Matia Mahal

I was walking through Matia Mahal, making my way towards Chitli Qabar, when I noticed an elderly man, probably in his 70s, opening his shop. Unlike the modern metal shutters, he opened two wooden doors and began hanging up an old-fashioned weighing scale in the middle of the doorway. Intrigued by the scene, I approached him and asked, “Mein tasveer lelu apki, koi aitraz to nahi?” (May I take your picture? You don’t mind, do you?).

He paused, stood up, smiled warmly, and said, “Haan beta, lelo” (Yes, son, go ahead). But I wanted to capture him in his natural element, so I told him, “Nahi, aap jo kar rahe hain aap karte rahein. Main bas kuch tasveerein kheenchna chahta hoon.” (No, please continue with what you’re doing. I just want to take some pictures). He smiled again and resumed his daily routine, continuing to set up his shop.

What always mesmerizes me are the intricate patterns engraved on the brass utensils. These were his family’s legacy, and they had been selling these items in this very shop for over a century. A handful of shops like his still manage to preserve the old charm of Shahjahanabad amidst the ever-changing landscape of the city, where the beauty of its past sometimes fades away.

After he finished setting up, he cleaned his seat, sat down, and I took a few more shots. The “organized mess” of brass utensils hanging on the wall struck me as something an artist would display in a museum, a work of art. After capturing this moment, I couldn’t resist striking up a conversation with him.

I asked his name, and he smiled and said, “Muhammad Sultan.” I then asked how long he had been working there, and he responded, “Bohot waqt se, mere walid bhi yahi karte the.” (For a very long time. My father did the same work). Curious about his age, I guessed, “Aapki umar 50-60 ke beech hogi?” (You must be around 50-60, right?).

He chuckled and replied, “70.” There was a sense of pride in his voice, as though he was pleased to still appear younger than his years. I then told him that my father used to run an electronics shop in the nearby Tiraha, and his face lit up with recognition.

“Mukhtar ke bete ho?” (Are you Mukhtar’s son?) he asked, and I nodded. This led us into a longer conversation. We spoke about Mushir Jhinjhanvi, who used to live above his shop. We reminisced about the times of Nashist and Mushaira (poetry gatherings), and he recited a couplet from Mushir’s work:

“वो सुन सकें कोई उनवाँ इसी लिए हम ने

बदल बदल के उन्हें दास्ताँ सुनाई है”

(So they can grasp a new title,

We’ve narrated the same story, changing it every time).

While we were talking, a lady, clearly a regular customer, interrupted us. She asked with a teasing tone, “Bhai subhan, tumhara kuch ata pata hai dukan kholne ka? Kabhi subah kholte ho, kabhi shaam?” (Brother Sultan, do you even have a fixed time for opening your shop? Sometimes you open in the morning, sometimes in the evening). She went on, “Ayi kadhayi ayi ya nahi ayi? Kab tak mil jayegi? Achha, kal sawere se aajau?” (Has the frying pan arrived or not? When will it be available? Alright, I’ll come back tomorrow morning. It’ll be there, right?). With a casual “Salam Alekum,” she took her leave, adding, “Guzar rahi thi, socha jhaankti hui chalu.” (I was just passing by, thought I’d peek in and leave).

After she left, I clicked a few more pictures. We exchanged a few final words, and I took my leave, feeling content. For so long, I had wanted to photograph his shop and engage in an organic conversation with him. Finally, I had overcome my hesitation and captured both—the photos and the memory.

As I walked away, I couldn’t help but think: I could’ve filmed a reel, but it would never have conveyed the timeless story these photos can tell for generations