water cannot be specified as pure drinking water because neither has it been testified by the Karachi Water & Sewerage Board (KWSB) nor by any purifying agency and is run under the supervision of the Rangers at various locations, one of which is located at Super Highway.
Each tanker driver has contacts with different hydrant owners. The tanker drivers do not acquire water right from Hub Dam but through the canals which are built to deliver water into farms. Many tanker drivers or owners run their business locally without any official number or office. Every household has contact information of one or two owners of tankers. The delivery of water is just a click away.
About half an hour later, we stop abruptly in what seems like the middle of nowhere. There are fruit-laden forests in the area producing chikoos, sugarcane, bananas and guavas. But a nearby canal of crystal-clear water gives it away: we are finally at the hydrant in Saakran.
Canals such as this one are constructed at various locations in Saakran. The water coming to these canals is from Hub Dam, largely for the purpose of watering the fields nearby. But private parties have constructed pipelines to divert water away from the canals and into the hydrant. These individuals then pay 50 percent of the income generated to the landowners of Saakran whose water is being pilfered away.
As our truck grinds to a halt, the hydrant owner, Shahid*, approaches Murtaza with salutations. It is clear from this interaction that the two men have enjoyed a long and fruitful relationship. Shahid then attaches a pipe to a generator affixed to Murtaza’s truck. This generator operates as a suction pump, one end of which is attached to the water reservoir. The generator then sucks the water out and drops it inside the water tanker. As soon as the tank gets filled, Murtaza pays the hydrant owner 300 rupees for the water filled. Shahid offers Murtaza a cup of chai which he politely declines.
“I wish I could have a cup of tea with you but my phone is constantly buzzing,” says Murtaza. “My clients are waiting for me and I have to deliver two ‘singles’ as soon as I get back to Karachi.”
True to his word, Murtaza rushes to his tanker and begins speeding back to Karachi.
PARCHI AT THE PITS
Sometimes water is also drawn from underground pits
It is a Wednesday morning and Bilal* is making his second trip to Mai Gaadi, the locality in Saakran where most water tankers proceed to buy water from.
“You were sleeping this morning,” chides Bilal, “when I told you that the first round will be before Fajr prayers.”
Indeed Bilal’s day starts before daybreak. As with Murtaza, his Hino truck is his prized possession. But unlike Murtaza, this one has a spanking new body and paintwork. We make the hour-long journey to Saakran again but unlike the last time, the location now is dotted with pits that are collecting rainwater. Nobody owns these pits but there are men manning these pits everywhere. For all ostensible purposes, these are the owners of these ‘hydrants.’
The dynamics of a sale differ too.
While the system at Murtaza’s hydrants is more structured, water is extracted out of these pits with the help of a portable mechanism that can be installed anywhere. The system is placed on small metal rods and has a generator, an exhaust for the generator, large metal and plastic pipes. When one pit is exhausted, the hydrant owners move their machinery to another pit with water.
There is a ‘parchi’ [chit] system at play in these transactions.
When a tanker driver goes to these hydrants, he pays money to a munshi for a parchi. This parchi acts as a cheque of sorts — the hydrant owner simply keeps collecting these parchis from the tanker drivers throughout the day. At the end of the business day, he hands over the parchis to the munshi, who then pays out the amount that is owed to the hydrant owner. Most of this work happens during the night although some of it carries on during the daytime as well.
“These pits are the source of meetha paani [sweet water],” describes Bilal. “It is all rainwater that was accumulated some time ago.”
Back in Karachi, a similar source of meetha paani exists in underprivileged localities. Along secluded stretches of Karachi such as Orangi Town, Mauripur and Baldia Town, businesses exist that are pilfering water from the pipelines of the KWSB. Water is diverted into pits and sometimes into cemented reservoirs, from where it is sold on to tanker drivers. Many tanker drivers take water from these purpose-built pits but, of course, the volume on sale and its pricing is a different matter altogether. Sometimes it is prohibitive enough for the tanker owners to make the journey to Balochistan instead.
WATER VARIETIES
A portable mechanism of drawing water from water pits at work
Water ought to be colourless, tasteless and odourless. Not so in Karachi, however.
“In areas such as Orangi Town and Baldia, three grades of water are supplied,” explains Murtaza.
The first kind is brackish water, which is completely salty and is not suitable for any kind of household use. This is sold for as low as 500 rupees for a ‘single’. Then there is ‘mix’ water which is a blend of sweet and brackish water. This is sold for at least 900 rupees but can go up to 1,000 rupees. And then of course is sweet water, which is considered useable for everyday purposes such as drinking and cooking. Sweet water costs 1,700 rupees for a ‘single’. Rates of this type of water do not decrease but increase up to 2,200 rupees.
Other vendors also explain that there is a type called “added nutrients” — this relies on the age-old mechanism of using the phitkari (alum) to purify water and sell it on.
In more privileged localities such as the Defense Housing Authority (DHA), water suppliers tend to deliver ‘mix’ water. This is only meant for washing and bathing purposes as citizens commonly rely on bottled water for their needs.
“We purchase a tank of water for 2,500 rupees,” says Asfar Ali, a resident of DHA Phase 2. “But rates often fluctuate. Sometimes a tanker costs between 4,000 and 5,000 rupees. The reason why the rates rise is due to the shortage of water, the tanker drivers tell us.”
Meanwhile, others in DHA quote a minimum of 5,000 rupees for every fill. In times of crisis, this rate swells to at least 7,000 rupees. The further away from the centre of Defence, the higher is the rate charged by tanker owners.
“It is a sin if someone else gets hurt by your deed,” says Razzak Khan*, a resident of the upscale Naval Colony. “My brother supplied water to many clients. Over the course of time, as soon as I came to know of the type of water he was supplying, I stopped him. It’s been many months since the rain stopped yet he was delivering the rainwater stored in the hole which had already turned into contaminated water a few days after rain at Bakra Pirri, A-25 Bus Stop.”
Illegal hydrants are only one facet of an industry estimated to be worth in trillions ... But the other aspect, often criminally discounted, is legal hydrants which also exist in huge numbers in the city.”
But in the same locality, there are a few houses that buy water from water tankers, filter and purify the mix, before selling it on. Tanker owners are aware of the practice, claiming that these houses are their most consistent clients.
Perhaps a larger question in the business of water is why it exists in the first place. A water board operates in the city as does a municipal corporation and cantonment boards. Providing water to households through pipelines is their job. Why does a void exist and why are private tankers filling it?
Illegal hydrants are only one facet of an industry estimated to be worth in trillions. The ongoing Karachi Operation stemmed a large part of its flow. In part, this was because terrorist groups would often rely on money earned through illegal hydrants to fund their activities. In the low-income locality of Orangi Town, for example, the business of water was largely manned by various factions of the Tehreek-i-Taliban Pakistan (TTP). When these were destroyed during the operation, it choked much of the TTP’s everyday financial flow.
But the other aspect, often criminally discounted, is legal hydrants which also exist in huge numbers in the city. Some are owned by the KWSB and the cantonment boards, others by private parties. The KWSB itself lists 10 surface-water hydrants on its website as well as 44 sub-soil hydrants.
Interestingly enough, although these hydrants exist to provide water where pipelines don’t exist, mostly consumers even with legal water connections are receiving water instead from the tankers, simply because not enough water is coming through the line. The KWSB claim that there is a shortage of water is belied by the fact that water is nonetheless available, only at a higher price that is going into private pockets.
Thus consumers are being charged twice — once in the utilities bill, and second, when they order water from tankers. There is, of course, the associated social and economic cost of these hydrants. When operated in settled localities, they inevitably inflict great damage to the road network as well as to traffic management. Police officials also claim that in times of great violence, even weaponry is transported inside water tankers.
All of this points to collusion between government officials and private profiteers. Meanwhile for hapless citizens, their only recourse for this basic necessity for life remains exorbitant payments to water tankers.
CLIENTS’ CALL
We are on our way back to Karachi and Murtaza’s phone starts ringing incessantly. He finally picks up one call.
“Yes, I am on the way, count to 20 and I will be there,” he responds to a client berating him for being late.
A few seconds later, Murtaza hands his phone over to Bashir, and instructs him to make a call to another client and tell him that their vehicle’s tyre is punctured and it will take time for them to reach.
“Tell him to expect water by early morning tomorrow,” says the water dealer.
“But your vehicle is okay and we are driving back,” I interject. “Why tell the client something else?”
“Because the last call I received was an old client and I need to deliver water to him as early as possible,” he responds. “The other fellow will get the delivery tomorrow.”
While crossing Hub City and returning to Baldia Town, a police officer — the one who waved his hand at him — gestures the vehicle to stop. Bashir extracts his wallet and pulls out 200 rupees to hand it to the police. This entire exchange is 20 seconds long and is over without a word being spoken.
“What was that for?” I ask.
“Parchi,” laughs Bashir.
“If we don’t hand them some bribe, they would not allow us to enter Hub City or will throw us behind bars,” adds Murtaza.
“Our clients fight with us due to the increase in the amount we charge. But you have to understand, we only increase the rates because we have to pay them as well,” says Bashir.
The conversation continues as we enter Karachi proper.
“How big is your scope? Are you supplying water to all of Karachi?”
“I only deliver water to certain locations,” responds Murtaza. “Yousuf Goth, Naval Colony, Moach Goth and areas of Baldia Town such as Saeedabad and Muhajir Camp.
But there are also giants in this business who have bigger networks and connections. They supply water all over Karachi, and run even bigger tankers that carry more than 12,000 gallons of water.”
According to the duo, driving water tankers in Karachi is not very easy. If one enters the profession, they must know the consequences it entails.
“But this business has its own beauty, too. It can make someone rich overnight if he is fortunate, otherwise there have been many who have ended up in prison. I am thinking to sell my tanker as soon as possible and find a stress-free job. My parents and my wife both are concerned about my roster. I don’t want my family members to mourn my future.”
Before we know it, Murtaza stops the tanker in front of a gate and rings the bell. In the meantime, Bashir quickly climbs up the tank and takes down the pipes. He sticks one side of the pipe with the tank’s tap while the client takes the other side into his home and puts it into a water tank. Upon the client’s call, Bashir opens the tap.
“Meetha hai sahib! [It is sweet water!]” Murtaza tells the client.
** Names changed to protect identity and privacy* The writer is a freelance journalist based in Karachi.
