PEER JI IS AWARE THAT EVERY PASSING YEAR, WITH PEOPLE USING MOBILE PHONES TO SET ALARMS, HIS JOB IS BECOMING OBSOLETE
Today, people want to invest their time and energy only when there are monetary returns. People of my generation did a lot of things simply for sawaab (spiritual reward). The current generation does not get this concept. PEER JI, town crier, Old Delhi
“That was Rameez tailor’s son. As a child, he used to be very fond of me. Now he is all grown up and talks back to me. Perhaps he didn’t get adequate sleep,” says Peer ji with a grimace, murmuring to himself. By 2.45 am, he breaks for a quick tea at a makeshift stall. Someone pulls at his shirt. It’s a little boy. “Aap uthane waaley hain na? (You wake people up, don’t you?),” he inquires. “Yes, my son,” says Peer ji, happy with the recognition.
“Everyone in the locality knows me. No other profession would have given me such popularity,” he says. Those who acknowledge his efforts, reward him with cash and delicacies on Eid.
Mahtab Rahi, Peer ji’s neighbour, greets him next. “I have seen him since my childhood. Every passing year, the job of people like him becomes irrelevant. Still, undeterred by such factors, he is offering his service in a selfless manner. It is unfortunate that we don’t value him as much as we should,” says Rahi.
Peer ji’s job begins at 2 am, but he hardly sleeps post dinner. He spends his time at a neighbourhood mobile recharge shop. After midnight, he goes home for tea, and collects his stick and torch before leaving.
BECOMING PEER JI
Peer ji faces no competition, compared to 40 years ago, when he first began to volunteer for the task. Every Muslim neighbourhood used to have one man designated for this duty. There are, at present, only three left in Old Delhi.
At night, Peer ji would encounter various groups of hymn singers carrying lanterns; each group visited a different locality each day. They are not found anymore.
Most of the food stalls are still there, but in modified form — some are sharing space, others have shrunk, or shifted. Surti 12 Handi and Valibai Payawala have relocated their pots, pans and bara handis.
Not all the change is structural; quite a lot is cultural too.
As the proportion of outsiders to locals changed, the food changed too. There is more of that generic tandoori masala in everything. There are places that call themselves things like BAR-B-QUE and Chinese n Grills — the latter, incidentally and rather ironically, still does the fresh-
“While the neighbourhood people would tip me only on Eid, the singers were paid each time they ventured out. Now they are a rare sight. Most of them have died,” he says.
As a young lad, Peer ji would spend time with his uncle, who was a peer or spiritual guide to many in the neighbourhood. (The family association got him the title, Peer ji.) He was a 20-year-old vegetable vendor when Mohammad Umar, the town crier in his locality, died. People requested him to carry forward the responsibility because he would be awake early in the morning due to his trade. None of his three sons is inclined to take up the job after him.
“It is all right. Today, people want to invest their time and energy only when they see monetary returns. People of my generation did a lot of things simply for sawaab (spiritual reward),” he says. He says he never pushed his sons though. “This task has its own complexities. One may encounter thieves on the streets. One est kidney and brain.
There are flashes of innovation on menus. Mango phirni started appearing next to the traditional offerings of plain and saffron a few years ago. Now there is blueberry phirni too. I wouldn’t be very surprised if a butterfly pea flower tea flavoured version appeared next.
One not-so-obvious change was pointed out to me by Parvez Diwan, a tech consultant who grew up in Bohri Mohalla and has been eating there for over 40 years.
“When we were children, every place specialised in just one dish; you went to one person only for naan sandwich, also has to be wary of households in which only women live and consider their privacy. I don’t want my sons to land in trouble,” he says. Although the job seems simple, the town crier does follow a protocol. For instance, Peer ji waits beneath the house of heavy sleepers, till they respond to his call. He has to be sure not to intrude into another town crier’s area. And he never calls out the names of those who are dead even if theirs was the name he would call out earlier. “You never know, family members may get emotional,” he explains.
To make sure that he does not miss his duty, he avoids consuming oily snacks and chilled water during Ramzan. Around five years ago, during Ramzan, he had a sore throat, so he took his son-in-law with him for the rounds so that he could call out.
By 3.15 am, having covered multiple lanes on a stretch more than 2 km long, Peer ji heads back home. His wife and sons await him with the sehri platter — buff curry, rusk and tea.
Peer ji is well aware that every passing year, with people using clocks and mobile phones to set alarms, his job is becoming obsolete. “They will realise my importance once I am gone. Yahi duniya ka dastoor hai (This is the way of the world),” he says. It is time for the morning prayers. From the neighbourhood mosque, the muezzin is calling.
AS A TOWN CRIER, PEER JI HAS TO INDULGE IN A MINOR SELFDELUSION — BE OBLIVIOUS TO THE FACT THAT THE WALLED CITY IS ACTUALLY AWAKE MUMBAI’S ICONIC MOHD ALI ROAD IS CHANGING, AND IFTAR IS CHANGING WITH IT
another person for kebabs. Today, everyone does everything,” he says.
While the cluster redevelopment will undoubtedly bring order to these streets and safer housing for the residents, I fear that in the process the neighbourhood will lose much of what made it unique.
Once the redevelopment is complete, I suspect Ramzan at Bhendi Bazaar will feel less like a timeless feast in an ancient market and more like an evening out at one of those open-air food courts one sees all over the world.